High up in her tower, Princess Sev pressed her nose against the cold glass of her window and listened. Nothing. The old rope zipline stretched from her windowsill all the way down to the courtyard far below — and it was completely, utterly, stubbornly silent.
Every night, when the breeze came in off the river, the rope hummed. A soft, wobbling tune, like someone blowing gently across the top of a bottle. Hum, hum, hum. Sev had fallen asleep to that sound her whole life. But tonight — not a whisper.
She pulled on her boots. She picked up her lantern. She was going to find out what was wrong. Hum, hum, hum — that was the sound she needed, and she was going to get it back.
Sev threw open the window, grabbed the zipline handle with both hands, and stepped off the ledge. Whoooosh. Down she flew, the lantern swinging wildly, her braids streaming straight behind her, the cold night air rushing past her ears like a river. She landed in the courtyard with a soft thump and a small stumble.
The courtyard was quiet and pale under the moon. Sev crouched low and began to check the rope, inch by inch, moving from the courtyard post all the way back toward the tower. The stone flags were cool and damp under her knees as she shuffled along.
She checked for knots. She checked for tangles. She found one very startled beetle and one old acorn, but nothing that explained the silence. Hum, hum, hum — where had it gone?
Then, right in the middle of the rope, her lantern light fell on something unexpected. A lump. A round, woven, extremely tidy lump of river grass and willow twigs, wrapped snugly around the rope like a little barrel. And poking out from one end of the lump — a small, wet, whiskery nose.
Sev leaned closer. Two dark eyes blinked open in the lantern light, then went very wide. The nose twitched. A tiny river otter, no bigger than a loaf of bread, scrambled upright inside his nest and stared at her with an expression of complete embarrassment.
"Oh," said Sev. "Hello."
"I thought it was a stick," said the otter, whose name — he mentioned quietly — was Cob. "A very good stick. The best stick I have ever found." He looked at the rope. He looked at Sev. His ears went flat.
Sev did not laugh. She looked at the nest very carefully instead. It was, she had to admit, excellent work. Tight and round and perfectly shaped. "Cob," she said, "I think I know somewhere even better." She pointed to the old willow tree at the edge of the courtyard, its long branches dipping and swaying in the breeze.
Together — very slowly, very carefully — they carried the nest across the courtyard and tucked it into the crook of a willow branch. Cob climbed in. The branch swayed. His eyes went soft and surprised. "Oh," he said. "It rocks."
"Like being on a boat," said Sev. Cob made a small, pleased churring sound, curled into a tight circle, and closed his eyes. His tail wrapped neatly over his nose.
Sev climbed back up the tower, hand over hand, the rope rough and cool against her palms, her boots squeaking against the stone. She pulled herself through the window and leaned on the sill to catch her breath.
The breeze came in off the river.
And there it was — hum, hum, hum — soft and wobbly and exactly right, threading through the dark like a small, quiet song. Sev's eyes closed slowly. Her chin dropped to her arms. The lantern flickered once, and went still.
