Every evening, Princess Wren walked the royal garden before bed — and she knew every single flower by name. She knew which roses leaned left after rain, and which patch of clover smelled like pepper in the dark. Tonight, though, something was wrong. The Moonblooms — every last one — were still sealed shut, tight as little fists.
Wren crouched down and looked closely. "You're late," she told the nearest bud. The bud said nothing. Moonblooms never opened late. They never opened late at all. She stood up straight and listened. The garden was quiet — no rustle of wings, no evening hum. And then, very faintly, she heard it: a small buzzing sound, deep inside the hedgerow maze. Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.
Wren followed the hum. She turned left at the tall yew arch, right at the corner where the mint grew wild, and squeezed through a gap in the hazel hedge that left a smear of green on her elbow. The hum got louder. There, in a tangle of glowing vine, was the tiniest creature Wren had ever seen — no bigger than her thumb. A fairy, cross-legged on a root, with her wings tied up in a hopeless, glittering knot.
"Oh," said the fairy, going very pink in the cheeks. "I was trying to braid a lantern." She held up a strand of vine. "I've been stuck here for hours." Wren sat down in the dirt — right in it, knees and all — and peered at the knot. It was looped three times through itself, and the fairy's wings were thin as onion skin. Too thin for fingers. Too thin for fingernails. Way too thin. "Don't worry," said Wren. She thought for a moment. Then she reached out and snapped off the longest, thinnest grass stem she could find. It was about as thick as a whisker.
Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm. The fairy hummed nervously while Wren worked. Slowly, carefully, Wren threaded the grass stem under the first loop, then the second, then eased the third one wide — and the knot came loose with a tiny silky pop. The fairy shot straight up into the air and did three loops around Wren's head. Her wings made a sound like a finger running along a comb. "I'm the one who wakes the Moonblooms!" she announced. "I sing to them every evening! I've been stuck since teatime!" "I rather thought it was something like that," said Wren. The fairy zoomed to the nearest Moonbloom and sang one clear, bright note — and the flower burst open in a rush of silver light. Then the next. Then the next. One by one, all down the garden path, the Moonblooms popped open like tiny lanterns switched on.
Wren tucked the glowing piece of vine into her pocket — it was warm against her fingers, warmer than she expected — and walked slowly back through the garden. The silver light made the path look like it was made of water. She stopped at the old stone bench and sat for one moment. The air smelled like night-blooming jasmine. Her boots were muddy. Her knees were green. Then she went inside — the castle windows glowing amber behind her, the garden glowing silver in front — and left the door open just a crack, so she could hear the humming all the way up the stairs.
