At low tide, Mosslight Fen lay open and shining. Nell Nettlewing, a bread-loaf-tall reed bird with gray feathers, a yellow beak, and a little blue ribbon tied to one leg, picked her way across the soft mud with her wings held tight to her sides. She had promised herself she would follow the shiny shell trail all the way to the end, because the shells had never been seen before, and promises mattered to her.
The trail glimmered ahead of her in a crooked line. Each shell was small and bright, like little moon pieces dropped in the mud. But the tide was waking up. Black water lapped at the edges of the fen, and every time a shell touched the water, it gave a tiny shiver and slid backward, as if the fen itself wanted to hide it.
Nell hurried. Her feet sank. She pulled one free, then another, but the mud clung like thick paste. Ahead, the shells near the deepest channel were already trembling and edging away from her. If she waited, they would be gone.
Then she reached the end of the part she could see, and her heart gave a small jump. The trail was not sitting still anymore. It was being tugged backward by the rising water, little by little, and now she had to decide fast: should she try to hold the shells in place, call for help, or follow them before the tide took them deeper into the fen?
What happens next?
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