Ask anyone in Pariva, and they would have agreed that Chiara Belmagio was the kindest, warmest girl in town. Her patience, especially, was legendary. Then again, anyone who had grown up with a sister like Ilaria Belmagio-local prima donna in both voice and demeanor-and still considered her to be their best friend had to be nothing short of an angel.

Chiara was newly eighteen, having celebrated her birthday a month earlier, in June, and she was the middle child of Anna and Alberto Belmagio, beloved owners of Pariva's only bakery. In short, she had modest ability on the harpsichord, favored blackberry jam over chocolate, and loved to read outside under her family's lemon tree, where she often helped children with their arithmetic homework and nurtured nests of young doves.

Like her neighbors, she knew each name and face of the 387 people in Pariva, but unlike most, she took the time to make anyone she encountered smile, even grumpy Mr. Tommaso-who was a challenge. And she took pleasure in it.

When people wanted to talk, she listened. That was how she learned of the dreams and hopes of everyone in town. Many dreamt of leaving Pariva, some to seek fame and fortune, others to find adventure or even romance. But never once did Chiara ever desire to leave her hometown. Never once did she covet such things as fine dresses or invitations to grand parties in Vallan. Still, that didn't mean she was without dreams.

Hers was a simple one, compared to her sister's of becoming an opera singer or her brother's to master their parents' rye bread and serve it to the king one day. A silly one, Ilaria would say, if she knew.

But Chiara never spoke of her dream. Unlike most folks in town, she never looked out for the Wishing Star to wish that it might come true-she was too practical to believe in miracles that came from wands or wishes, and she certainly didn't believe in fairies. She didn't believe in magic, either, at least not the sort of magic in the stories her papa had told her and her siblings when they were little, about fairy godmothers who could turn pumpkins into carriages and magic wands that could change stones into diamonds.

The magic she believed in was of a different sort. The sort that cheered a pall of melancholy, that fed a hungry belly, that warmed a cold heart. She believed in kindness, in compassion, and in sharing what fortune she had—with those who needed it. Ironic, of course. For little did she know it, but Chiara Belmagio was about to meet a fairy.

It was a blistering August morning. Too hot even for Chiara, who typically loved the sun. She was outside in the garden, pruning violets and bluebells to take to the bakery. She liked giving flowers to their customers; it always made them happy. "Mamma and Papa sent a messenger," called her older brother, Niccolo, from the back door. Careful to stay under the shade of the roof, the young man had one foot out in the garden, and one foot remaining in the house. “You've the day off. No one's buying bread in this heat.”

Chiara bunched the flowers into a bouquet and rubbed her hands on her aprons. “Are Mamma and Papa coming home, then?"