She turned the torch in a slow arc, revealing what remained of the building she had once called home. It was sparsely furnished, as it had been during her time there. The bronze fixtures and broken chandelier whispered of an earlier era when the home had been grand. But the chairs and cupboards were severe and unadorned; additions from an owner with less money to spare. There were no bottles or graffiti and no signs that anything had been stolen. No vandals. Bellamy had likely been forgotten by everyone who had not lived there.

Leanne’s torch caught on a pair of bronze doorhandles. She approached, her shoes crunching in the dust and dead insects coating the floor. The bronze, tarnished and almost black, was painfully familiar. Leanne pressed on one of the handles. It left a dark smear across her palm, but the door groaned inwards, welcoming her into the dining hall.

The massive wooden table ran the length of the room. Forty chairs crowded around it. Leanne could picture Grace, the younger warden, standing by a pot near the room’s corner and ladling soup into the children’s bowls as they approached, single file. Leanne had liked Grace. Pretty, with delicate fingers, like a fairy, she was the one bright spot in the house. She never yelled and gave generous servings. When she spoke, which wasn’t often, it was gentle and affectionate.

Leanne remembered wishing she could ask Grace to sing her a song to lull her to sleep, just like her mother used to. But there were forty children living in the home, too many for one woman to lavish with affection, no matter how hard she tried. And Grace had been sickly. Some days, shivering and her pale face speckled with sweat, she had not even been able to rise out of her chair. On those days, Patience served the meals.

No one had seemed to know their relationship—whether they were simply friends or mother and daughter. They had been so different that it was hard to imagine they could be related. Grace was young and with hair so light it was almost gold. Patience was tall, with black hair tied back from her severe face. She walked with a cane, and the hard tapping noise could be heard long before she came into sight. Leanne had hated the noise… almost as much as she’d hated the eyes.

What a woman to leave in charge of children.

Without even realising it, Leanne had approached the seat she always sat on. Her fingers traced over the top, feeling the hard wood under the dust, then she pulled out the chair. As she sank into it, the memories felt so close they were almost real.

“I wish she’d leave us alone,” Henry whispered.