where are my marks?”
Orlando shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think you went through the same machine the same way I did.” He looked down at his lap, a frown pulling at his mouth. “But they said I was the first. That’s what I don’t understand.” He looked back up at me. “How did you travel to the bank if I was the first one through the door?”
I shrugged, barely able to hold on to the conversation, let alone offer an answer. Especially when I still had questions of my own.“Then where did I come from?”
He carefully took both my hands, his fingers still cold from the wind, his skin still smudged with dried blood beneath the black chains.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “What I do know is that you helped me when I needed it most. You knew what I did not. You gave me the truth—and hope.” He paused, a bright light in his blue eyes. “And now I will do my best to return the favor. I don’t know where you came from, but I promise I will do everything in my power to help you return home.”
Home. The word conjured the sensation of family, of refuge, of chocolate melting on my tongue. Longing welled up deep within me, but I knew that, as much as I wanted to go home, there was something I had to do first.
If I could only remember what it was.
Chapter 5
Father Marchelloreturned with two bowls of broth in his hands and a large blanket draped over one arm. He left them on the edge of the pew, carefully straightening the folds of the blanket. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Orlando replied. “You have done more than we could have expected. We are in your debt.”
The priest bowed and silently receded into the shadows.
Orlando waited until we were alone before reaching for the bowls with trembling hands. His face was haggard and pale. His dark hair was stiff with dried sweat and his blue eyes were smudged with exhaustion. As he handed one bowl to me, his sleeve pulled back over his wrist, revealing the hard edge of the black bands marked on his body.
Our eyes met at the same time as our hands did, and I quickly accepted the food, allowing Orlando a moment to tug his sleeves down, hiding the brands.
My eyes caught on the gesture and a wave of memory slid over my eyes. Another cold night. Another hand tugging a sleeve down over a slender wrist. Another set of black chains. And then the memory was gone, lost in the shifting fog. Had I really seen something? Or was my tired mind simply playing tricks on me? I shook my head. It hurt to try to think around the block in my memory. I had just left behind my last headache. I really didn’t want to invite another one in.
I swallowed down a mouthful of a warm broth flavored with basil and sweet milk. I could feel the warmth travel all through me. “This is delicious.” I sighed with satisfaction and quickly took another drink.
Orlando watched me with a smile. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“I can’t remember,” I said around another mouthful. “Too long.”
“Here,” Orlando said, pouring some of his broth into the bottom of my bowl.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.” He used his finger to stop the drip of the broth that had spilled over the side. “There is more than enough to share.”
I cradled the warm bowl in my hands and looked up at him. “Thank you,” I said, knowing that those two simple words were not capable of carrying the weight of emotion that I felt. “For the food, the cloak. And for the information. You’re like some kind of hero—rescuing a damsel in distress and everything,” I said with a half laugh, quickly brushing my hand across my eyes to prevent the tears I felt welling up from falling. I wanted him to think I was brave, even though I felt small and lost and alone at the moment.
“Oh, no, my lady,” he murmured. “I’m no hero.” A mask of
Orlando shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think you went through the same machine the same way I did.” He looked down at his lap, a frown pulling at his mouth. “But they said I was the first. That’s what I don’t understand.” He looked back up at me. “How did you travel to the bank if I was the first one through the door?”
I shrugged, barely able to hold on to the conversation, let alone offer an answer. Especially when I still had questions of my own.“Then where did I come from?”
He carefully took both my hands, his fingers still cold from the wind, his skin still smudged with dried blood beneath the black chains.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “What I do know is that you helped me when I needed it most. You knew what I did not. You gave me the truth—and hope.” He paused, a bright light in his blue eyes. “And now I will do my best to return the favor. I don’t know where you came from, but I promise I will do everything in my power to help you return home.”
Home. The word conjured the sensation of family, of refuge, of chocolate melting on my tongue. Longing welled up deep within me, but I knew that, as much as I wanted to go home, there was something I had to do first.
If I could only remember what it was.
Chapter 5
Father Marchelloreturned with two bowls of broth in his hands and a large blanket draped over one arm. He left them on the edge of the pew, carefully straightening the folds of the blanket. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Orlando replied. “You have done more than we could have expected. We are in your debt.”
The priest bowed and silently receded into the shadows.
Orlando waited until we were alone before reaching for the bowls with trembling hands. His face was haggard and pale. His dark hair was stiff with dried sweat and his blue eyes were smudged with exhaustion. As he handed one bowl to me, his sleeve pulled back over his wrist, revealing the hard edge of the black bands marked on his body.
Our eyes met at the same time as our hands did, and I quickly accepted the food, allowing Orlando a moment to tug his sleeves down, hiding the brands.
My eyes caught on the gesture and a wave of memory slid over my eyes. Another cold night. Another hand tugging a sleeve down over a slender wrist. Another set of black chains. And then the memory was gone, lost in the shifting fog. Had I really seen something? Or was my tired mind simply playing tricks on me? I shook my head. It hurt to try to think around the block in my memory. I had just left behind my last headache. I really didn’t want to invite another one in.
I swallowed down a mouthful of a warm broth flavored with basil and sweet milk. I could feel the warmth travel all through me. “This is delicious.” I sighed with satisfaction and quickly took another drink.
Orlando watched me with a smile. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“I can’t remember,” I said around another mouthful. “Too long.”
“Here,” Orlando said, pouring some of his broth into the bottom of my bowl.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.” He used his finger to stop the drip of the broth that had spilled over the side. “There is more than enough to share.”
I cradled the warm bowl in my hands and looked up at him. “Thank you,” I said, knowing that those two simple words were not capable of carrying the weight of emotion that I felt. “For the food, the cloak. And for the information. You’re like some kind of hero—rescuing a damsel in distress and everything,” I said with a half laugh, quickly brushing my hand across my eyes to prevent the tears I felt welling up from falling. I wanted him to think I was brave, even though I felt small and lost and alone at the moment.
“Oh, no, my lady,” he murmured. “I’m no hero.” A mask of
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