21 Dove #3
Orinno had chuckled at that, while Maerryl had snickered none too kindly.
But once we’d gotten them all settled and started the lesson—or, more accurately, the paint-smearing spectacle—the children really seemed to enjoy themselves.
Incredible to see all their little faces so delighted with a rainbow they drew, or an animal, chattering amongst themselves as they painted.
The shadows of grief that touched all of them lifted as we went, and my heart swelled again to watch it happen.
Somehow, I’d never really understood that the feelings I experienced when I worked on a painting at home—joy, peace, satisfaction, catharsis—could be felt by so many small humans.
Children who’d hardly even held brushes before. They loved it.
I found myself growing very fond of them all, and I couldn’t help but think about what happened after I left.
What were the rest of their lives like here at the priory?
I knew they were all well cared for, and the kind acolytes and clerics like Orinno were doing what they could, but surely this wasn’t an ideal place to live for a child.
Surrounded by mostly adults, so much meditation and praying, sharing a big room all together instead of having their own spaces.
Susu had so much energy and feistiness—I’d bet she’d benefit from something like horseback riding lessons to redirect all of that.
And how could little Sadie come out of her shell without calm, quiet care?
Alwin’s face always dropped and clouded over when it came time to end our lessons, and I knew he’d paint for hours upon hours each day if he could.
More and more, I found myself thinking about how massive and empty the estate seemed.
Such a waste really, and it took Maerryl’s unfortunately correct criticisms since she arrived for me to see how ridiculous it was to have so much space for just my small family.
What if I changed things for once… repurposed the manor into an orphanage for these children?
I spent part of our lesson turning the mad idea over, examining it from all angles.
Getting increasingly excited, hopeful, by the possibilities.
Maybe I could actually do this. Maybe.
Now, Orinno and I transitioned to helping them at the washbasins, instructing the older children to assist the younger ones too.
As I scrubbed little Alwin’s hands, helping him to get a particularly stubborn bit of yellow paint off, I suddenly spotted Maerryl slip from her spot on the wall and out the door.
For a split second, I paused, about to move on to washing the class’s paint palettes.
But the way she moved—there was a studied stealth to her steps. She didn’t draw attention to herself. And if I hadn’t been so attuned to Maerryl, constantly drawn to her now, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed her slipping away.
Muttering some excuse to Orinno about visiting the washroom, I dried my hands on a cloth and followed Maerryl out the door.
Already far down the curved hallway, she hastened to a wide archway.
As she turned to check behind herself, I ducked into an alcove and held my breath.
Why did I suddenly feel like a spy tracking someone? I had no need to hide.
At that thought, I straightened and reentered the hallway. Maerryl had disappeared. Moving to the alcove, I went through and just caught a glimpse of her dark form as she turned another corner. Doubling my pace, I followed.
At the end of a bright hallway, filled with midday light from glass windows on either side, I found a tall, draped double curtain of a doorway. Deep plum-dyed cloth in a thick weave that I held tightly in my grip for a minute.
What was she doing here? Did I need to know?
Yes.
I held the curtain aside, just enough for me to slip through, and entered a wide room with a soaring ceiling.
Sunshine filtered through gently flapping linen curtains.
Two rows of simple wooden cots filed along the length of the long walls, most of them empty except for crisp, light sheets.
It was quiet but for the low murmuring of a couple acolytes moving about.
And Maerryl, seated under a window, talking to someone lying on one of the beds.
Stepping closer, I tried to keep my footfalls quiet. She faced away from me and seemed deep in conversation with whoever lay on the cot.
One of my steps caught on an edge of the stone flooring, and I stumbled.
Maerryl leapt up and swung around, hand reflexively going to one of her daggers. When she saw me, she froze. We locked eyes. Alarm and panic crossed over her face, before finally settling into resignation.
“Dove,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
I stepped closer, moving to the other side of the cot. A young dwarf boy, no older than thirteen, lay asleep on the white sheets. He wore a soft-looking linen robe and a peaceful expression. His hair was a familiar thick, deep brown.
“Who is he?” I whispered, trying not to wake him.
“He can’t hear you. You can talk normally,” Maerryl said, rubbing a hand over her face and sighing. She leaned against the bed, and I shot her a questioning look.
Finally, she said, “My brother. He’s my little brother.”