Chapter 24: The Blank Line

Lark turned six months old on the first warm day of spring.

I carried her down the MacClellan road to the border checkpoint on my hip, with Rowan walking beside me.

She had a fistful of my hair and strong opinions about the sun.

The trail-run bus rumbled up the road from the south and stopped for the gate guard.

I knew it by the dent in the left fender.

The window slid down.

A woman with a basket of eggs leaned out and squinted at us.

It was the woman who had asked the enforcers whether it was a bus.

"That's her!" she called to the driver. "That's the girl with the baby."

"Is she all right?" the driver asked.

"Look at her," the woman said. "Does she look all right?"

I held Lark up so she could see.

"We're very all right," I said.

"Good," the woman said, and handed an egg through the window.

It was still warm.

The bus pulled away, and Rowan took the egg out of my hand without a word and put it in his pocket.

We reached the Council registry at ten.

The clerk was a thin man with ink on his cuffs.

He opened the bloodline book to the page and turned it around.

"Lark Alder," he read. "Dam, Morwen Alder. Sire, blank."