Wick Willowcap was helping sort the picnic things at Mosslight Fen, because that was what he always did when friends were nearby and busy. He stood in the damp green hush with his seed lantern tucked under one arm, lifting baskets one by one and nudging them toward a dry patch of moss. Nearby, Mara Mudbuckle shook rain from her purple-and-gold vest, and Brindle Brack watched the edge of the water with his pale gray feathers held very still.
Then the reeds moved.
Not the tall standing reeds. A low patch of floating reeds, matting together like a green raft, began sliding backward against the slow current. Wick blinked. The reed mat tugged at a picnic basket, then at a pair of boots, then at the corner of the picnic blanket. The basket tipped. The boots bumped and turned. The blanket skated over the black water as if something under it had called their names.
“Hey!” Wick called, darting forward on the springy moss. He caught the basket handle with both hands, but the reeds kept slipping away from him, dragging the loose things toward the deeper channel where the water looked darker and stiller.
Mara stepped closer, whiskers twitching. “That is not where we were putting things.”
Brindle’s beak tilted toward the channel, and his woven rush satchel swayed at his side. Wick could feel the picnic blanket sliding farther back, the boots bobbing with it, and the basket pulling at his grip like it wanted to leave.
If he tried to haul everything back right here, the reeds might wrench free. If he followed them, he might have to go toward the place nobody planned to visit. Wick tightened his hands and looked at the drifting green mat, wondering which way to reach first.
What happens next?
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