Nell Nettlewing stood in the middle of Mosslight Fen with her blue ribbon tied neatly around one leg and her yellow beak tipped up toward the cattails. They had all begun to lean the same way, as if a thousand tiny arrows were pointing at one secret spot. The wind had not told them to do that. The birds had not told them to do that. So Nell felt sure the fen was trying to say something before the weather changed.
Around her, the fen lay low and wet and shining. Spongy moss pressed under her feet, black water waited between the reeds, and pale mushrooms glowed softly beneath the cattails like little moon-lamps. The air smelled like rain on mud and crushed mint. Farther out, the ground gave a soft wobble where it should have been firm.
Nell wanted to follow the cattails at once. She wanted to see the secret place they were pointing to before the sky turned gray and the path became harder to read. But the cattails pointed toward the deep, risky part of Mosslight Fen, where the ground sank and no one liked to go alone.
She took one careful step, then stopped. The leaning cattails led her eyes toward the forbidden-looking edge of the deepest channel, and there, half-hidden by reeds, stood an old leaning post with a rusted rope ring hanging from it.
Nell swallowed. If she went closer, she might learn the secret. If she turned back, she might miss it before the weather changed. And if she waited, the fen might shift again. She stood very still, looking from the cattails to the dark water, with the choice hanging in the damp air.
What happens next?
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