Saturdays were for the Church.
It didn't matter if we were boys or girls, toddlers or nearly grown, loud as thunder or quiet as dust. Every one of us was scrubbed, dressed, and lined up like small pieces in someone else's order. Shirts were starched, pants buttoned tight, dresses pressed as well as poor hands could manage. We walked two by two unless we misbehaved, then we walked alone.
The Church sat at the edge of the old road, about twenty minutes from the orphanage—twenty long minutes if the sky was cruel, shorter if the wind was kind.
That Saturday, the sky was cloudy but not mean. The wind passed over us like someone exhaling. The stones on the path were slick from frost but not icy. We walked slowly. The older ones watched the younger ones. I watched Evelune.
We didn't eat before church. Not even a crust of bread. It was part of the tradition. You were meant to be hungry before the Eucharist. Meant to come empty, so the old ladies could fill you with stories and sugar and the Light of the Sun.
I didn't feel empty. I just felt quiet.
Before we left the orphanage, I tried to tie Evelune's hair.
Her curls had grown longer since she came, dark like soot and always warm against my chest when I carried her. I found a scrap of pale blue ribbon tucked into the sewing box. It had once belonged to a doll, maybe, or a carelessly wrapped parcel.
I smoothed her hair down gently, trying not to wake her fully. She blinked up at me but didn't fuss. I did my best with the ribbon, fingers slow, unsure. The bow turned out crooked. I stared at it for a long time, trying to decide whether to undo it. I didn't. It was still something.
We walked in silence that morning. Some of the children whispered to each other, daring jokes between steps. The older ones kicked stones or glanced back to see if the Matron was watching. She always was.
Sister Alira led the front, holding a cloth book of hymns, her eyes fixed forward like she expected holiness to appear if she walked firmly enough.
Evelune sat in my arms, head tucked beneath my chin. She didn't sleep, but she didn't look up either. Her hands rested on my chest, one gripping the edge of my coat. She had begun doing that more often—holding onto me with just enough pressure to remind me she was there.
I liked the weight of her. It made the walk feel shorter.
The Church building was too tall for its walls. That's what I always thought. The roof arched like it wanted to be a cathedral, but the stone was cracked in places and the doors groaned when pushed. Moss grew where it shouldn't. The stained-glass windows were mostly dull, some patched with clear glass where the old colors had broken. But people still called it holy.
Inside, the benches were narrow and the incense always smelled like burnt sugar and old paper. The old women who worked there wore sun-colored sashes and looked at us like we were both their burden and their calling.
We were lined up by age and expected to be still. We were expected to sing, too. I didn't. Not because I couldn't. Not because I didn't know the words. I just didn't see the point of saying something I didn't feel. The prayers were always the same. Thank the Light. Thank the Sun. Thank the Emperor. Be good. Be still. Be bright like fire. Be clean like dawn.
I wasn't fire. I wasn't dawn. I was shadow and stillness and breath. So I stayed silent. No one punished me for it anymore. They had stopped trying. Evelune didn't make a sound during the whole service.
Even the babies usually cried once. Wailed when the incense got thick, or when the cold pews made their legs twitch. But she just sat on my lap, her head nestled under my chin, one hand still on my coat. The blue ribbon slipped a little to the side. None of the caretakers fixed it.
They didn't speak to us that day. Not even Matron. She only glanced once when we entered, her eyes settling on us like dust, then moving on. Maybe she knew we wouldn't cause trouble. Or maybe she forgot we were there.
After the Eucharist, the old women handed out sweets like they always did—thin honey cakes, a square of dried fruit, sometimes a drop of candied orange if they were feeling generous. The children swarmed, holding out their hands, shouting thank-yous through sticky mouths.
I waited until they quieted down, then approached with Evelune still in my arms. One of the women, the tallest one with hair like snow, looked at me and smiled too wide. "Still not talking, dear?" she asked, voice too sweet to mean anything.
I didn't answer.
She handed me two pieces of candy anyway. One wrapped in paper, one still warm from the basket. I nodded once. That was enough.
On the walk home, Evelune licked the corner of the warm sweet, her mouth barely moving. She didn't drool. Didn't drop it. She just held it between her lips like it was something sacred.
The wind had picked up. I pulled the blanket higher around us both. No one spoke to us on the way back. I didn't mind. Evelune was enough.
That night, after dinner, I tried to fix the bow. Her hair was damp from the basin wash, curling at the edges again. I ran my fingers through it slowly, untangling what I could without hurting her. She sat in my lap, very still, her head tilted slightly to the side.
I undid the knot and tried again. This time, the bow was tighter. Still not perfect. Still crooked. But less than before. I smiled. Just a little. Then I tucked her under the blanket beside me, pulled the corner up to her chin, and watched her fall asleep. The ribbon stayed in place.
And for the first time in many Saturdays, I didn't feel like I needed to sing to be heard.