Nell lived beside a misty lake, in a little hollow where the reeds grew thick and the mud smelled of rain and old wood. She noticed things other creatures missed — the way the water turned the colour of pewter just before moonrise, the way silence sounded heavier over still water than over grass.
Tonight was the Lantern Launch. Every creature on the lake would light a paper lantern and send it floating up into the dark sky. *Up, up, up,* the lanterns would go, small and steady, one by one.
Nell's lantern was pale green, the colour of new leaves. She knelt on the mossy shore and held the match to the wick. The flame appeared — and puffed out. She tried again. The flame appeared — and puffed out. Nell sat back on her hooves and looked at the dark, cold lantern in her lap.
She would have to find Fenn.
Nell climbed into her little wooden boat, her hooves clunking on the damp planks. She took up the oars. The water parted in slow dark rings as she rowed, and the cold air came off the lake in soft waves against her nose. *Up, up, up,* she could already see the first lanterns rising from the far shore.
She was halfway across when she heard a sound. A small, crackling, too-bright sound. There, on a floating sycamore leaf, sat a young moorhen. His lantern was lit — very, very lit. It blazed orange and fierce, throwing jagged shadows across the water. The moorhen blinked his tired red eyes and tucked his head under his wing. The light flared. He startled awake again.
"Too bright," he muttered, to no one in particular. "Much too bright."
Nell pulled the oars in and let the boat drift close. She looked at the moorhen's blazing lantern, then down at her own cold, dark one. She had a quiet idea.
At the center of the lake, a small light hovered just above the surface — small as a held breath, warm as a cupped hand. This was Fenn, who tended the lantern-flame in a round glass jar. Fenn had a very serious expression for someone the size of a walnut.
"Please," said Nell, "could you help us share?"
Fenn looked at the blazing lantern. Fenn looked at the dark lantern. Fenn made a thoughtful clicking sound with her tiny tongue, then opened the glass jar just a little.
Very carefully, Fenn tilted the moorhen's flame toward Nell's wick. A thread of fire moved between them — thin as a hair, bright as a pin. Nell's lantern caught. *Up, up, up* — a small steady glow, pale green and calm. The moorhen's lantern settled to a low, even amber. Warm enough to see by. Quiet enough to sleep beside.
The moorhen blinked once. He tucked his beak under his wing. This time, he did not startle awake.
Nell held her lantern up by its paper handle and let it go. It rose slowly, turning once, and then joined the long slow river of lights drifting overhead — yellow, white, pale green, the colour of old honey. Fenn watched it go, still holding her glass jar, still wearing her serious expression.
Nell rowed herself back to the mossy shore. She pulled the boat up onto the bank, the wet wood scraping softly over stone. Then she rested her chin on the edge of the boat, and looked up, and let the water go still around her.
Overhead, the lanterns drifted. Below, the lake was dark and smooth, and one small pale-green light moved slowly, slowly on through the sky.
