Mina was halfway down the lowest wharf step when she heard the arguing.
Buttonwharf Hollow was busy even in the cool part of the morning. Gulls bobbed on the water. Rope coils slept along the planks. Somewhere above, the button-maker’s shop gave off its sweet, dusty smell.
Mina had stopped to pick up a tiny green bead from a crack in the boards and tuck it into her satchel. Then the voices rose louder, sharp as snapped twine.
“Those are ours,” said one crab.
“We found them first,” said another.
Mina peeked around a post and saw the trouble at once. On a flat patch of wood between the muddy pilings and the rock garden above the quay, two crab families had crowded around the same pile of shiny shell buttons. The pile glittered white, cream, and pearly pink in the morning light. One group came from the mud below, their shells damp with silt. The other came from the rocks above, their feet tapping on little stones kept neat like a garden path.
No crab would let another crab touch the pile. No crab would move away from it, either.
Mina leaned closer. Buttons were never just buttons in Buttonwharf Hollow. They could mend coats, mark baskets, or be traded for winter things. But why did both families need this pile so badly?
A muddy crab slapped a claw over the top button. A rock-garden crab set himself in front of the rest. The whole ring of crabs tightened.
Mina’s fingers curled around her satchel strap. If she left now, the quarrel might keep growing without her. If she stayed, she might learn what the buttons meant before anyone started to shove.
She looked from the muddy pilings to the rock garden and back again, wondering where she should go first.
What happens next?
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