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IT had been a cold, wintry morning when the orphanage matron found Cecili and Mairi abandoned on her doorstep.
That wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for Alastora Orphanage, whose size and aggressive approach to securing jobs for its children had made its name well known. For many parents who could no longer care for their children, whatever the reason, Alastora was often the first place that came to mind.
Sometimes, they arrived with a mother—a frail, wretched thing clutching a baby in her arms, head bowed low. Other times, it was a pair of siblings, alone, carrying nothing but a letter from their mother telling them to come here. And sometimes, there’d be only a knock at the door. By the time someone answered, all that remained was a baby left on the ground.
Regardless of how they arrived, Alastora took them in. Procedures didn’t matter. Papers didn’t matter. It didn’t matter whose child they were or where they came from.
As long as they made it past those foliage-woven gates, they were Alastora’s kids now.
“You’ve raised some very vigorous and well-mannered children,” Sophie remarked.
“I should hope so when manners form the basis of everything,” the matron replied, her tone carrying a familiar sharpness that reminded Sophie of something Martha might say.
The matron’s voice took on a soft, rhythmic warmth as she continued. “We found Cecili barefoot, with her baby sister strapped to her back, standing in front of the orphanage gates. The poor girl, only four at the time, wasn’t crying or making a fuss. She just stood there, patiently waiting for our staff to finish their morning duties so they could take her in.
“You’d expect a girl her age to cry, wail, and beg to be let in. But she didn’t. To this day, we don’t know how long she’d been standing out there. By the time we found her, the tips of her fingers and feet were turning purple, her breath coming out in long, wispy strips in the cold. She just waited. For heaven knows how long until the doors finally opened.
“I try not to resent the parents. We all come from different circumstances. If the best thing for them or their child is to let go, then so be it. But in Cecili’s case…it was difficult. The cruelty of it. Just leaving her there. Why didn’t they knock on the gate? Explain the situation? Leave them with us properly? Why didn’t they even bother to write a letter? Why didn’t they do anything but abandon their child barefoot in the deadly chill of winter, with her baby sister strapped to her back?”
The matron paused there, a lump forming in her throat.
“I apologize for my ignorance, but parents can just choose to…leave their children here?” Sophie asked.
She had assumed that an orphanage would only accept orphans, and the question escaped her before she could stop herself.
The matron let out a slow breath. “We’re well aware that our policies aren’t widely understood. That’s intentional. At least, in part. If we took in every child in need, we couldn’t sustain ourselves. But yes, we do accept children whose families cannot care for them due to poverty or other hardships. In such cases where the parents are still alive, they have three years to reclaim their child. After that, the child officially becomes one of ours. Their future is then entirely in our hands—whether that means placing them with a foster family or arranging for an apprenticeship.”
A small smile (tinged with pride, perhaps?) flitted onto the matron’s face.
“Many places take our children in for apprenticeships simply because they carry our name. With the little ones, we start with words. For the older ones, we teach manners and study. And eventually, a trade. If they’re not working, they’re learning. We make sure they’re fed, clothed, and sheltered. We help them grow and guide them to where they belong.
“It took decades, but at last, my vision for this place has come to fruition. Of course, the support from His Lordship played no small part in that. Our children are exposed to all kinds of work on a daily basis, which helps them think about what they want to do in the future. The adults here observe them closely, offering guidance as the children grow. Many of our children go on to become exceedingly productive members of society. But I’ve digressed, haven’t I?”
She paused, lifting her teacup and taking a quiet sip.
“For the first year Cecili was here, she didn’t speak a word. We thought she might be mute until one day, a staff member happened upon her telling Mairi a story—the story of the princess with the lotus mark.”
“We are princesses, Mairi. That’s why we have to work extra hard at learning. Put extra effort into every job that comes our way. So that when our retainers come for us, they’ll look at us and say, ‘Look! Royalty.’”
“From the way they arrived at the orphanage—gaunt, clothed in scraps, left at our gate—anyone could see the tale was a fabrication. And yet, no one here ever spoke against it. Had they used it to elevate themselves above the other children, perhaps we would have said something. But Cecili? That child would never. I have never known a girl more solemn. In her studies, chores, and even the jobs she was given, she never once cut a single corner. When it’d been her turn to polish the hallway windows, you could always tell—they shone like nothing else.
“I believe this story of hers…is much the same as those children who keep the only letter left by their parents in a keepsake box or those who still clutch the handkerchief they were left with. It was far too intricate for a child of four to invent. Surely, it must have been a tale their mother had told them at bedtime. And who, seeing that tiny girl with her sister on her back, doing everything she could just to survive, could blame her for clinging on to the last memory of her mother?”
Expelling a long breath, the matron adjusted her posture. Instinctively, Sophie straightened her own.
“If what you say is true—if you truly possess the power to heal these girls of their wounds—then I welcome it with all my heart. No matter how kind someone might be deep down, it is, regrettably, human nature to pass judgment based on appearances. They’re still so young, but they’ve already heard adults say such cruel things that you’d want to cover your ears.”
Her gaze met Sophie’s. The meaning was clear without needing to be spoken: Surely, you know this better than most. Then, her eyes dropped to the floor.
“What I am about to say may be unbecoming for someone in my position, but I feel compelled to say it all the same: I want Cecili, more than anyone, to find her happily ever after. That child, who stood barefoot in front of our gates that day. That child, who cleans the floors and windows with more care than anyone. I believe she is more deserving of happiness than anyone I have ever known.”
She bowed her head in a silent plea.