Pip stood on the lowest wharf step with both hands in her button pouch, counting by touch. One, two, three—smooth pearly ones, a blue one with a chip, a brass one cold as river water. Around her, the docking ropes lay across the planks like sleepy snakes, each one tied with little buttons so the boats could stay snug at market time.
Tobin was two steps up, tugging a rope straight. “Keep the buttons in one pile, Pip,” he called. “If they roll off again, the boats will slide.”
“I know,” Pip said, and bent to scoop up a tiny silver scrap near a crack in the wood.
That was when the rope under Tobin’s hand gave a sly little slip.
A button had popped loose and skipped away under a bench.
Then another rope shivered, and a second button clicked free near Pip’s shoe.
Pip looked from the bench to the ladder rail to the corner by the lantern post. Buttons were peeking out everywhere now, not in one tidy place at all. A fresh tide smell drifted in, and the water below made a soft sucking sound against the lower steps.
Tobin pressed his lips together. “Pip. Buttons first.”
But just then, from farther along the wharf, Elara’s bright voice rang out, “Oh, look! I found one too!”
Pip had three things tugging at her at once: the button under the bench, the one near her shoe, and the rope in Tobin’s hands that was already starting to go slack. She could chase the scattered buttons along the wharf, or stop and help fasten the ropes before the next tide surge came in.
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