In town, the cheerful, noisy place, filled with the scent of warm stew and the sound of children's laughter welcomed Delia in. She sat in a comfortable armchair, speaking quietly with the woman in charge of the orphanage, Mrs. Flora, about plans for a new library wing. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the happy, simple drawings taped to the walls.
"Your Grace, can you help me with my hair?"
A small, timid voice broke through their conversation. A little girl with bright, curious eyes and a hopelessly messy ponytail had walked right up to Delia, her hands clasped nervously behind her back. Another woman, one of the caregivers, rushed towards the child, her face full of apology.
"Janessa, come here," the woman said, her voice a flustered whisper. "We don't want to bother Her Grace with things like this."
Delia held up a hand, a warm, gentle smile on her face. "It's quite alright," she said, her voice kind. "Thank you, you can go."
