The Lark's Pearl
Chapter One

“Mother,” I say, approaching her with my green, silk ribbon. “Do you mind braiding my hair for me?”

Mother smiles as she rises from the table, where she has been shucking peas.

“One day,” she says, turning me around. “You will have married and you will need to know how to braid your own hair, my darling.”

“Yes, but I am not married yet. You make it seem so effortless.”

“With practice, you will know all kinds of tricks for your hair.”

I smile as she makes me turn back to her.

“Beautiful,” she says, tapping my nose. “Are you going to the stream?”

“Yes,” I reply, bringing my braid over my left shoulder. “Do the water jugs need to be refilled?”

“No, I think your father has already filled them with fresh water. You enjoy yourself… Will the Lark come again, I wonder?”

“Mother, the Lark has come to the stream every day since my eighteenth birthday,” I explain, clasping my hands in hers. “I am sure he will continue to come.”

“Tomorrow is your nineteenth birthday.”

Mother frowns, but it is only for a moment.

“Is there a reason I see the Lark, Mother?” I ask, skeptical.

“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” she says as her smile returns. “Just remember to be home before sunset. It’s not safe after dark.”

I nod, mirroring the smile. But the thought continues to plague me.

When I arrive at the stream, I am quick to prepare my blanket on the ground. I glance around. The Lark is nowhere to be seen. Sometimes, he is waiting for me in the fir tree. Or he is hopping around the banks of the stream.

“Little friend,” I call out, kicking away my boots before sitting down to remove my socks and stockings.

His song fills the air and I cannot help my smile. I turn my head around, searching all the tree branches. Until I see him. Gliding down with graceful flapping of his wings. He seems to fly in slow motion.

“Hello,” I say as he comes to rest on the blanket. “What adventures have you had today, little friend?”

The Lark chirps in reply. I smile as he prunes his feathers.

“The stories I wish you could tell me,” I sigh. “Have you had your breakfast, little friend?”

I reach into my pocket and produce the berries I gathered on my way. I steal one for myself, biting into the sweet, red fruit as I place the rest between me and the little bird. He watches me a moment. Tilting his head to the side.

“Have I ever given you a reason to not trust me?” I ask, showing him the remains of my berry before popping it into my mouth. “See?”

My little friend chirps and moves closer to the berries. He pokes his beak around, as if looking for the perfect one.

I laugh, “I chose the best, ripest ones!”

The Lark chirps, tilting its sandy head to the side. To my surprise, the little bird flaps his wings and zips into the air toward the direction it came.

“Leaving so soon?” I call after him. But before I have time to feel sad in his absence, the lark speedily returns. Carrying something in his beak.

“Oh, little friend,” I say as the bird drops a dark, shiny pearl into my hand. “Where do you replace these treasures? My mother still questions my word… Perhaps, I will not tell her of this one. She knows about the other pearls and has seen each one. What is one pearl not counted?”

My little Lark friend remains silent.

I sigh, “I know, this is not like me. I am very close to my mother. But why does she not believe me about the pearls?”

Lark chirps and flies away. I wait, but he does not return.

Upon returning home, I am quick to lock myself in my room. Like every day, I go to my bedside and reach beneath the frame for the special lockbox my father made for me. I then reach into the secret pocket of my corset and bring out the key. I made the pocket many months ago when I decided it was right to carry the key with me.

I unlock the box and smile at the contents. A year’s worth of pearls, separated in satin pouches of ten, or by color group. I rummage through my trove until I replace the pouch with the least number of dark pearls. I compare the new addition to the previous ones.

“This one seems to be more black rather than gray,” I say, reaching for the little notebook I keep in the box to catalog the color and size. “And it is larger than most of the ivory ones…”

A year ago, when the Lark brought me a new pearl, I made up my mind to keep a record of my treasures daily.

“This one might have the most value of them all,” I gasp, holding it up to the light. “Dear little Lark, how do you come by these pearls?”

Hearing my name called from another room, I stash away the pearl and tie up the pouch. I then return the notebook, and my little pencil, back to its place, and I lock the box. The key returns to the secret pocket and I shove the box deep under the bed.

One day, I will know what to do with my pearls. For now, I keep them safe and I cherish what the Lark gives me.

I make my way to the kitchen where I replace Mother preparing the evening meal. I poke my head above the copper pot, which she is stirring with a wooden spoon, and inhale the warm aroma of fowl soup.

“Smells wonderful,” I say, taking the spoon from her and stirring. “But you rarely make fowl soup out of winter season. What’s the special occasion?”

“Your brother is bringing a guest,” Mother replies with cheerful delight.

I pause, glancing at her. Mother’s smile is knowing and pleased. What sort of guest could my brother have invited for din-

“Who?” I ask.

“Someone he knows from town.”

I do not know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

I clasp my hands together I replace solitude on the porch steps. Father is still working the fields. Mother has started up her sewing. There are a hundred things I could be doing right now. But the thought of my brother, perhaps, bringing home a wife frightens me.

What if she comes from a family of higher status? When she sees where we come from, she will look down on my brother. I know Erik is not ashamed of our living, and neither am I. But what it-

“What are you doing out here, alone?”

I look up as Father approaches. He wipes the sweat on his forehead away with the back of his hand. Smearing more sweat and dirt. I smile and reach into the basket of rags near me. Kept here for this very reason.

“Thinking,” I say as I rise and hand him the rag. “The subject of gossip is Erik bringing home a dinner guest.”

“Ah, yes,” Father chuckles, he drags the old rocking chair out of the corner and claims it. “I believe she is the daughter of the town baker.”

“So it is a girl… who he intends to marry?”

I return to my place on the steps, but turn so Father can see my face.

“He has been courting her, yes,” he says, nodding.

“How long have you known? Why did he not tell me?”

I frown as Father leans forward and motioned to my clenched fist.

“Only he can say why he chose to not tell you,” he says as I place my hand in his, and gives it a gentle shake. “Erik is soon twenty-one. Though I do not wish for him to leave us, I can only hope I raised him right. He needs to replace his own way.”

“Yes, but,” I sigh, shaking my head. “What if she does not like us? We live and work the land. She is a baker’s daughter.”

“Does her different lifestyle change how your brother feels about her?”

“I suppose not.”

“Wait until you meet her,” he says with a smile. “I think you will replace you will adore her as much as you adore your brother. I know these thoughts arise because you want the best for Erik.”

I nod, knowing he is right.

“I’ve brought you something,” he goes on, reaching into the pocket of his coveralls. “I saw it by the oxen pasture and thought of you.”

A smile takes over my face as he holds up a bright orange-red flower with spiky petals.

“My birthday flower,” I laugh as I take it from him.

“Your namesake,” Father chuckles as he rises from the rocking chair. “When you were born, your hair was the same color and just as wild.”

I gasp, only for his laugh to grow deeper.