Chapter 19: Lark Alder

Lark was named in the MacClellan hearth hall on a bright cold morning, four days after the circle.

The Dowager had been gone for all four.

Rowan doubled the gate guards and put two wolves on every door.

"She can't reach you here," he said. "I'll hold the naming anyway. You have waited long enough for one good day."

I wore a green dress the MacClellan Omegas had sewn for me.

I had nothing to put on my shoulder but skin.

The hall was packed.

MacClellan wolves filled every bench, and a delegation from the Kestrel pack stood along the back wall with the gray-haired woman at the front.

She had brought a hand-knit blanket in white wool.

"For the pup," she said, and pushed it into my arms with both hands. "From the families who owe you."

The midwife sat in the front row with her cane across her knees.

She looked very pleased with herself.

The senior elder arrived last, in plain gray, with the memory-keeper and the registry book.

"We begin," she said.

Rowan stood at my left with Lark in the crook of his arm.

My daughter wore the white blanket and a scowl.

She had opinions about the crowd.

"The pup is brought for naming," the elder said. "What name does the mother give?"

"Lark," I said. "Lark Alder."

"Alder," the elder said. "Not Kestrel."

"Not Kestrel."

"The sire line?"

The hall went quiet.