Pip stood in the middle of Cloverbell Fold with his straw hat flopped over one ear and his hands tucked tight behind his back, trying very hard to look useful. Morning light lay soft across the green fields, the low brick farmhouse, and the long shed with its rust-red roof. Near the ditch of reeds, where two damp plank paths crossed, Mina and Jori were bent over a newly planted row of seeds.
Pip had helped carry the seed basket there. That part had been fine. But now the row looked wrong. Overnight burrowing had nudged the soil into little bumps, and the seeds had been pushed out of their neat furrows. Worse, tiny holes kept opening in the dirt like sneaky little mouths, and each time Mina pressed a seed back in place, the ground seemed to shuffle it sideways again.
“Hold still, little row,” Mina whispered, frowning at the earth.
Jori knelt on one knee, patchwork sleeves dusty, and tipped his wide-brimmed hat toward the line. “A row can be persuaded,” he said. “But not rushed.”
Pip stepped closer anyway. He wanted them to see he could help, not just watch. He put one small finger near a seed that had popped up again, then another hole opened beside it and puffed dirt over his knuckle. The seeds were moving faster than he could fix them.
Mina looked up. “Pip, if you’re helping, can you keep those little holes from opening while we reset the furrow?”
Pip stared at the crooked row, the wobbly dirt, and the two grown-up-sized helpers beside him. He could try to press the seeds straight himself, or he could do something else first so the row would stop slipping away. He had to choose quickly, because the disturbed patch was still stretching.
What happens next?
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