Somewhere in the village.
Saint Brigid's Orphan House.
A place which provided care for abandoned children Under Church's eyes.
It was the hour of storm-lit dusk, when the sun sank behind rain-heavy clouds.
A nun looked up at the clouds, "Child," she called, her voice sharp but weary, "hurry now—bring in the linens before the heavens open."
An older girl, perhaps twelve, slipped from her bench and bobbed her head. "Yes, Sister Agnes."
She padded across the stone floor, the hush of prayer still clinging to the hall as the bells had only just finished tolling.
She pulled open the heavy wooden door.
The evening air rushed in, the laundry line swayed in the wind,But she froze before taking a step outside.
There—just beside the threshold—sat a wicker basket. Its rim was damp, the cloth inside trembling with a faint, fragile sound.
She leaned closer and saw the tiny face of a boy—no more than a few months old, his skin flushed from crying, his fists weakly clenched.
The girl gasped and looked back over her shoulder.
"Sister Agnes, there's… there's a baby."
Sister Agnes hurried forward, skirts brushing the floor, and stooped over the basket.
She lifted him gently into her arms. His warmth, so fragile against the chill evening air, made her chest tighten. "Poor little soul…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Your parents left you to the mercy of strangers."
Turning to the girl by the door, she asked quickly, "Check the basket—was there a letter? A name?"
The girl crouched, rifling through the damp cloth. She shook her head. "Nothing, Sister."
Sister Agnes closed her eyes a moment, grief shadowing her features. "Not even a name…" She pressed her lips to the infant's forehead. "Then I shall give you one myself." After a pause, she breathed out, as though sealing the words with prayer. "You shall be called Elias."
Cradling the boy close, she nodded to the girl. "Take him to the nursing mother in the east wing. Tell her he must be fed at once."
The child departed, hurrying down the corridor with the newborn bundled in her arms.
Sister Agnes lingered only in a heartbeat, her sorrow still heavy, before she glanced at another girl lingering nearby. Her tone sharpened,
"You child—fetch in the linens before the rain ruins them. Quickly now."
Eight years later.
The chapel smelled faintly of wax and incense. Sister Agnes knelt before the altar, lips moving in quiet prayer, when soft footsteps disturbed the silence.
Sister Miriam, the House Mistress, lingered at the threshold, head bowed low. "Mother," she murmured, waiting until Agnes gave the faintest nod before stepping forward.
"I bring my report. The children were sent into the village this morning. Some of the children helped with the washing and scrubbing of floors. Others carried water, and a few worked in the fields under a farmer's eye. All were diligent, and no complaints were given."
Agnes nodded without turning, her eyes still fixed on the crucifix above.
"There is one matter more," Miriam added hesitantly. "Richard has asked for his bed to be changed."
Sister Agnes stilled. Her voice was calm, but edged. "And why is that, Sister? Though I think I know."
Sister Miriam pressed her hands together. "He is afraid of Elias. He says the boy unsettles him. And, Mother… this is the fiftieth time.None of the children wish to lie near him. Forgive me, Mother, but I have never once heard the boy laugh, nor cry, nor speak. He does not bend his head at prayers. He does not flinch at the rod. When he is struck, he does not so much blink. It is as if nothing touches him."
Sister Agnes finally turned, her expression was grave as she spoke, "Elias already sleeps in the smallest room we have, with only two beds. There is no further place to put him."
"And the nursing mothers…" Miriam's voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "After Elias drank, they swore their milk soured. Some refused him altogether. They say they felt… unclean." She drew a shaky breath. "Mother, I must speak plain. What if he is not a child at all, but the Devil wearing flesh?"
Agnes's eyes flashed. She rose from the altar, her tone suddenly sharp. "Enough! You will guard your tongue, Sister Miriam. These are baseless rumors, born of fear. You shame yourself, and you shame this house, to let such thoughts fester."
Miriam flinched, bowing low. "Forgive me, Mother."
Agnes exhaled slowly, the fire in her gaze dimming to sorrow. "He is an orphan, as all the others are orphans. Whatever he is, the Lord has placed him in our care. We will not speak of devils and curses. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mother," Miriam whispered, though the unease in her eyes lingered.
Just as Sister Agnes turned from the altar and Sister Miriam dipped in a bow to leave, a knock rattled the heavy oak door.
"Mother Agnes," came a young girl's voice,"a man from the village is here."
Agnes exchanged a glance with Miriam, then gave a small nod. "Show him in."
The door creaked, and a man stepped inside, cap in hand. His boots were muddied, and his face bore the wear of long toil in the fields. He bowed clumsily, eyes darting between the two nuns.
"Forgive the hour, Sisters. I am Thom, a farmer from the village. Your children lent their hands to me today in the fields."
Agnes inclined her head with calm courtesy. "And did they labor well?"
"Aye, they did, Mother," Thom said quickly. "Strong arms, though small. I've no complaints about that. But…" He hesitated, shifting uneasily. "When I went to close my henhouse at dusk, I counted my flock. Two of my chickens were missing. My wife and I searched for lanterns in hand, but we found no trace. No feathers, no fox prints. Nothing."
He cleared his throat. "So I came to ask—perhaps the children took them? Maybe as mischief, maybe as hunger. I beg you, speak with them. Such a thing cannot be let stand."
Sister Miriam stiffened, her face darkening. "You dare suggest our children are thieves?" she said sharply. "They are orphans, aye, but they are not beggars in the street. Do you have so little faith in the Church's care?"
The farmer flushed, lowering his head. "I mean no insult, Sister. Only… the birds are gone, and I must answer my household."
Agnes raised a hand, stilling Miriam's protest. Her voice was steady, even kind. "Peace, Sister. Master Thom has suffered a loss, and it is right he seeks aid." She turned to the farmer. "I will have the matter looked into. Sister Miriam, fetch me the list of children who worked his fields today."
Miriam hesitated, her mouth tight with disapproval, but at last she bowed. "Yes, Mother." She swept from the room, her steps brisk with restrained indignation.
Agnes folded her hands, her gaze calm upon the farmer. "The Church will not turn away from this. We shall help you find the truth, Master Thom. Whether the chickens were taken, or whether some beast of the wild slipped your notice."
Relief flickered across the man's face, though unease still clung to him. "God bless you, Mother."
Agnes gave only a small nod.
Then sister Miriam came with a list.
Beatrice
Margaret
Cecilia
Joan
Richard
William
Hugh
Walter
Elias