Sedge Quilltip stood on a hummock of springy moss at the edge of Mosslight Fen, as still as a standing reed, and watched the fireflies begin their night work.
Usually, their little gold flashes moved in careful patterns. One blink near the reed paths meant, “This way.” Two blinks near the mushroom markers meant, “Stop and count.” Sedge had been trying to learn the whole lantern language by heart, because if he could read it quickly, no one would wander off into the dark water.
But tonight the fireflies were blinking out of time.
A cluster above the black reed water flashed three times, then paused too long. Near the pale mushrooms, another group answered too soon. Then a tiny light by the path blinked once, as if it had forgotten the rest of its own message. Sedge tilted his head. He counted again. The patterns did not match. The reed-path signals and the mushroom-marker signals were no longer saying the same thing.
Behind him, a small voice called, “Sedge? Is this the safe turn?”
Sedge looked toward the glow and saw that even the usual guide lights were mixed up now. The fen had already started to lose its night signals, and he still did not know why.
What happens next?
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