Page 4 of Loreblood

That was one of his favorites. He said it to the other children too, when we accidentally saw things we weren’t supposed to.

When Cullard called me, I shuffled to the old man’s room, which housed little more than a four-post bed, a small writing table, and a chamber pot. Like the vowagers, Cullard lived a life without the need for material things.

He sat at his writing table, patting the edge of the bed. I plopped down with my legs dangling.

He leaned forward to speak to me at eye-level. “Do you know where you are and where you’ve been, Sephania?”

I blinked, confused. “Home?”

He chuckled, sitting back. “That is a good way to look at it. Yes. Home. Do you know what this homeis, child?”

I shook my head fervently.

“It is the House of the Broken. I am Father Cullard, the lucky soul ordained with operating the House. You, like the other children, are my ward.”

“Broken?” I chirped, frowning. “That sounds bad.”

“Not bad, Sephania. Just . . . unfortunate. This is what’s called an almshouse. An orphanage. You are an orphan. Do you understand?”

I nodded as if I did, though of course I didn’t. All I’d ever known was Cullard’s shiny head, the vowagers’ stern looks, and other wailing babies. Only recently had I come into personhood and discovered others my age. I had no idea there was apurposeto this place.

“You do not have parents, Sephania. You are a child of the Truehearts. We will raise you well and dignified. In order to live here, you must work. Everyone must pay their keep. The House can only survive if we all do our part.”

Tilting my head, I gave Father Cullard an inquisitive look. “. . . Work, Father?”

He nodded gravely, only taking a moment before his smile returned bright as ever. “In order to live a dignified life, you must occasionally do undignified things.”

I didn’t know what “dignified” or “undignified” meant. It sounded like they were opposites, which didn’t make sense to me.

He noticed my confusion and patted my knee. “You will learn soon enough, child.”

I stood on the street corner with my wooden bowl cupped in my hands, looking as bedraggled and sorry as possible.

With my lips quivering with practiced ease, I called out to the passing couple, my arms outstretched, holding the bowl up like an artifact. “Spare a coin or two for the House of the Broken? It’s for a cause most noble.”

The man unlocked his arm from his wife and stopped. I smiled, not noticing his scowl.

I had a part to play.

“House of the Broken?” he sneered.

I nodded emphatically. “Truehearts one and all, sir.”

His head reeled and he spit on my face. “What have you zealots ever done for the working man, eh, little whelp?” He scoffed at my shock, the glob of spittle trickling down my chin. “House of theBroken,” he murmured. “I’ll breakyouif y’ask me for a damned thing next time I walk down this corner, you got it?”

The man stormed off, tugging his wife with him. The woman calmly chastised him before leaving. “She’s just a child, Gregan. She’s only doing what she’s told.”

“A fanatic in the making. You have to teach them early or they’ll never unlearn that horseshit they’re fed.”

Their words dwindled away and I took a step back from the street corner, wiping the mucus from my face.

A high-pitched laugh erupted behind me and I spun with a glare.

The boy reclining with his back against a wall, propped with one leg thrown over his knee, kicked his foot and smirked as he bounced up. “Need to work on your pity-face, Seph.”

“It was the pity-face that got me spit on, Bay, you dolt.”

He shrugged and snatched the bowl from me. “Watch a master work then.”