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Childhood - Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 08:19:39 +0000 UTCSt. John The Evangelist’s Church, Bath, England. October 24, 1982.
Learning how to wield magic—attempt number two—was off to an even worse start than expected.
The more I practiced, the fewer ideas I had left at my disposal, and the less likely it seemed that I’d be able to learn magic at all.
If magic was even something that could be learned.
“No,” I muttered, shaking my head ferociously. “It’s magic we're talking about. I can do this. I know I can.”
My current objective was simple: using magic, I would make the leaf I’d placed on the tombstone float.
That's right—this four-year-old orphan was trying to practice magic, alone, in the graveyard behind St. John’s… in 1982.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. There were so many oddities in that sentence I didn't even know where to begin.
Of course, the leaf would sometimes catch the wind and float a bit on its own, tricking me into thinking I’d actually accomplished something. But so far, no such luck.
Before the leaf, it had been a twig. Before the twig, a pebble. My reasoning was simple: the lighter the object, the easier it should be to levitate.
Emphasis on should.
I’d tried other methods too—like summoning a gust of wind. But the problem with that approach lay in figuring out whether the breeze came from me… or if it was just windy outside.
Conjuring water seemed too difficult, so after a few pitiful attempts, I moved on.
As for making things catch fire… yeah, I didn’t need to explain why that was a terrible idea.
And so, without any other options, I was stuck trying to make a leaf float.
“Okay, Michael. Focus.” I took a deep breath and visualized the dam inside me breaking open—imagining once more the grand feeling of wind bending to my will.
Nothing.
Still, for the sake of pride if nothing else, I refused to quit.
Absolutely nothing.
After a few hours of repeated failure, my frustration and stress had reached an all-time high.
I had literally nothing to show for the last two hours of practice.
“Alright, this is it,” I muttered. “Win or lose, I have to get back to the orphanage after this.”
Tardiness—like sloppiness, crudeness, and laziness—wasn’t a trait the Matron had much patience for. If I pushed my luck any further, I’d be risking a serious reprimand.
Maybe it was that very pressure—the ticking clock at my back—that finally stirred something within me.
This time, as I visualized the dam bursting, I felt it. A ripple, a shift—something inside me moved.
But I wasn’t going to let the feeling dissipate like sea foam this time.
No.
I raised both hands, palms facing the tombstone and the waiting leaf.
And visualized the leaf—
…getting torn asunder?
For a second, I just stared at the severed leaf in mute disbelief.
Then, when the realization of what I’d done hit me, a choked cry of jubilation and relief tore from my throat
“I did it! I finally did it!”
Sure, the stupid leaf hadn’t floated like it was supposed to—but that didn’t matter. I had done something. Something impossible. Something I’d never managed to do in my previous life.
Something magical.
As such, I let myself bask in the moment, grinning like an idiot, before carefully pocketing both halves of the leaf as a trophy.
Then I rushed homeward, not bothering to hide the skip in my step.
…
Lunch consisted of a brothy soup with some vegetable cubes and a few slivers of chewy meat. On the side, each of us got a coarse piece of bread. It wasn’t anything special, but to my surprise, I really enjoyed it.
At one point, Isabella—my designated dining table neighbour—asked why I was so happy. I nearly dismissed her question out of habit, but since it was rare for her to speak to me like that, I changed my mind at the last second.
“I managed to do something I really wanted to do today.”
“Oh?” Isabella’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “What did you do? Tell me!”
Flummoxed by her sudden interest, I looked around for help—
Only to realize I was now the centre of everyone’s attention.
“Right…” I grimaced. “I usually only speak during meals if one of the Sisters or the Matron addresses me… And even then, I don’t say much.”
But it was too late to back out now.
Feeling nervous all of sudden, I improvised.
“I, uhm…” Has it always been this scary to speak in front of a group? “I learned how to read.”
Anton scoffed but held his tongue. The other orphans looked either impressed or skeptical.
“Really?!” Sister Taylor exclaimed excitedly. “You only turned four two months ago, yet you already know how to read? I'm very impressed, Michael!”
“Tsk.” Anton clicked his tongue. “He's obviously lying.”
“No, I'm not.” I retorted quickly. It might’ve been silly of me to argue with a seven-year-old, but there was something deeply cathartic about standing up to Anton.
“Then prove it.” Anton challenged, looking around the room for something. When his gaze landed on a newspaper, he snatched it up and thrust it toward me. “Read this.”
Holding the page from yesterday’s paper in my hands, I looked up at the curious faces staring back at me.
“Well, I guess I'm doing this after all…” I swallowed nervously.
“Argentine Reprisal in the Falklands. Pressure is mounting on Thatcher to call a cease-fire after domestic Argentine forces knocked down Destroyer H M S Hansen last Friday; 40 confirmed killed. Prime Minister Thatcher’s earlier vows to continue the conflict are now being seriously called into question, with European allies pushing for a cease-fire.”
I began the reading with a few deliberate stumbles, mispronouncing the bigger words I figured most four-year-olds wouldn’t know. But as I continued, the contents pulled me in.
“Was my father on that boat?” I couldn't help but wonder.
“That's…” Sister Taylor finally broke the silence with a slow, steady sigh.” That’s really impressive, Michael. You must’ve practiced a lot.”
Sister White and the Matron were still staring at me—blinking, stunned.
“Sister, sister.” Ava piped up, tugging at Sister Taylor’s tunic for attention. “What does cease-fire mean?”
Suddenly, before anyone could answer the young girl, Anton slammed his fist against the table. Two inflamed eyes shooting daggers at me before he scurried off, followed closely by his friend Gabriel.
“This…” Sister White muttered, lowering her spoon. “Matron, their behaviour is absolutely—”
“I'll go,” Sister Taylor interrupted, glancing at the Matron. Upon receiving a brief nod of permission, she left in haste after the two boys.
“Eat,” The Matron ordered curtly, her eyes sweeping over the remaining orphans. “And don't forget—it's school tomorrow.”
Needless to say, the rest of lunch passed in stiff, awkward silence. And while the younger orphans—including Ava, Isabella, Charlie and the toddlers—hadn’t fully grasped what had happened, the older ones seemed to be in the know as they started listlessly down into their bowls.
“Well done, Michael.” I berated myself for my disappointing lack of foresight. “Obviously, you’re not the only one orphaned by the war.”
If even I—with the benefit of a previous life’s perspective—still ached when I thought of my biological parents, then what must the others be feeling?
And the more I observed my former roommate, the more apparent it became: reconciliation wouldn’t be coming any time soon.
“Fortunately, there’s still time.” Conflicts like these often had a way of cooling down with distance and patience. Or so I told myself.
As soon as lunch ended, I slipped outside to the garden.
My eyes landed on the tree—my tree—but I hesitated.
“Too exposed.” If I were to practice magic beneath it and something actually did happen, anyone near a window would be able to see.
“No, I need somewhere more secluded.”
A part of me itched to leave the orphanage entirely—but I had just promised not to. Begrudgingly, I decided to honour that commitment. As frustrating as it was, it seemed in my best interest not to stir up more trouble. At least, not yet.
Luckily, it didn't take long before I found a spot that would do.
The old toolkshed sat slightly crooked at the edge of the garden, its wood weathered, its hinges moaning in protest as I creaked the wooden door open. Rows of dusty shelves lined the walls, cluttered with rusting tools and half-empty paint cans.
“I’ll just have to be careful not to make a mess,” I thought, eyeing the stacked supplies with caution.
I doubted I was allowed in here, given how dangerous some of the tools were. But since no one had explicitly told me it was forbidden, I decided to give it a chance. Worst case, I could always feign ignorance.
Moving some stuff around, I cleared a small patch in the centre of the shed. It looked natural enough—like it had always been there. Relatively clean, compact, and mostly out of sight.
“This,” I decided with finality, “will be my Fortress of Solitude.”
Without further ado, I sat down cross-legged in the centre of my new sanctuary and began to practice.
…
Before I knew it, the days had turned into weeks.
The orphanage, I found, wasn't such a terrible place after all. Aside from the obligatory prayers the Sisters and Matron always insisted upon, I actually enjoyed my time here quite a bit.
Though, admittedly, most of that enjoyment stemmed from the rare but deeply satisfying feats of magic I managed to perform in secret.
School, on the other hand, was an absolute farce.
Maybe it was hypocritical for a former teacher to hate going to school—but really, what we were taught couldn’t even be called educational. With my memories from a previous life, I was essentially a postgraduate forced to attend preschool again.
It felt like Michelangelo being told to supervise a finger-painting session.
Which, coincidentally, was exactly how I spent most of my school hours: watching toddlers play with—or worse, eat—crayons.
My teachers were mostly tolerable, if a bit impatient with the other children. Comparing them to me was hardly fair, but it’s not like I could help it.
As a result, I hadn't really been able to make any friends at school—not that I had made any effort trying to befriend the other preschoolers.
What would we even talk about? Which crayon tasted the best?
No, to everyone's surprise—including my own—the people I grew the closest to were the one-year-old twins: Victor and Vera Morgan.
Younger than even my peers, they were somehow far more tolerable. At least, they had a reasonable excuse to cry all the time.
They were babies.
The Sisters were hesitant to let me help care for the two one-year-olds at first, but I’d quickly won them over with my patience and gentle hand. Victor and Vera weren’t the first babies I’d cooed to sleep.
If I had to describe our relationship, I’d say I felt like an older brother—maybe an uncle—watching over two younger siblings. Vera was adorably cheeky and required a firm but kind touch. Victor’s quietness reminded me of myself—he needed gentle coaxing to come out of his shell. And both of them were huge fans of cuddles.
I'd miss them when they were adopted.
The only other individual who I'd gotten to know better during these last couple of weeks was my dining table neighbour—Isabella. The chatterbox could talk for hours without requiring any input or opinion from me, which suited my preferences just fine.
Anton and I still weren't back on speaking terms, but neither were we at each other’s throats anymore. Ever since that Saturday evening—when I’d accidentally conjured a small tornado in the dining room—not once had I heard him hint at my ability to wield magic.
Though, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if he was still recovering from the thrashing he'd received that night.
Finally—and most importantly—there was the matter of my magic proficiency development. While not as quick as I would’ve liked, I’d recently managed to empirically establish a key finding: the link between magic and emotions.
Admittedly, it was a stretch to claim that emotions were magic. But I’d now been able to conclude that emotions were a vital component in the manifestation of magic.
Still, despite an increasing number of deliberate magical manifestations, my control over their effect remained maddeningly inconsistent.
In simpler terms: I had about as much control over my magic as I did over the weather.
Even the slightest emotional shift could drastically alter the outcome of the magical manifestation. Anger, for instance, might cause a leaf to tear itself to shreds—or send it spinning like a top powered by an industrial engine. Both results seemed equally probable.
What was even more exasperating was that sometimes, two completely different emotions would produce the same bloody effect. It was as if the entire system had no logic to it whatsoever.
Another vexing discovery was that emotion clearly wasn't everything in the creation of magic. At times—seemingly without any rationale—no intensity of feeling, no matter how authentic or overwhelming, would be enough to trigger that wonderful spark. On those days, even a blind person could tell I was in a foul mood.
Still, every time I did manage to manifest a magical effect—no matter how small or useless—it lifted my spirit to the highest heavens. The rush was so intense, so euphoric, I couldn’t help but to wonder if magic was addictive by nature.
However, after some due consideration, I doubted it was any worse than being addicted to coffee or nicotine.
And, let's face it—it’s magic.
Opening my journal—which was really just a notebook I'd permanently borrowed from school—I flipped through my list of ‘manifestations’ with smirk that, even at four years old, I knew looked insufferably smug on my face.
Magical Manifestations
24/10/82 – Tore a leaf in two distinctly dissimilar pieces.
Emotions: Anger, happiness, frustration, and stress?
26/10/82 – Spun a leaf clockwise for approximately three seconds.
Emotions: Anger, happiness, and frustration?
27/10/82 – Tore a leaf in two pieces of nearly equal size.
Emotions: Anger, happiness, and frustration?
1/11/82 – Knocked down an empty bucket from a nearby shelf.
Emotions: Anger?
3/11/82 – Tore a leaf into twenty-two tiny ribbons of disproportionate sizes and shapes.
Emotions: Hatred, impatience, and anger?
4/11/82 – Spun a leaf counterclockwise for approximately four seconds.
Emotions: Frustration and stress?
5/11/82 – Caused the classroom clock to fall from the wall.
Emotions: Impatience, frustration, boredom?
7/11/82 – Made the leaf vanish momentarily before reappearing.
Emotions: Nostalgia, happiness, and frustration?
10/11/82 – Turned the leaf (and part of the surrounding floor) slightly damp.
Emotions: Sadness and frustration?
13/11/82 – Caused an untargeted paintbrush to hover for approximately two seconds before dropping.
Emotions: Happiness and nostalgia?
Naturally, I wrote the journal in a different language—just to be safe.
The purpose of the list was straightforward: to keep track of new manifestations and record which emotions triggered their effect. Though, to be fair, it was incredibly difficult to recall the exact emotional cocktail I felt at any given moment. So, the list should be taken with a generous pinch of salt.
Still, I did my best to document my development. Who knows? The data might prove useful someday.
Needless to say, my manifestations weren't always deliberate. Excluding the incident in the dining hall, I'd unintentionally manifested magic one other time—at school during a particularly long and mind-numbing lecture right before the weekend.
Despite the unremarkable outcome of that particular incident, it left me both shaken and alert. Up until that point, I had come to think of magic as something whimsical. But if I wasn’t careful, I could easily reveal my abilities in public.
Or worse—accidentally hurt someone… again.
From what I’d observed so far, hatred seemed especially volatile. If any emotion had the potential to cause real harm, it was that one.
Hopefully I was just being paranoid. Odds were, I couldn’t actually tear a person to ribbons the way I’d done to some of my unfortunate practice leaves. But the fact that I couldn’t completely rule it out… well, that unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
Possessing magic was like constantly having access to a weapon. One that I failed to control.
Regardless, I had no intention of stopping.
And it wasn't just due to the fact that it was addictive.
No—magic gave me something I desperately needed in this world: purpose.
Ever since I awakened the memories of my previous life, one question had risen above all others:
Why?
Why me? Why did I awaken these memories? Why hasn’t anyone else remembered a past life? What makes me different?
The novelty of being four years old again had worn off pretty quickly—with the first few days, honestly. As both a four-year-old and a twenty-seven-year-old, I was paradoxically neither. I no longer fit in with children my biological age, and any attempt at conversing with adults inevitably failed miserably.
They either saw me as a child playing pretend—or worse, they became visibly uncomfortable. In some cases, even scared.
Every time I mustered the courage to look myself in the eye, my semi-familiar reflection brought the same unshakable question back to the surface: Why did this happen to me?
Of all the disciplines I had access to, magic stood out as the most likely to provide answers.
A supernatural problem, I reasoned, required a supernatural solution.
So after logging today’s manifestations in my journal—four in total—I added a short analysis of their nature and my overall progress:
“It's becoming progressively easier to intentionally access and harness that elusive spark of magic. Still, the more fatigued I become, the more it slips away. Today, I managed to consciously evoke three magical effects in succession—something that would’ve been impossible two weeks ago. It’s safe to conclude that I’m making progress… even if said progress continues to be frustratingly slow...”
After some careful deliberation, I added.
“I also find that the addition of hand gestures makes the manifestation slightly easier to evoke. Yet I cannot confidently deduce if this is due to the extra layer of focus my hand provides or if there's some arbitrary connection between hand gestures and magic. Regardless, the exploration of hand gestures’ effect on magical manifestations will continue to be a subject of research moving forward.”
Satisfied, I closed the journal before hiding it behind one of the shelves to my right.
However, before I could reach for the doorhandle, someone beat me to it.
“Michael?” Tom, the thirteen-year-old who claimed the prestigious title of third oldest, looked down at me in suspicion. “What are you doing in here?”
“Uhm…” I blurted out, panicking like a deer caught in headlights. “I, uhm…”
“You didn't take anything, right?” Tom narrowed his eyes at my pockets.
“No, of course not!” I protested quickly, feeling uncomfortably nervous. The unease tightening in my chest was familiar by now—lingering residue from Michael, The Orphan.
Knowing why I felt the way I did didn’t make the feeling vanish, however. If anything, it made it worse.
“You know…” Tom’s lips curled into a nasty smile. “You'd be in so much trouble if the Sisters found out you were in here.” He gestured around the shed.
“We’re only allowed in here if we’ve got permission,” he went on, smugly. “And I’ve got permission. But do you?”
I sighed. Lying would be pointless—especially with my nerves already betraying me.
“What do you want?” I asked, trying to flip the script before the older orphan got too carried away.
Tom’s grin widened until it practically split his face.
“I want your dessert tonight,” he said, pausing before abruptly adding, “and next Sunday’s dessert too.”
“Deal.” I replied immediately, reaching my hand out before he could get any other bright ideas.
Fortunately, Tom seemed pleased with the bargain he'd struck—if not overly so.
“Tom's got a sweet tooth,” I noted internally. “Good to know.”
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he grinned, shaking my hand for far longer than was necessary—just to rub it in, no doubt.
As I turned to leave, Tom glanced around the shed suspiciously.
“what were you even doing in here?”
I shrugged and lied without missing a beat.
“I got lost.”
Then, before the extorting little menace could press any further, I walked off—head held high, dignity mostly intact.
…
I barely had enough time to sit down by the dinner table before a skinny teenager appeared by my side.
“So, I hear you've been hanging out in the shed by yourself lately.” Jessica whispered as she leaned over my shoulder.
“I should've known Tom's wasn't going to keep quiet…” I sighed, glancing toward the Sisters, who thankfully looked oblivious.
“They don't know anything,” Jessica snorted, acting as if she was insulted by my actions. “We don't snitch on each other when a deal has been struck.”
I gave Jessica a long and withering look.
“You don't?” I asked with a deadpan expression.
Jessica’s brows furrowed before she suddenly caught her mistake.
“Right…” She muttered. “But I apologized for that.” She plopped down beside me, like we were the best of friends.
“At least that audacity of hers is worthy of admiration.” I thought to myself as I looked into her feline gaze.
Glancing around, I felt my stomach twist a little when I noticed the looks we were getting. Jessica never sat anywhere but with her best friend, Rachel—who just so happened to be the oldest orphan in the building.
“You better not start anything, Jessica… not when people have only just begun to forget what happened two weeks ago.”
“I wasn't hanging out,” I said, trying to feign disinterest. “I was lost.”
“Uh-huh.” Jessica's eyes practically sparkled with mischief. “You were lost in the toolshed behind that stinky garbage bin. I hope you didn’t expect anyone to believe that?”
I glowered at her. Lately, everyone seemed far too invested in my business.
“Oh, don't be like that Mikey.” Jessica paused. “You don't mind if I call you Mikey, do you?”
I continued to glower at her.
“Whatever,” Jessica said breezily. “Actually, it’s kind of funny. You see, Rachel and I were just talking the other day—wondering where exactly you disappear to all the time.” She reclined in her seat, acting like she owned the place.
“You don't hide in your room,” she said, ticking off her fingers. “You never hang out with us in the garden anymore.” She lowered another finger. “And from what I’ve seen, you’re not using the gate either."
“This girl…” My stomach clenched involuntarily. “Has this girl been spying on me?”
“So imagine my surprise when Cute Tom over there,” Jessica waved her fingers at Tom, whose face immediately reddened like a ripe tomato. “Said he found you skulking around in that crusty old toolshed.”
“Maybe I like being alone?” I shot back, tone sharper than I intended.
“Hah!” Jessica threw her head back, attracting the plenty of attention, including Sister White’s. “No one likes being alone stupid, especially not orphans.”
“Jessica,” Sister White called sternly, her buggy eyes landing on us. “Mind your manners. Dinner is about to begin.”
“Of course, Sister White.” Jessica somehow managed to curtsy while seated. “It won’t happen again.”
With her ego sufficiently pacified, Sister White returned to her own conversation with the Matron.
“Maybe you're right.” I said quietly, reaching out to brush a clump of dirt from Vera’s blonde hair. She didn’t even flinch.
“No one likes being alone, least of all me.”
My thoughts flickered—unbidden—to the people I’d left behind. The ones I’d never see again.
“But there's a difference between being lonely… and enjoying one's privacy.”
When the nosy teenage girl didn't respond, I turned to glance at her.
She was shaking her head, an exasperated smile tugging at her lips.
“There you go again,” she muttered. “Acting all wise and mysterious.”
Then, to my absolute horror, she ruffled my hair.
“My clever little cutie.”
“Jessy, Tom, Rachel! Dinner’s ready!” Sister Taylor called from the kitchen.
“Urgh, of course it is,” Jessica groaned. Then she jabbed a finger at me as she stood. “But this conversation isn’t over. You hear me?”
“It most definitely is.” I thought as I tried to fix my hair again.
A bit down the table, Anton and Gabriel were whispering something to each other, glancing at me, but I no longer cared for what that brat thought of me.
Everyone oohh'd when Sunday supper was served—myself included. The Sisters always put in a bit of extra effort on Sundays.
Today’s menu featured grilled chicken, a fresh homemade salad, and a side of white rice. There was also freshly baked bread.
But just as we were about to dig in, the Matron stood up from her seat at the head of the table, commanding the room with her usual presence.
“Before we express our gratitude to God for this wonderful dinner He has prepared for us,” the Matron began, “I have some wonderful news to share with you.”
The Matron turned towards Ava and smiled—an expression that looked strangely on her usually stern, wrinkled countenance.
“It brings me great pleasure to share with you this evening,” she said, “that our own Ava Morgan will be adopted by a lovely Christian couple.”
Sister White was the first to clap, quickly followed by Sister Taylor and a few hesitant orphans. The applause was thin, awkward.
If the Matron noticed our lukewarm response, she didn’t show it.
Ava, meanwhile, looked absolutely terrified. She stared down at her plate, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.
“There's no way this is how they told her…” I thought. But the longer I watched the colour drain from her face, the less confident I became.
“Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore are outstanding members of our community,” the Matron continued, her smile twitching slightly as she noticed Ava’s stricken expression. “They’ve expressed nothing but the utmost admiration for out little Ava.”
“You are incredibly fortunate to have earned their favour, Ava.” The Matron added, her tone sharpening subtly. “And you would do well to remember that.”
“When?” Isabella asked, her voice tight.
Sitting next to her, I was the only one who noticed the clenched fists bunching up her dress.
“When is Ava leaving?” She repeated.
For a second, no one made a sound as the Matron turned to look at Isabella.
“The Whitemores are expecting Ava in a fortnight.” The Matron answered after a while.
“Two weeks?!” Isabella exclaimed, horror and anger contesting over her face. “Ava is leaving in two weeks?!”
“Isabella!” Sister White hissed harshly, her eyes narrowing. But Isabella was too distressed to pay any heed.
“Why?!” Isabella's eyes glistened with unshed tears as she glared at the Matron. “Why her?!”
“Bella…” Ava whispered, softly.
“No!” Isabella shouted, shaking her head, looking every part like the petulant child she was. “No, you can't have her.”
“Isabella!” Sister White rebuked. “You will—”
The Matron raised her left hand, slowly, and Sister White was silenced.
“Young lady,” she began, each word clipped and deliberate, “Sacred Morgan is, and will always remain, an orphanage—not some unruly recreational centre for delinquents and miscreants to misuse at their whim. The purpose of this fine institution is to raise well-mannered, upstanding Christian children with the hope that one day, a host family will look upon you favourably."
She didn’t pause to let Isabella speak.
“Ava here—" The Matron continued, voice tightening. “Is blessed that a family as reputable as the Whitmores has seen fit to welcome her into their ranks. You would all do well to remember that.”
I glanced toward the older orphans. For the briefest moment, I caught a flicker of something Rachel’s face—resentment? Jealousy? It vanished before I could deduce what it was.
“I-I—” Isabella stammered as tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
“Bella!” Ava scrambled off her chair, darted around the table, and threw her arms around her best friend. “I-I’m going to m-miss you too.”
To no one's surprise, the five and six-year-old promptly broke down in each other’s arms, sobbing loudly and unfiltered, all sense of decorum forgotten.
The Matron’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then she shook her head, slow and disapproving—an expression not lost on any of us.
“Enough, return to your seats,” The Matron said at last, her stern voice slicing through the moment like a blade.
For a heartbeat, it seemed like the girls might ignore her. But jas as Sister White’s jaw clenched in restrained fury, Ava pulled back, wiping her nose as she trudged back to her seat.
“Now that that's been dealt with,” the Matron continued curtly, folding her hands. “Let us pray.”
…
After dinner, Tom appeared like the ghost of Christmas night and stole my bowl of vanilla pudding. Fortunately, the whole “adoption” affair seemed to trump getting caught lingering in the shed. Which meant—for now—I’d managed to slip through Jessica’s clutches.
“I need to find a new Fortress of Solitude…” I frowned as I shut the door behind me. With my secret spot now public knowledge—at least among the orphans—I faced a frustrating dilemma.
Where could I practice magic without anyone noticing?
I glanced around my small bedroom. If my manifestations weren’t so bloody unpredictable, the answer would’ve been obvious.
But with the current state of my magic, the risk was too great. I couldn’t afford to accidentally set something on fire—or worse, cause something unexplainable to happen. Convincing the Sisters to let me sleep alone hadn’t been easy, and the privilege came with its own list of compromises. Chief among them: I wasn’t allowed to lock the door.
Not that it mattered. Anyone with half a brain could pick that outdated lock. And the Sisters carried spare keys at all times.
Worse yet, I couldn’t ignore the uncomfortable truth—I really hated breaking promises. That irritating trait was one I knew I’d inherited from my biological father. For all his flaws, he’d always hammered in the idea that a man’s word was his bond. Every time you broke a promise, your word meant a little less.
Even now—despite everything—I found myself holding onto that ideal. I’d long since learned that lying wasn’t illegal, nor did it guarantee imprisonment. But still… I valued the lessons my father had passed down.
Of course, exceptions would probably have to be made. Lying was inevitable, after all. But if I made a promise to someone, I decided I would do my absolute best to honour it.
“No, for now, practicing magic in here is too risky.” I'd revisit the issue again once my control has developed further.
“Which leaves me with…” I blanched.
The few places I knew of that weren't being constantly monitored by the Sisters were currently being occupied by older orphans who—despite what some people claimed—most definitely valued their privacy. Getting them to voluntarily give up their secret hiding spots would not be easy.
“I guess I'll have to go and explore then…” I groaned internally. Fortunately, the old boarding house was a big building with lots of floors, nooks and crannies. If I looked for long enough, I was all but bound to find a place which suited my needs.
My room—along with those belonging to the younger orphans—was located on the second floor of the orphanage. The first room was a nursery shared by the youngest: Vera and Victor; the second room was inhabited by Gabriel and Charlie; the third one where was Anton was currently staying cooped up by himself; the fourth room was Ava's and Isabella's; the fifth one was temporarily mine; and the sixth one belonged to Sister Taylor.
The right wing of the third floor was where the older male orphans slept, namely Tom; coincidentally, it was also where the Matron stayed. The left wing was reserved for the teenage girls: Rachel and Jessica, but also housed Sister White. The spare rooms had been turned into storage rooms and old offices that to my knowledge were no longer in use.
“Maybe that's a good place to start?” I mused.
While there was no explicit rule preventing younger orphans from entering the third floor, it was still rare for one to do so. The third floor was widely considered to be quite scary to most of the younger kids.
I, for one, used to avoid looking at the stairs that led up to the teenager's floor.
Now, though, it was just another floor.
“Funny how much I've changed since regaining my old memories.” The notion of willingly climbing up the stairs to the third floor would never even have crossed my mind before. Now, I was assailing what used to be one of my biggest fears like it was nothing.
“But for some reason, I still struggle with public speaking…” Which I thought was quite peculiar, considering my previous calling as a teacher.
Still, I was willing to bet my fear of public speaking would lessen as I grew older.
Naturally, the third floor, despite all the ridiculous rumours surrounding its existence, looked nearly identical to the second floor.
An old carpet filled with floral patterns extended down the hall, while the ceiling was lit with ubiquitous lanterns. Finally, the doorknobs were bronze coloured, much like the ones downstair.
Only the smell was markedly different. If one breathed in deeply, the faint—albeit distinct—scent of Sister White’s perfume could be detected, seeping from the walls around you.
“Locked.” I frowned, turning the handle to the door. Afraid that it was going to be a pattern, I quickly tried the next door, which also turned out to be locked.
Fortunately, discerning which rooms were occupied and which ones weren't was easy thanks to the platter next to each door.
Yet, out of all the unoccupied rooms on the third floor, only an old storage room was willing to permit my entry. But to my growing consternation, it didn't take more than a sweeping glance to determine that the room wouldn’t fit my needs.
The room was so filled with stuff that I would have to climb up over old furniture to even see out of the window.
Thus, I was in the midst of exiting the storage room when muffled noise caused me to halt my steps.
“Shit, that sounds like Jessica.” My eyes widened. Needless to say, I made what felt like the most obvious decision and strategically retreated back into the storage room.
“—really her fault though.” I could hear Jessica say through the thin wall. The teenagers were walking through the hallway.
“Of course, I know it's not Ava's fault.” Rachel said, sounding surprisingly venomous as she spit back. “It's never their fault for being young and cute. But Jessy, it's the bloody Whitmore’s! I've been at their house! I've played with their dog!”
“I know…” I could hear Jessica sigh. “It's like what happened with Olivia all over again.”
“Exactly!” Rachel snapped. “Those fucking morons only ever choose puppy-eyed orphans who’re young, cute, and obedient.”
“Rachel!” Jessica hissed in abject surprise. “Language! What if the Matron heard you say something like that?!”
Rachel didn’t seem to care as she continued.
“Blessed she called her, did you hear?” Rachel laughed mirthlessly as they stepped into their room. “Can you imagine—”
The voices became too indistinct—the content too incomprehensible—once they entered their room.
Opening the door slightly ajar, I immediately shut it again when I noticed Sister White’s silhouette appearing by the stairs.
“Shit… did she see me?” Unwilling to take any chances, I took advantage of my small and light stature to swiftly climb over the old furniture, finding a surprisingly large opening after crawling across a stack of old tables.
And it was fortunate that I did since I heard the door squeak open less than a minute later.
Holding my breath, I could hear the sound of my heart drumming in my chest.
Peering through the gaps in-between the furniture, I observed as Sister White grabbed a mop leaning against the wall. Then she gave the pile of furniture a stinky eye before purposefully exiting the storage room again.
“That was way too close for comfort.” I sighed in relief. Sister White knew how to make a mountain out of a molehill. Her finding me red-handed like this was probably the worst possible scenario.
“Still, this place isn't too bad.” I remarked to myself, looking around the surprisingly spacious nook lodged hidden between the furniture. From the room’s entrance, one would never have guessed that a space like this existed behind the proverbial mountain of trash.
Also, since the old furniture was already dotted in cracks and discoloration, any mess I could potentially make would easily blend in with the surroundings.
“This place will have to do for now.” I thought, eyeing the layer of dust covering the floor.
The spark within me answered.
My eyes widened in surprise when the dust suddenly vanished, leaving a pristine floor behind. Yet, before I could celebrate the remarkable feat of magic, the dust returned again.
Only, the dust was blue now.
Nevertheless, I couldn't suppress the smirk that appeared on my face.
“A new manifestation.” I noted, gathering some blue pixie dust in the palm of my hand. Yet, as I prodded the dust with a finger, I abruptly remembered that my journal was still hidden in the toolshed.
“I'll have to retrieve it later,” I decided. The success of my attempt at magic made me jittery with excitement. Deliberately wielding magic on my first attempt—causing a new manifestation at that—didn’t happen very often, especially not when I tried focusing on more complex targets, like dust.
As a consequence, I got a good feeling about this spot.
…
