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The afternoon Hillary first saw the elf village, she couldn't believe her eyes. "Are you sure it isn't mice?" she asked Sara-Kate, who stood beside her, thin and nervous. "The houses are small enough for mice.” "No, it isn't," Sara-Kate said. "Mice don't make villages in people's backyards." Hillary got down on her hands and knees to look more closely. She counted the tiny houses. There were nine, each made of sticks bound delicately together with bits of string and wire. "And there's a well," she whispered, "with a bucket that winds down on a string to pull the water out.” "Not a bucket. A bottlecap!" snorted Sara-Kate, twitching her long, shaggy hair away from her face. She was eleven, two years older than Hillary, and she had never spoken to the younger girl before. She had hardly looked at her before. "Can I try drawing some water?" Hillary asked. Sara-Kate said, "No." The roofs of the houses were maple leaves attached to the sticks at jaunty angles. And because it was autumn, the leaves were lovely colors, orangered, reddish-orange, deep yellow.