We went to the church even though it wasn't Sunday. That alone told us it was different. The older kids whispered about a feast, a ceremony, a blessing. Some said nobles would be there. Others said it was just a village holiday, one of those unspoken ones that didn't make it into the prayer books but still had to be honored. The caretakers didn't tell us why. They only told us to wear our cleanest clothes and keep our hands folded.
The Matron brought out her black shawl again. Not the red one. So I knew we wouldn't be seeing any lords or Counts, just villagers, priests, merchants, people from the edges of the city—the kinds of people who smile with tired teeth and speak too loudly to sound important.
We lined up in twos, like always. Evelune stood beside me this time, not in my arms. She held my coat hem between her fingers, her eyes wide and still, taking in the cold air like it might speak to her. Her hair was tied back with the purple ribbon from her bunny, and I had wrapped an old scarf around her neck twice. Her boots were too big—they flopped at the toes—but she didn't complain.
It took twenty minutes to reach the church. We walked in silence, mostly. Some of the older boys whispered about what kinds of presents we might get. They said last year someone got gloves lined with rabbit fur, and another got a tin flute that actually played notes. Most years, it was socks or mittens or sweets in folded paper. One year, someone got a toy soldier carved from dark wood. They had dropped it in the mud two days later.
I didn't think about the presents. I wasn't sure I wanted one. I already had mine.
The church was full when we arrived. Not just our orphanage, but children from other homes. From the village. From families who had too many mouths to feed. From caravans that passed through and left some behind. Everyone was dressed in their best. Buttons polished. Scarves clean. A few of the girls had braids lined with ribbon. Some of the boys had slicked their hair flat with water and soap. The priests lit incense and rang brass bells that echoed through the nave like soft thunder.
I didn't look at the altar. I didn't kneel. I just stood with Evelune near the back, behind one of the tall pews where the lantern light didn't quite reach. Her fingers stayed wrapped in the edge of my sleeve. Her face turned toward the stained-glass windows where the light came through in stripes of yellow and red. The colored beams landed across her cheeks and eyes, and for a moment she looked like a painting. Something sacred.
When it was time, the presents were brought forward. Not from the altar, but from two large baskets carried by village women with kind eyes and lined faces. They handed them out one by one. Every child got something. Even the ones who didn't smile. Even the ones who never said thank you. No one was left out.
When Evelune's turn came, she received a woolen cap with tiny silver beads sewn into the edges. It was the kind of gift that looked plain from far away, but sparkled when you turned it in the light. She didn't try to wear it. She just turned it over in her hands, once, twice, then pressed it to her chest and leaned into me. I held her quietly while the line moved on.
My gift came from the same woman. She smiled gently, looked at my ribbon, then handed me a small wooden box. It had a carved lid and a clasp that didn't close quite right. Inside was a tiny book. Blank pages. Bound in soft cloth. No title. No pictures. Just something to write in, if you had anything to say. I closed it and held it close. I didn't know what I'd use it for. But I liked the way it felt in my hands. I liked the space it offered. Like a room without walls.
After the giving, we were allowed to play. The Matron didn't stop us. She even smiled, a little, when some of the children ran out into the snow. The village square was full of soft white piles, barely touched yet.
The older boys started throwing snow at each other before anyone gave them permission. The younger ones built misshapen towers and burrowed into them like mice. Laughter echoed across the square. It was a loud joy, a public one, the kind that stretched into the cold air and made you feel like something special was happening.
But I didn't run. And neither did Evelune. I chose a bench near the edge of the square, where the snow had been brushed away just enough to sit. I tapped the seat twice, and Evelune climbed up beside me. Her boots slipped once, but I caught her. She sat with both hands on her lap, her new cap clutched tight between them, her breath visible in front of her mouth.
Her face became flustered from the cold, cheeks turning a soft red, her nose pink. But she didn't complain. She leaned into my side and rested her head on my arm. I pulled the scarf tighter around her neck, then opened the small wooden box again and held it in my lap. I traced the edge of the first page. Blank. Pure.
I looked out at the other children as they played. Their faces were flushed too, but from movement. Their voices were high and bright, like bells dropped into a bucket. Snowballs flew, laughter scattered like feathers, and a few caretakers stood nearby pretending not to be amused.
But I stayed on the bench. Evelune stayed with me. She didn't need the noise. And I didn't want the cold to chase the warmth out of her. Her fingers were already stiff. I took them in mine and pressed them between my palms. She blinked slowly, then rested her head back against me. Her new cap sat quietly in her lap, untouched but held like it mattered.
For a moment, I thought about writing something in the book. Maybe our names again. Maybe the date. But I didn't. Not yet. Some things were better held in silence. Instead, I looked down at her flushed face, her dark lashes against her skin, the way the tip of her nose curled when she breathed out. I touched the end of her braid gently. The ribbon was still there, though it was starting to fray. It would need replacing soon.
When the bell rang, the games stopped. One of the priests called everyone back inside for prayers before the walk home. The snow had deepened while we sat. The wind picked up. I stood first and helped Evelune down from the bench. She didn't slip this time. Her legs were steadier. Her cheeks were redder. I pulled her close as we walked, careful to block the wind with my coat.
She never said anything. She never needed to. We returned to the orphanage with the rest of them. The hallway lights had already been lit. Dinner was being prepared. Steam curled from the kitchen doorway like a ghost. Someone complained that their gloves had been lost. Someone else tried to trade their gift for candy.
But I kept mine. And Evelune kept hers.