The morning air carried the sharp scent of damp earth and woodsmoke as the sun peeked over the horizon, painting the orphanage courtyard in pale gold. The gates stood propped open, where a plain, heavy-wheeled black carriage sat waiting, two draft horses stamping their hooves softly against the gravel.
On the porch, a small crowd had gathered to see Philia off.
Little Toby was clutching the hem of Philia's trousers with both hands, his knuckles white, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy from crying. Nora stood just behind him, holding a small cloth-wrapped parcel of fresh bread and dried fruit she'd woken up at four in the morning to bake, while Libbie leaned quietly against the doorframe, trying to look brave despite the tremor in her chin.
Philia dropped to one knee on the cold stone steps, bringing himself down to eye level with the younger children. He reached out, gently prying Toby's small fingers from his coat, and held the boy's cold hands in his own warm palms.
