The meadow was turning purple and gold. Nell stepped out from the mossy hollow, her hooves pressing soft prints into the damp grass, and looked down at the path ahead. There, just at the edge of the tall stems, one small flower glowed faintly in the dusk — the colour of plums, the colour of almost-dark.
Bo had been collecting flowers all day. He'd carried them in his teeth, dropped them along the path, and now he was back in the hollow, eyes half-closed, wanting to give Mama the last one before he slept. But he couldn't remember where he'd left it. *One more flower*, he'd whispered. *Please, Mama. One more.*
Nell walked on, nose low. There — another flower, a little further along. And there — another, half-hidden under a dock leaf. Each one slightly further apart, as if Bo had been getting tireder with every step. *One more flower*, Nell thought, and kept walking. The tall grass rustled against her sides, cool and feathery. A cricket somewhere to her left stopped its singing, then started again. The path curved gently downhill, and Nell followed it the way she always did, knowing every bend, every root, every patch where the ground went soft.
She came to the still pond. She paused. The water held a perfect crescent moon — a tiny white curl, sitting there patiently. Then one small ripple moved across it, though the air was perfectly still. Nell listened. She heard nothing. She walked on. *One more flower.* The path was quiet under her hooves. The dew was beginning now, cool against her fetlocks, and the air smelled of turned earth and something faintly sweet.
Then she saw it. The last flower. And sitting right on top of it, wings folded neatly, eyes shut, was a small brown moth. He was bolt upright. Very still. Perfectly asleep — or pretending to be. Nell lowered her nose until it was very close. The moth's antennae twitched. He opened one eye. Then the other. He looked at Nell. Nell looked at him. He stood up very quickly, which made him wobble. He folded his wings one way, then the other. He was, it was clear, enormously embarrassed. He had been using the flower as a bed. He had not expected anyone to come looking for it at this hour. He drew himself up to his full height — which was not very much — and stepped aside with great dignity. Nell picked up the flower, very carefully, in her teeth. It tasted of green stems and cool evening. She turned back up the path.
The hollow was quiet. Bo was curled on the moss, his breathing slow, his small horn tipped to one side. His eyes were almost closed. Nell set the flower down, very gently, right against the end of his nose. The petals, slowly — so slowly — folded inward, as if they were settling in too. Bo made a small sound, the kind that isn't quite a word. His ear flicked once. Above the hollow, the crescent moon tilted, just slightly, as if nodding. The dew held still on the grass. The moth, somewhere back along the path, had already found a new place to sleep.
