Ada and the Night Flowers

A night flower gave a tiny yawn, and Ada knew it was waiting for its dewdrop.

“Hold on,” she whispered. “I’m bringing it.”

Ada was a young fairy with silver shoes and a green scarf tied around her waist. She stood beside a curled fern, holding a little cup made from a fresh leaf. Inside it rested one round dewdrop, bright as a bead of moonlight. It had gathered on a clover just after sunset, and Ada had promised to carry it to the night-blooming flowers.

The flowers grew at the far end of the garden. All day, their petals stayed folded tight. After sunset, they began to open, one by one, and the dewdrop would help them spread wide enough to welcome the night air. Already, one flower had opened its pale yellow face. Its sleepy yawn made a small bell-like sound.

Ada started down the garden path. She passed a patch of mint, where the leaves smelled cool and sweet. She stepped around a pebble as big as a pumpkin to her. Then she came to Basil.

Basil was a broad-backed beetle who slept in the middle of the path. His round shell rose and fell with each slow breath. One antenna curled over his head like a question mark. Beside him, the path was narrow and crowded with flower stems. A strip of moss curved away from the path, looped behind Basil, and joined the path again beyond his shell.

Ada looked at the dewdrop. “I can fly over,” she said. “That should be easy.”

She lifted the leaf cup and spread her tiny wings. The cup wobbled at once. The dewdrop rolled toward the rim, and Ada quickly landed again.

Basil gave a sleepy snort. His antenna twitched, but his eyes stayed shut.

Ada stayed still, watching Basil’s shell lift and settle in a calm, sleepy rhythm. Then she glanced at the waiting flowers. Their folded buds were beginning to droop, as if they were growing tired of waiting.

“I’ll be careful,” Ada whispered, though she wasn’t sure yet how. She shifted the cup in both hands and studied the path, the sleeping beetle, and the flowers beyond him.

Ada tried once more to fly over Basil. She rose only as high as his shell, keeping her wings as still as she could. The leaf cup swayed left, then right. The dewdrop rolled to the edge.

Ada swooped down and landed on a clump of moss. The cup settled safely, but Basil’s antenna lifted. Ada froze. After a moment, the antenna curled back over his head, and his slow breathing filled the quiet again.

“I can’t keep wobbling above him,” Ada whispered. “And I can’t wake Basil. He needs his rest.”

The flower gave another tiny yawn. Beside the path, a broad, pale petal lay on the ground. It had fallen from one of the night flowers and rested flat as a little boat. Ada noticed how the petal bent under her shoe, then sprang back without a sound.

She looked at the leaf cup. Then she looked at the broad petal. The answer came to her, small and clear.

“I don’t have to fly over,” she said. “I can let the petal help.”

Ada set the leaf cup on the moss. Very slowly, she tipped one edge. The dewdrop rolled toward the rim, stopped, and quivered there. Ada steadied the cup with one hand and guided the drop with a blade of grass.

Plip.

The dewdrop rolled onto the broad petal beside Basil. It sat there, round and shining, without making a sound. Ada let out a quiet smile. The petal made a steady little landing place, just as she had hoped.

She placed both hands against the petal’s edge and nudged it off the path onto the moss. Then she guided it along the curved strip, behind Basil’s shell and back onto the path beyond him. The petal never brushed against Basil. It slid a little, then another little bit, while Ada kept it level. The dewdrop rolled gently toward the flowers. Basil slept on, his shell rising and falling.

At last the petal reached the nearest flower. Ada gave it one careful nudge. The dewdrop rolled across the petal and settled in the flower’s open center.

The petals spread wide in a quiet shimmer. Then the next flower opened, and the next, until the whole row welcomed the night. Basil gave one soft snore and slept right through it.

Ada sat beside the open flowers and watched their petals make room for the night. The dewdrop rested in the first flower’s center. It was smaller now, as if the thirsty petals had taken a sip, but a clear bead still shone there.

“You’re welcome,” Ada whispered.

The flowers leaned toward one another. Their stems made a little arch over the path, and their leaves brushed together with a sound like pages turning. From the clover patch came the smell of fresh green leaves. Somewhere in the garden, a cricket played three notes, paused, then played them again.

Ada picked up her empty leaf cup. She folded its edges inward and set it beside the moss, where it could rest until morning. Then she tiptoed past Basil. This time she did not need to fly over him. The wide path was open, and the beetle still slept with his antenna curled like a question mark.

“Good night, Basil,” she murmured.

He answered with a tiny snore.

Ada climbed a low stem and settled between two sturdy leaves. They curved around her like a snug green hammock. She tucked her silver shoes beneath her scarf and watched the flowers hold their petals open. Their bright faces seemed peaceful now, no longer yawning or waiting.

A cool night breeze moved through the garden. It passed over the mint and brushed the open blossoms. The flowers swayed, but they stayed open, their stems bending easily and returning to rest. Ada listened to the breeze hush through the leaves. She could hear Basil’s even breathing below and the crickets’ small music beyond the path.

The garden grew quieter by degrees. One cricket stopped playing. Then another. The moon climbed higher, and the silver shoes beside Ada’s feet grew dim in its light. She rested her cheek against a leaf, warm from the day’s last stored sunshine.

When the first pale hint of morning touched the garden, the night flowers began folding their petals closed. The dewdrop was gone, and the blossoms looked content. Ada curled beneath her warm leaf, while Basil slept beside the quiet path.