Free Lark by Tracey Porter Page B

little. None is bigger than a thimble. There’s a tiny pony on its hind legs, a line of ducklings, a pink-and-gray pig, a tiger, and an elephant. At the end are two yellow birds with gray wings and black faces.
    Larks  . . . , I realize, and I go back to the day when we were very little and she showed me a picture of a lark in a book of birds. We were in the study, which always felt like a grandfather’s room because it was filled with comfy old furniture. A granny-square afghan was spread over the back of the sofa. It felt so safe to be surrounded by oak walls and books, the sound of the dryer in the background, shafts of sunlight falling through the window.
    I pick up one of the birds and touch the curve of the feathers with my finger. Its beak is open. Singing. Nyetta has joined me at the far end of the dresser.
    “I’m choosing this,” she says, staring at the little bird resting in her palm.
    “Me, too,” I say.
    She lifts her head and looks at me. She’s tiny with dark circles under her eyes like she’s either sick or can’t sleep. She tilts her head so she can see me from the corner of her eye.
    “She used to visit me.”
    Off to the side, Lark’s friends are talking softly and looking over her things on the dresser. Everyone is delicate and well mannered, like we’re each playing a role. I look at Nyetta in her dark dress and stockings, not sure if I’ve heard her right.
    “She wanted me to see her . . . where the knife went in. But I couldn’t.” She looks down at the floor like she’s ashamed. “I was too scared. The knife went in here,” she says, pointing to her side. “It went between her ribs.”
    She’s matter-of-fact about it, which frightens me more. I don’t know what to say, but it seems best to take her seriously.
    “When’s the last time you saw her?” I ask.
    “Three nights ago,” she says, “but she won’t come back. She’s mad at me.”
    The little bird is in my pocket. It’s so tiny I can close my hand without touching it. Nyetta balances hers in the palm of her hand. She bounces it slightly, like she’s encouraging it to fly. She’s rapt in the gesture, and for a moment she looks like any imaginative girl you might see.
    “Go on, Lark,” she says. “Eve will help you. She won’t let you get trapped in that tree.”

Chapter 25
Nyetta
    The doorbell rings. It’s Eve and some boy about six feet tall, carrying a white pastry box.
    “Hi,” says Eve. I didn’t notice her eyelashes the other night. She doesn’t have many, but each one is perfectly pointed like the ends of a star. I stare at her so hard she has to take a step back.
    “We brought you cupcakes,” says the boy, offering me the box.
    “You went to Heidelberg,” I say. “My favorite bakery.” I look longingly at the castle etched on the gold sticker. I used to think it was where the princess pricked her finger. Ian and Eve both wear navy blue peacoats with long Harry Potter scarves wrapped around their necks. They’re standing so close, their arms are touching. I bet they can feel each other through their coats. “Come in,” I say.

Chapter 26
Eve
    Nyetta takes us into the family room. She settles in a leather recliner shaped like the letter C. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with academic texts about antiquities and archaeology. It’s the only family room I’ve ever seen without a TV. On the side table next to her, strands of rust-colored beads hang in a clear plastic box.
    “They’re mummy beads,” she says “My mother bought them when she was still in college.” She gestures toward the other display boxes encasing bronze and stone objects. “It was the first thing in her collection.”
    “Whoa!” says Ian. “They must be worth a lot of money!”
    “Not really,” says Nyetta. “They’re not as rare as you’d think.”
    She’s quiet and composed, undisturbed by silence, content to answer my questions in a few words without asking any of her