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texture, with fine brushstrokes creating miniscule feathers on both the outstretched wings and the soft white belly. The sharp black eyes of the bird held a determined glint, as if great adventures were waiting for the moment of flight. She moved her finger to the tiny beak and giggled a bit at its sharpness.
    “Now watch,” he said, looking down at her. With a quick movement, the tiny bird was in flight, soaring up towards the ceiling, spinning as it flew.
    “Nein!” Kassandra screamed, but it was too late. The bird was plummeting, wobbling in the air, destined to be shattered on the polished wood floor until— plop —it landed in Reverend Joseph’s outstretched hand.
    “I want you to have this, Kassandra,” he said solemnly. “I want you to keep it to remember what you are in God’s eyes. You are beautiful and precious to Him, do you know that?”
    “Yes,” Kassandra said, never taking her eyes off the treasure.
    The little bird stared at her now from its new perch on the bureau in her room as she stood staring into the mirror that hung above it. It was a Friday afternoon, and her face was flushed from the run home from school. Teacher had insisted on holding the class until everybody completed their history recitations, and that dull Sarah James seemed determined to forget every detail of the first Continental Congress. Kassandra had torn through the neighborhood, flew through the door, barely able to compose herself enough to give a polite greeting to the assembly in the parlor. This afternoon there were two ladies—the Misses Austine—with their niece visiting from Boston.
    “You look like you’ve been tossed by the wind a bit, my little Sparrow,” Reverend Joseph said, peering at her over his cup of tea, seemingly oblivious to the shudder of disapproval the women gave over the affectionate name.
    “Yes, Reverend Joseph. School got out late,” she said. Then with a swift nod and a smile, she turned and left the parlor, clamoring up the stairs to her room.
    The pink tinge to her cheeks, Kassandra thought, was a little becoming, but her hair was another matter entirely. The spring breeze combined with the ferocity of her running had torn much of it from the blue ribbon that secured the mass at the nape of her neck. With one swift motion, she tore out the ribbon, grabbed the bone-handled brush that sat atop her bureau, and dragged the bristles through the mass until it crackled. Her hair was long now, past her shoulder blades, and heavy, though it hung straight from her scalp without the slightest bit of curl. The brushing brought an electric life to it now, and singular strands stood straight out from her head, making her look like she was indeed in flight.
    “Jealous?” she whispered to the little bird before crossing over to the basin and dipping the bristles of the brush in what was left of her morning wash water. Returning to the mirror, she once again brought the brush through her hair and pulled back just those strands that framed her face, twisting and coiling them at the top of her head and holding them securely with one hand as she used the other to open the top drawer of her bureau. She searched under the top layer of clean stockings and found the comb, lacquered and ornate, decorated with tiny, shiny stones. He’d given it to her the last time they’d met, said he’d been carrying it in his pocket for weeks, waiting for the right opportunity. She used it now to secure the knot, the rest of her hair hanging down her back. Kassandra gave herself one more scrutinizing look in the mirror. Still not pretty, but different. Older? She turned around and twisted her head, trying unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of the comb adorning her hair.
    Sighing, not quite satisfied, Kassandra walked out of her room and tiptoed down the back stairs leading to the kitchen. She was on the third step from the bottom when she heard the first knock, and she had the door open before the third.
    Same wool cap, same