The black car had been idling outside the iron gates for three hours. No one at Saint Brigitte's owned anything that shiny. Most visitors arrived either in rusted-out trucks or rattling taxis, looking for a way out or a place to leave a mistake. This car just sat there, the engine a low, expensive hum against the gravel.
I watched it from the laundry room window, biting the inside of my cheeks until I tasted copper.
"Isabelle! The linens aren't going to scrub themselves."
Claire's voice hit me like a slap. She was only eighteen but the orphanage had already squeezed the girlhood out of her, leaving behind something sharp and bitter. She shoved a basket of wet sheets into my chest. The weight was sudden and heavy, the cold water soaking into my apron immediately. The room was thick with the smell of cheap soap and the kind of humid heat that made your skin feel permanently tacky and leave your hair frizzy.
"I'm on it," I muttered. I reached up, tugging my hood further over my brow until the world was just a narrow slit of gray stone and floorboards.
"Still wearing that rag?" She liked to crowd people, a habit she'd picked up from the older girls. She was the kind of person you don't want to see first thing in the morning. "You look like a monk. Or a coward."
Before I could pull away, she reached out. Her fingers caught the edge of the wool and yanked.
The hood fell back, and for a second, the room felt too quiet. My hair didn't just sit there. It seemed to scream against the dull backdrop of the laundry. It was a deep, bruised red, the color of a fresh wound. In a place where everything was bleached by lye or faded by the sun, my hair felt like a violation.
"Sister Marianne says the cold triggers my nerves," I lied. My voice sounded thin, even to my own ears.
"Sister Marianne is a fool for you," Claire spat. She leaned in, her eyes tracing the line of my scalp with something that looked like hunger. "She thinks that hair makes you a miracle. I think it makes you a target. You look like one of those weeping statues in the basement, Isabelle. You know what they do to the pretty ones? They break them first."
She gave me a hard shove. I tripped over the edge of the stone basin, the wet sheets sprawling across the floor like a heap of dead skin. I couldn't fight back. I know better than to create a scene. I just stayed there on the grit, my palms stinging, listening to the girls' muffled snickers as they walked away.
"Fix yourself," Claire hissed over her shoulder. The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall groaned on their hinges. "Someone's coming. And they aren't here for charity cases."
I scrambled up, frantically stuffing the red strands back into the dark wool of my hood. My skin felt electric, a prickling sensation crawling up my neck.
Sister Marianne appeared in the doorway. She looked smaller than usual, her hands vibrating with a slight tremor. She was followed by a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a different universe.
She wore ivory wool and pearls that caught the dim light. She didn't belong in a room that smelled of bleach and poverty. Her eyes, a blue so bright that it felt cold, snapped directly to me.
"Isabelle," Sister Marianne whispered. She looked like she was choking on the name. "This is Madame Beaumont. She wants to hear you play."
"Now?" I looked at my hands. They were raw, the skin pruned and white from the water. "Sister, I have three more loads to—"
"Now," Madame Beaumont interrupted.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it stopped the room. She walked toward me, the click of her heels sharp against the floor. She didn't look at me with the pity I usually got from the rich ladies who visited on Sundays. She looked at me the way a person looks at a winning lottery ticket they'd found in the trash. Now that's a new look. When she reached out, her gloved hand stopped just inches from my cheek. I saw her flinch, a tiny flicker of genuine fear.
The walk to the church hall felt like forever, it was a blur of cold air and the scent of old incense. My violin case felt heavier than usual. As I took the instrument out, several thoughts flooded my head. I wondered why she wanted me to play, I wondered why Sister Marriane hands were trembling earlier, I wondered if the violin strings will snap. They always did when I was nervous.
But this time they didn't when I played.
I didn't play the hymns the Sisters liked. I played the melody that always sat at the base of my skull, something jagged and restless. It sounded like a house burning down.
When the last note died, Madame Beaumont exhaled, a ragged sound that broke the silence. She turned to Sister Marianne, her voice a sharp hiss.
"It's her. The eyes, the way she carries herself... It's Elena's silhouette. If I can see it, Viktor Volkov will see it before she even opens her mouth."
"She is safe here," Sister Marianne pleaded. Her fingers worked her rosary beads so hard I thought the string might snap.
"Safe?" Madame Beaumont let out a short, dry laugh. "The Volkovs have eyes in every gutter. She's a ticking bomb, and the timer just hit zero."
She turned back to me and shoved a cream-colored envelope into my damp hand. The gold wax seal felt heavy, embossed with a crest I didn't recognize.
"You're coming to my estate next week," she said. It wasn't an offer. "Everything, the clothes, the story, the protection will be handled. You'll be my guest performer."
"A guest…guest performer?," I stammered. "I don't think I have that talent yet, I'm still lacking in some ways."
"You are not lacking anything," she whispered. She leaned in, and for the first time, I saw the desperation behind the blue eyes. "The people who think you're dead are currently throwing a party. I'm going to ruin it. But listen to me: the Volkovs will be watching. Especially the son, Dmitri. If he looks at you, don't flinch. Don't even blink. Because if he sees the ghost in your face, the hunt starts all over again."
She turned and left, her coat billowing behind her. The sound of her heels faded, leaving a silence that felt heavy and permanent.
Sister Marianne sank into her knees, her head dropping into her hands. She started to cry not a soft sob, but a desperate, ugly sound.
"I failed," she wailed. "I promised her I'd keep you hidden. I promised I'd keep you away from them."
"Sister, promised who?" I knelt beside her. As I asked, a sharp and white-hot pain spiked behind my eyes. For a split second, I smelled smoke and heard the roar of wood snapping in a fire.
"The woman who brought you here," she choked out. She grabbed my shoulders, her grip bruising. "She told me to never let the world see you. And now they're coming. They're going to take you."
I looked at her as if she were possessed. I looked at the envelope. It felt like a heavy weight, so heavy I didn't want to hold it anymore.
I walked back to the dormitory alone, past the girls who were still whispering. I stood in front of the cracked mirror in the washroom and pulled the hood back. I stared at the red hair and the silver eyes. For years, I'd been told I was a nobody. A foundling. A mistake.
I wasn't a girl anymore. I was a target. A ghost from the past that should remain dead. And for the first time in my life, I realized the hunter was already at the gates.