The refectory at Saint Ursa's hummed with its usual chill, the kind that seeped from stone and settled in bones. Tonight, however, the scrape of spoons against tin plates carried an undercurrent of hushed excitement. Arthur, it was being whispered, was gone.
"Mrs. Gable saw him leaving this afternoon," Elsie stage-whispered across the scarred table, eyes wide. "Said a big, warm-looking lady with three smiling children came for him. A whole family!"
"Three!" another boy breathed, turnip stew forgotten on his chin. "Bet he gets his own bed. And cake every day."
James Thorne listened, methodically pushing stew around his bowl. A whole family. He pictured it sometimes—a door that didn't creak, a window looking onto streets with lights, laughter that wasn't… He caught himself, the image dissolving. Silly, really, to imagine doors that didn't announce every soul passing through. He brushed aside a sudden, sharp tug of longing, focusing instead on the gritty texture of his spoon against the tin.
Beside him, Philips Kaelen quietly ate his portion, occasionally glancing up at the excited chatter with a gentle smile. Philips was slight like most of the Saint Ursa's children, but James had often noticed how his gentle manner seemed to soften even Mrs. Gable's stern expressions, especially when he offered to help with extra chores.
"Three children," Philips mused, his voice carrying that familiar note of hope. "Can you imagine? Arthur probably has someone to talk to right now who isn't counting the hours until lights out."
James pushed a congealed piece of turnip around his plate. "Maybe."
"Oh, come on." Philips nudged his shoulder. "Mrs. Gable said the lady looked ever so kind. Had laugh lines around her eyes—you know, the sort that come from years of actual laughing, not just being polite."
"You weren't there. You didn't see her."
"No, but I believe in good things sometimes." Philips set down his spoon with a soft clink. "Someone has to."
James felt the familiar tightness in his chest—that mixture of wanting to believe and knowing better.
"Alright, settle down now, everyone," a warm voice cut through the chatter. Father Samuel Elliott—Fr. Sam to all of them—entered the refectory with his easy grace, tall frame somehow chasing the chill from the room. His cassock looked less severe than the grey walls, his gentle smile crinkling kind eyes. Fr. Sam had that rare gift of remembering saint's days without seeming to check calendars, and James had noticed how he always knew which children struggled with their sums—sometimes before they realized it themselves.
He paused by a younger table. "Thomas," he said, voice warm even in gentle admonishment, "less wild tales of cake, more actual eating." He ruffled the boy's hair, then his gaze swept the room before landing on James.
"James, lad," he said quietly, approaching. "Would you lead us in morning grace tomorrow?"
James's nod was barely perceptible, but he lifted his eyes—a rare gesture of trust. "Yes, Father."
"Good man." Fr. Sam squeezed his shoulder lightly before moving on, his presence a brief warmth in their corner of the vast, chilly room.
After Fr. Sam departed, the mess hall gradually emptied as younger children were herded towards dormitories. James remained at the scarred table with Philips, who was methodically scraping the last bits of stew from his bowl with determined optimism.
He stood, his chair scraping against stone. "I need to prepare for morning grace."
"Off to the library then?" Philips smiled, that gentle expression that somehow made the drafty hall feel warmer. "Don't let Father Augustus catch you reading past hours again."
The west wing of Saint Ursa's held a different kind of silence—not the cold, empty silence of the dormitories, but something expectant, holding its breath. This was Old Father Daniel Augustus's domain, less a formal library than his personal collection spilling into a long, drafty chamber. Yet unlike the rest of the chillingly austere orphanage, surprising warmth radiated from a small, perpetually stoked hearth in the corner, casting flickering golden light upon towering shelves. The air hung heavy with rich, comforting scents of ancient paper, brittle leather, and something like dried herbs—a living fragrance that spoke of knowledge carefully preserved.
As James entered, the Old Father's humming enveloped him. It was a sound as much felt as heard, a low, subliminal thrumming that seemed to vibrate in the very timbers of the shelves. Tonight it carried unusual strength and structure, weaving through forgotten melodies that lost themselves in shadow. Through its resonant cadences, James could sense the old man's presence—sharp and lucid within his inner sanctum.
Dust motes spiraled lazily in the lamplight as James ran his fingers along worn spines, bypassing celebrated histories for something deeper. He found what he sought: Age of Shadows, its cover soft as velvet from countless hands. This era resonated most deeply with him—not the days of glory, but the quiet, difficult beginnings where the Order's light was a secret kept carefully in darkness.
The reading table welcomed him with its familiar solidity, polished wood grain warm and smooth beneath his palms. The book opened with a whisper of aged vellum, pages releasing their faint, musty perfume. James traced the archaic script with his fingertip, feeling the slight impressions the long-dead scribe's pen had left in the parchment. His lips moved silently, finding rhythm in the ancient cadences as the familiar weight of words settled in his chest like warmth drawn from the hearth itself.
The Old Father's humming continued its steady thrum from the inner sanctum—a counterpoint to James's silent reading, creating a cocoon of scholarly peace that made the world beyond these walls feel distant and unreal. Here, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of centuries, James felt something approaching contentment.
His eyes drifted upward to a high shelf designated for the most sacred texts. A flicker of something stirred—not curiosity, but something deeper, more insistent. His hand began to rise, drawn by foolish impulse toward the forbidden shelf itself.
Then, abruptly, the humming stopped.
The sudden, absolute silence was more startling than a shout. James's hand froze halfway to the shelf, his heart lurching as realization struck. Stupid,*he thought. *Why would I attempt such a thing when I knew he was lucid?*
"Thorne."
The voice was thin, dry as autumn leaves, but held an unexpected and piercing edge. Old Father Daniel Augustus stood in the doorway of his study—a skeletal figure swathed in gloom, his usually distant eyes now fixed on James with startling clarity.
"The hour is late," the Old Father rasped, his gaze flicking briefly to the high shelf before settling on James's face. "The Word is for light, not for lengthening shadows. To your dormitory."
The irony wasn't lost on James—here he sat, immersed in the very shadows that had once protected the Order, being told to seek the light.
"Yes, Father." James closed Age of Shadows with deliberate care, the cover settling with a soft, respectful thud that seemed to echo in the sudden stillness. He slid it back into its precise spot on the shadowed shelf, his movements unhurried despite the weight of the old priest's scrutiny. "I was just preparing for tomorrow."
A faint, dry sigh escaped the Old Father. "Preparedness is a virtue few possess, Thorne. See that you cultivate it." His pale eyes lingered on James for another moment, as if reading something written in the boy's stillness. Then the door to the inner study clicked shut, and the powerful, resonant humming did not resume.
James stood in the sudden quiet, the warmth from the hearth still playing across his back, the scent of ancient knowledge still filling his lungs. But the spell was broken. The library felt ordinary again—just books and shadows and the ever-present chill seeping through stone walls. He gathered himself and made his way toward the door, leaving the dancing dust motes to settle in his wake.
James made his way back to the mess hall, where he found Philips still at their table, absently running his finger along the scarred wood grain.
"What, no books tonight?" Philips asked without looking up, his voice tinged with knowing amusement. "Did Father Augustus finally banish you for good?"
"Close enough," James murmured, settling beside him as the bench creaked softly. "He sent me away."
"Ah." Philips's fingers traced a particularly deep gouge in the table. "Arthur carved this last year, remember? Said he needed to leave proof he existed, just in case." His voice held that persistent thread of hope. "And now look—he's got three new siblings."
The silence stretched between them. James pressed his palm against the cool wood, feeling every nick and scratch—years of boys who'd sat here, hoped here, left here.
"Do you think…" Philips began, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, "do you think we'll ever get into a family?"
It wasn't really a question—more like a prayer spoken to the shadows, but one that carried genuine possibility in Philips's hopeful tone. James had no answer, so he simply pressed his shoulder against Philips's, sharing warmth in the chill.
The walk to the dormitory felt longer tonight, his thin-soled shoes silent on worn stone. Every loose floorboard, every patch of damp blooming like dark flowers on the walls, every crack snaking across plaster like frozen rivers—he knew them all.
In their dormitory—one of the smaller chambers for the older boys—soft sounds rustled under thin blankets as ten adolescents settled into sleep. James slid into his own bed, springs sighing beneath his weight. The whispers faded gradually, like candles being snuffed one by one. The wind rattled the panes.
For all its shadows and silences, for all the hopes that withered here before they bloomed, Saint Ursa's was the only home he had ever known.