The Guard hammered on the door again. 

“Coming!” Nort yelled just above Tip’s head, the floor creaking under his heavy footfalls. Dust fluttered down, tickling Tip’s nose, but if he’d gathered something from the old man’s tone, it was that he should make himself scarce. 

“Watermelon, watermelon,” Tip chanted soundlessly. Though he had no idea what a watermelon was, it was a trick he’d learned from his Mom to prevent a sneeze. It worked every time. 

The doorbell chimed, the door slammed into the crates and the Guard squeezed inside. Tip held his breath. 

“Let me clear out the way,” Nort said. A loud scraping sound followed. “I was just getting these—“

“We’ve received a report for unauthorized green light issuing from this establishment,” the Guard recited monotonously. “The penalty for breaching the Guild’s edict is—“

“Let me explain, Sir,” Nort said in a mellow voice that Tip couldn’t recognize. “As you might know, Nort’s Treasure Chest deals in curiosities acquired from the beaches and wreckages in accordance with the Common Laws and with the proper permit from the Guild. I’ve just returned with my latest finds, among which I accidentally discovered… about to return… report it to… lucky coincidence to have you stop by…”

As he listened to the yarn Nort was spinning for his benefit, a few things registered in Tip’s mind at once. First, even glow-worms were outlawed now. Second, Nort cared enough for him, despite the constant grumping, that he was prepared to lie to protect him. Third, and most heart-breaking of all, he’d missed his chance. 

The empty crates, the cluttered countertop, Nort’s fussiness. The shopkeeper had already taken his turn at the shipwreck and Tip had missed it. He’d never be allowed to set foot anywhere near the wreck without a permit. 

All this trouble for nothing. 

It could be months, years even before another ship of this size found its way to their shores. His eyes watered and, without thinking, he slammed a fist against the wall. Only, it wasn’t a wall he hit. Something gave in, something else toppled over and clattered on the dirt floor. 

The conversation above ceased. Tip winced. 

Something else snapped and crashed in the shop and he gasped, then clamped a hand over his mouth. 

“Pardon my clumsiness,” Nort said and Tip realized the old man had knocked down the stack of crates to cover for him. More cracking and smashing followed. 

“…. a search!” Tip heard the Guard bellow through the racket. “Seal the shop and come with me.”

Soon the only sound that reached the tiny underground cellar was the constant, rhythmic patter of the rain. Was it the damp, dark trap that made his skin prickle, or the eerie quiet in the shop above? 

Tip felt uneasy. The Guard hadn’t had the opportunity to say what exactly the punishment for owning a glow worm was — Nort had cut him off — but Tip suspected anything in the realm of a few silver. Certainly not sealing the shop, arresting the owner and ordering a search. 

A search for what? A glow-worm? Tip scoffed. Very unlikely. And besides, hadn’t the old man voluntarily given up the worm to the Guard? 

Something beyond his experience and understanding was at work. What if he’d somehow brought trouble to Nort? What if he became the reason the shop got closed or Nort’s permit revoked? Guilt clawed at his insides and didn’t let go.

Eventually, Tip decided it was time to sneak out of hiding and head home. His mom would be worried sick by now. His pruny-toes situation hadn’t improved in the biting cold of the trap and he’d started to shiver. Tomorrow he’d have to show up for his regular shift at the docks and it would be even more unbearable if he ran a fever. 

Shuffling around so he was kneeling instead of sitting, Tip pushed the trapdoor. It didn’t budge. He swallowed. It must be his scrawny arms. No need to panic. He pushed again, harder this time. The wood groaned under his efforts but the door remained in place. 

Blood rushed into his head. Seal the shop, the Guard had ordered. Tip’s ears rang. 

He couldn’t remember hearing the click of a padlock or the turning of a key in a lock or even the scrape of a latch. He hadn’t had the chance to inspect the trap door before he was shoved inside the hole but since he’d never spotted it before on any of his dozens of visits to the shop, Tip decided it must be secret. So, of course it wouldn’t have a convenient handle or a massive padlock giving it away. 

Then?

Tip suddenly recalled the sound of the crashing crates. If the stack had been so heavy that even gigantic Nort could barely move it and inch, and if it had collapsed on top of the trapdoor… A heavy sigh rolled out of him. 

Oh, limpin’ Kraken. He was stuck. Buried alive by a bunch of crates. 

His first instinct was to bang and shriek and kick but that soon tired him out. Some air did pass through the floorboards but drawing each next breath was already more and more difficult. Perhaps it was alarm that clutched at his throat, but he soon abandoned the wailing and made himself sit still and inhale slowly. 

He’d made no progress on the trapdoor, there was no one coming to his rescue, and who knew when this search would take place. It could take days. He’d have rotted to the bone by then. Chewed through and digested by the various molds and fungi that no doubt lurked in the dark beneath the floorboards. 

Focus! 

If only he could break out of the trap, he’d be able to smash a window and escape. Unless Nort had sealed the entire shop, windows and all. 

Tip was a grown-up now. Kids from the Hollow grew up faster than their peers. He knew that. Nort seemed to agree. The boy still felt a pang of pride every time he remembered the old man tapping his temple with a calloused knuckle and saying in an uncharacteristic bout of emotion, Only twelve and something’s already stirring in there, eh? You’ll show them one day, lass. You’ll show them whose son you are. 

Tip was a grown-up but now, only in the privacy of this pitch-black prison cell, and only in his head, he admitted he wished his mom was here. If not to get him out of trouble, at least to comfort him, tell him it would be alright. 

He whimpered, clutching the amulet that hung around his neck on a piece of leather string. He pictured his mother, bent over and squinting into the twilight, the needlepoint pricking her fingers every so often, the little gasps of pain and surprise she’d learned to stifle. His chest tightened. 

Wait… he thought suddenly, something nagging at him. 

…this pitch-black prison cell…

It wasn’t so pitch-black down here after all. He could see. Not a lot, but some. The outline of his hand, the glint from the metal buckle of his satchel. The panic of finding himself alone and locked in must have blinded him to it.

And the light wasn’t coming from above either. It was in the trap, with him. Most baffling of all, it wasn’t blue or purple or even green. 

Tip remembered knocking something down, the clatter that had startled the Guard. He shuffled around again and there it was. A rectangle missing one of its sides. Three lines of glorious yellow light. 

Tip was dumbstruck. He’d only ever read and heard of yellow. He’d dreamed about it a thousand times too. But never in a million years had he imagined that he’d see it with his own two eyes. 

He shook his head, blinked rapidly and looked again. No. It wasn’t yet another figment of his imagination. The yellow light was really there. At first look, it was coming from inside a box. A small chest of some kind, whose lid had cracked open a sliver when he’d knocked it down. 

With trembling fingers, Tip reached for the box. He placed his hand reverently on the lid and felt the spikes and hollows of an intricate carving over wood or bone gently prod his skin. Ever so slowly, he tried to lift it. If the box had been locked or sealed in some way, the mechanism had been undone after it had crashed to the floor. 

A noise came from upstairs. 

Tip snapped back his hand as if he’d been caught stealing a piece of flint. He strained his ears. Thunder? The rain picking up? A rat scuttling across the floor? 

He heard it again. A faint creaking like the sound of rusted hinges. Then a squeak, followed by another. Someone was inside The Treasure Chest. 

At first, a wave of relief washed over Tip. Nort must be back and he’d finally let him out of the cellar. Perhaps he’d settled the misunderstanding, bribed the Guard or talked him out of reporting the crime. Perhaps Nort had promised him a fine piece of loot if he let the misdemeanor slide. Most likely, the shopkeeper had just handed over the glow-worm and the whole thing had been settled.

But why would the old man creep so warily through his own shop?

“It must be here somewhere,” a whisper seeped through the floorboards. “Don’t leave a trace.”

Tip’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t Nort. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman who spoke, but he knew there was more than one person above and they were not here to purchase moldy scrolls or rescue him. 

How long before someone figured they should move the crates and spotted the trapdoor? A boy from the Hollow hiding in an underground cellar with a box of yellow light? Tip closed his eyes. 

It was over for him. 

Whatever mess Nort had gotten himself into, Tip would be the scapegoat. He’d be whisked away to the Sediment Vales without as much as being allowed to say a proper farewell to his mother. He’d languish in the Vales like all the other souls who’d crossed the Guild and eventually he’d expire without ever going on any real adventure of his own. 

“Get these out of my way!” someone hissed. “If it was here, I’d have smelled it by now. There must be a hidden chamber somewhere.”

Tip stifled a sob. 

 In a few moments he’d be discovered and the chest seized from under his nose. Whatever atrocities awaited him after, he could at least bear them a bit more easily if he had the experience of the yellow light to cherish in his memory. He had to see it in its full splendor. 

Gritting his teeth, Tip yanked the lid open and gasped.