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I hum to myself. I thought I’d be going on this venture alone—and not on horseback. But once we determined how official-sounding the possible source of Torstem’s child visitors was, approaching the workers there as nobles seemed more likely to get us answers.
I’ll still be using my street-rat wits to build a larger picture of the situation. And none of the other men argued about Casimir joining me.
He could cajole a mouse out of a starving cat’s paws,Julita said approvingly when he volunteered.
Let’s hope the opposition we face isn’t quite that desperate.
As we weave through the narrowing streets near the river, evidence appears of how Siltston got its name. A thin layer of dried mud and grit coats every low surface.
I learned early on to avoid the neighborhoods in this area right after a rain. The banks of the Starsil River drop lower in the fringes, and it splits off into several nearby culverts that all flood together when there’s a big enough storm.
Julita’s presence squirms at the back of my skull.Ugh. I can’t see why anyone would want to live here.
Does she think they have a real choice?
My silk dress feels uncomfortably light compared to the tunic I’d usually wear when moving through these streets—with pockets full of silver to leave on the windowsills of the needy. How many con artists have screwed over these citizens in the days since I last dealt out my version of justice?
I inhale deeply to settle my nerves.
I’ll be back. We have a far bigger heap of injustice to tackle right now.
Casimir leads the way through the last few turns, which end at a building slightly less ramshackle than its neighbors. The broad, three-story structure boasts a mix of stone, wood, and a few thin trees sprouting through the walls for reinforced stability.
It’s nearly ten times bigger than most of the shacks that serve as individual homes on the fringes, with a yard of scruffy grass and wan vegetables all around its gray walls. Painted sigils for Inganne, Prospira, and Elox decorate the door, calling for childish delight, familial comforts, and good health.
I frown as I stare up at the place. “I’ve been past here before. I never knew what its official name was.”
Casimir lifts an eyebrow. “I see Ster. Torstem didn’t bother to have a sign erected announcing the institute’s formal title or his ties to it.”
“How very surprising,” I say wryly.
As we dismount and tie the horses near the gate, a babble of childish voices reaches our ears. A gaggle of kids who look to be around six or seven dash by through the garden.
A girl a few years older shouts at the wild ones from an open window. I spot a couple of others flitting by in another room.
They’re all dressed in plain cotton and wool, darned and patched to extend its use—no noble clothing here. The grubby faces and tangled hair tell a familiar story that Ster. Torstem’s fancy name for the place can’t paint over.
This isn’t any kind of “institute.” It’s an orphanage, plain and simple. A handful of adults trying to care for more children than anyone really should, because it’s either that or leave them with no one at all.
Why did Torstem care enough to invest in this place, however much he does?
I hate to think how much worse the kids might look without his contributions. They do at least appear to be decently fed and sheltered.
Our arrival—or rather, the horses’ arrival—provokes a whole lot of squealing excitement from one contingent of children. Before we’ve even breached the gate, a slim middle-aged woman with a worn face and a simple but clean linen dress appears in the doorway, presumably drawn by the clamor. “Can I help you?”
She doesn’t sound exactly surprised that two people in noble clothes have shown up at her doorstep.
Casimir takes the lead with the whole talking thing. He strides up to the woman and offers a respectful dip of his head. “Our apologies for the intrusion. One of your benefactors asked us to take a look around and see if there’s anything additional you might need.”
I can’t imagine the orphanage has more than one noble investing in it. The woman’s brow knits a little, but she nods in acceptance. “I mean, we could always use more help. More hands to keep the kids in order, more variety of food, better clothing. But he’s been plenty generous. We do all right.”
“Could we come inside?” Casimir asks, spreading his hand in appeal. “I promise we have no intention of judging what you’ve accomplished. I simply want to make sure we can give him a thorough account of where additional contributions would be most appreciated.”
At his soft smile, the orphanage manager can’t seem to help smiling back. “I don’t see why not. And if either of you have an interest in taking one of these sprites off our hands, they are capable of behaving themselves if given enough incentive.”
The interior of the building has a similar atmosphere to the exterior—untidy and chaotic but homey. The smell of fresh-baked bread mingles with the tang of sweat and chamber pot spills.
Through the doorway to what serves as a living room, I see an older woman sitting in a ratty armchair, tilted toward the cluster of small children gathered on the floor around her.
