Kingdom of Lost Children: The Book of Ren

By L. J. Carter

After Leyla’s mother mysteriously disappears on her sixth birthday, Leyla is forced to live in a small orphanage run by the cruel and corrupt town mayor, Lord Faolan. Now at fifteen, Leyla is having bizarre and frightening visions compelling her to return to her haunting past and question the truth about her mother’s disappearance.
But when Leyla discovers an ancient script in her old childhood home she is thrust into a world she never expected; a world filled with strange creatures, secrets and dark magic. There is more to Leyla’s past than she realised and more than just her future is threatened. Only an ancient book holds the key to her survival but Leyla is not the only one after the book’s great power...

(Includes Thirteen Beautifully Rendered Illustrations!)

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. J. Carter
• Release date: Feb 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458164964

L. J. Carter

L. J. Carter was born in a small town in the southern US state of North Carolina. At the age of twelve she moved with her family to England where her interest in all things magical flourished. Graduating with a BA Honours from Kingston University, she began her career as a designer and illustrator before launching into her lifelong love of writing. She has traveled extensively throughout Europe, Asia and Egypt in a quest for her love of ancient history and passion for ancient mythology. When she is not illustrating or writing her head is buried in archeology books and ancient text. She currently resides in Hong Kong with her husband.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: A GATHERING DARK

"At the very first glimmer of brightening dawn,

there rose on the horizon a dark cloud of black…"

Ancient Sumerian Cuneiform Text

The Epic of Gilgamesh

3,000 BC

Leyla watched Lord Mayor Faolan and Mrs. Creven through the corner of her eyes. She had become quite adept at appearing engrossed in her tasks, all the while on guard; watching and listening.

She glanced at the other children, working their way through the endless pile of garments waiting to be constructed; seemingly moving in rhythm to the loud whir of the industrial sewing machines. Christian was on ironing duty, the one source of heat in the small, windowless factory. The steam hung in the air, rolling up the neglected stone walls.

The mayor’s eyes flicked toward Leyla and she dropped her head, pretending to sort out some problem with the bobbin thread. Even in her peripheral vision he was an imposing image. He towered over Mrs. Creven, who was above average height, and his dark salt and pepper hair and goatee gave him an aristocratic air. He followed Mrs. Creven to a table of finished garments, his gold mayoral chain sparkling in the garish light.

Mrs. Creven held up a graphic t-shirt, flashing her beautifully manicured red nails. ‘So, here we have our best seller.’ The factory owner’s pleasant voice was pinched in an effort to be heard above the noise. She beamed at the mayor, her exquisite porcelain features enhanced with cherry red lips and thick, dark lashes. ‘It’s reached well beyond our expectations!’

Leyla glanced at Lizzie, the youngest of the children. She was huddled in the corner, her small, rounded features twisted in concentration as she struggled to weave a small range of straw bags. She seamed to be in pain, pausing often to soothe her little fingers at her lips. Leyla frowned and placed the embroidery hoop over a new t-shirt panel. She took more time than usual, smoothing out each tiny crease in the fabric, and leaned back as she did so to better observe Mrs. Creven and the Lord Mayor.

The mayor’s chiselled face held a hint of boredom as he eyed the finished garments. He turned back toward Mrs. Creven and his features hardened, his voice gruff. ‘You must work harder to meet the demand.’

Mrs. Creven smoothed down her finely tailored jacket and skirt. A lock of shiny, light brown hair fell over one eye. She allowed it to rest there for a moment before brushing it from her face seductively. ‘Then I need more workers.’ She waved her hand in an elegant motion. ‘A handful of children are hardly enough.’

The Lord Mayor breathed in as though in an effort to control his temper, keeping his voice even. ‘Well, it will have to do…for now anyway.’ He reached up and lightly stroked the new fur stole draped around her shoulders. ‘You like pretty things, don’t you?’

Mrs. Creven nodded, gazing at him through lowered lashes.

A half smile twisted the corner of his mouth. ‘Then do what you must to work them harder. If they give you trouble, let me know. I guarantee they will not misbehave again.’

Leyla felt the thread snap between her fingers. Work the children harder? As it was they worked six days a week, often ten hour days and sometimes longer if the demand was great. How dare you! she wanted to scream at him; this man who was supposed to take care of her and the other children; supposed to be their legal guardian. But instead she turned her head so that her long, dark, wavy hair concealed the anger burning in her cheeks.

The mayor turned on his heels and strode toward the door, calling out over his shoulder. ‘As for tonight, they must be back at the Parish by six-thirty sharp. I need to speak with them.’

‘Of course, Lord Mayor.’ Mrs. Creven waved him goodbye but he was already gone. She turned and headed for the warmth of her glass office, the clip of her high heels tapping against the concrete floor. She picked up her mobile phone, dialled, and was soon deep in animated conversation.

Leyla gritted her teeth, fuming as she watched Mrs. Creven laugh freely while she watched the children work. But then why shouldn’t she laugh when she was making so much money with such cheap labour?

Leyla threaded the needle and turned the hand wheel so gruffly the fabric popped with the force of the needle. She breathed out slowly. She needed to calm down. The embroidery was tricky and if she messed up there would be hell to pay. She paused and massaged her brow. Her head ached. She was so tired, not only from the work, but from the nightmares that had plagued her sleep for weeks.

She had always been plagued with strange dreams; dreams of warning; dreams that more often than not came true. But the recent nightmares had been different, more like a memory, a terrifying memory, that faded from her mind as she woke. There was only one image that remained with her: a man watching her from behind the darkness of a broken window; his skin so pale it reflected the moon’s light, eyes so cold they were like stone.

A fluorescent bulb above crackled and sizzled, flickering the stark light, the surrounding lights gradually dimming to blackness. Leyla frowned and glanced at the other children lined up in small neat rows behind their tables and machines. She could see their busy forms in silhouette, but they seemed oblivious that they were working to the single flashing light.

Leyla’s eyes drifted back to Mrs. Creven. She was still speaking on the phone but the factory owner’s movements had slowed, the flickering light casting eerie shadows along her eye sockets and the contours of her face. The loud whir of the machines dulled to a gentle hum and Mrs. Creven’s eyes shifted to Leyla.

‘Leeyylaa.’ Although a whisper, the voice filled the room.

Leyla’s breath quickened, a chill creeping across her flesh. She glanced again at the children but they continued to work unknowing. Her eyes darted back to Mrs. Creven, whose own eyes were still locked on Leyla.

‘Leeyylaa.’ The voice did not sound like Mrs. Creven’s voice but her red lips moved, exaggerated with the whisper.

Leyla gripped the fabric between her fingers, her knuckles turning white. The cold room suddenly dropped colder, her breath a white vapour on the air.

‘Leeyylaa.’ Mrs. Creven leaned forward, pressing one hand against the glass. She lowered her head and stared at Leyla with wide eyes, the irises an unnatural glint of lavender in the gloom. ‘It is time you returned to the place of your mother.’ Her whisper altered to a slow, deep hiss. ‘The secret lies in the place of shadow.’

There was a loud whack and a sharp pain radiated through Leyla’s hands. She jerked them back, squinting her eyes in the sudden bright glare. The lights had returned to their original brilliance and the gentle hum of the machines returned to a roar.

‘You think you can waste my time?’ Mrs. Creven’s voice was shrill. She drew back the metre stick and lashed Leyla’s knuckles again. ‘You think it’s funny to stare at me through the glass like a blinking idiot?’

Leyla stumbled to her feet, grasping her stinging hands, and backed away to a safe distance. ‘What do you mean?’ She felt disoriented, confused, her words spilling out in rapid succession. ‘You were looking at me through the glass. Why did you say those things to me? Why did you tell me to return to the place of my mother? What did you mean by, the secret lies in the place of shadow?’

Mrs. Creven’s pretty face was red with fury. ‘Are you insane?’ She cracked the stick against the table so hard Leyla winced.

Then something else caught Mrs. Creven’s eyes. She leaned forward and pulled the fabric from Leyla’s machine. She popped off the embroidery hoop to better view the panel. Her lips narrowed and she glared at Leyla. Flipping the panel around, she shoved the fabric in Leyla’s face.

Leyla paled as she read the words; words she had embroidered on the fabric: Ki-thus em ‘eth bu-zh-er erim she-ut.

Mrs. Creven whipped the stick against Leyla’s arm. Leyla lurched back, holding her hands up in defence, her skin stinging with the force of the blows. She seemed to shrink smaller. Leyla was hardly tall for fifteen; her slim frame and small bones exuding a sense of frailty.

‘You think it’s funny to not only waste my time but waste my money?’ Mrs. Creven was screaming now. ‘What does it mean? What do the words mean?’

Leyla shook her head, stepping backward. ‘I…I don’t know, Mrs. Creven. I swear. I don’t know…I didn’t mean to do it!’

Mrs. Creven swung the stick again but this time Leyla caught it in her fist. Leyla’s blue eyes glazed icily, her face set.

For a moment Mrs. Creven faltered but then her lovely mouth twisted ugly. ‘Let go or I’ll tell the Lord Mayor.’

Leyla swallowed, her grip softened, her eyes pleading. ‘No, please.’

Mrs. Creven sneered as the power shifted back in her favour but she seemed unnerved. She snatched back the metre stick and threw the fabric at Leyla. ‘Get out and take that with you! Tomorrow you will work off the money you lost me today and more!’

The whir of the machines had quietened and Mrs. Creven whirled around to the other children now watching the scene in surprise.

‘Did I say you could stop?’ She slapped the stick viciously across each of the children’s tables, causing them to flinch. ‘Get back to work, now!’

They lowered their heads obediently as Mrs. Creven spun back around to Leyla. She stamped her feet and spat through gritted teeth, ‘I said, get out!’

Leyla grabbed her rucksack and stumbled out the door. She faltered for a moment in the sunlight, trying to gather her composure.

She was torn between tears and elation. The strange vision had frightened her and she could only hope Mrs. Creven would not mention the events to the mayor. At the same time, it was not often she got the chance to be out during the day. The children started work by dawn and finished after dusk.

Yet, despite this moment of freedom, Leyla was oddly unsure of what to do with it. As the oldest of the children she had always had the responsibility of walking them to and from the small factory. But it would be an hour until they would be allowed to leave for the Parish and it seemed silly to hang around for that long.

Leyla shoved her hands in the pockets of her pinafore dress and kicked the gravel with her feet. At thirteen, Caterina was the second oldest but hardly the most reliable. Jasmine was only nine and Ali, ten. Seph had an unusually laid back maturity at twelve; between him and Christian she figured the children would be fine, especially as they would be heading home earlier than usual. Leyla’s greatest concern was Lizzie who was only six. But Lizzie’s brother, Christian, was five years older than her and very protective. Surely the children could handle the responsibility just once.

Leyla closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh air. The warmth of the sun’s rays felt so good against her skin. She turned for the tree lined road and began wandering aimlessly along the tarmac. She drifted deep into thought. Why had she seen Mrs. Creven saying such strange things to her? It was clear that she was the only one to witness the phenomenon. She could only think that she had been so tired she fell asleep and dreamed the events. But that didn’t explain the words she had embroidered on the fabric. She was unable to explain why, but she knew they were another language; a language she had heard somewhere before.

She pulled out the panel and studied it closely, whispering the words aloud. ‘Ki-thus em ‘eth bu-zh-er erim she-ut.’

A car screeched, the driver slamming his hand against the horn. Leyla froze as the car whipped around her, so close the force pushed her off to the side of the road.

‘Wakey, wakey!’ A group of teenagers leaned out the back of the red convertible, laughing and pulling faces.

Leyla dropped her head, cheeks burning, and shoved the fabric back into her rucksack. She wished she could be anyone but herself. Or at least normal like other kids her age! She kicked at a loose rock.

The wind howled, swaying the tall trees. The front page of a newspaper swirled up and smacked Leyla in the face. She snatched it off irritably and glanced at the headline: CHILD DISAPPEARANCES HIGHEST IN HISTORY. It was marked with today’s date. Leyla frowned.

A gust of wind caught the paper, snatching it from her hands. It twirled through the air, through the trees and out of sight. A flurry of dead leaves tumbled past her feet, sweeping the foliage off an old dirt path. Leyla’s brow furrowed. A knot twisted in the pit of her stomach. She had walked many times along this path with her mother. She could almost hear the ring of her mother’s gentle laughter drift between the trees.

A bird fluttered past her face and down the path; a flash of white and grey. Something squeaked on its hinges in the distance, then slammed. Squeak, slam, squeak, slam.

Leyla turned toward the sound and meandered down the path, twigs and dried leaves crackling beneath her feet. The sunlight dimmed in the thick vegetation as she pushed her way through the trees and briers.

One side of a large double iron gate slammed shut and creaked open in the breeze; the gate so obscured by brambles and ivy, were it not for the wind, she would not have seen it. A dove settled on a branch above and blinked, watching her with lavender eyes. She ignored the bird’s intrusion and pushed on the rusty gate, its joints groaning in protest. She slipped through the gap and felt the blood drain from her face.

‘Galbraeth’, she whispered.

The great mansion loomed before her; the dark grey stone shaped into a series steeples and spires stretching ominously into the gathering clouds. The wind whistled eerily. Overgrown grass swayed in the breeze, disturbing an icy fog that hung there. The white mist swirled gently, casting ghostly apparitions across the perfectly carved statues scattered throughout the vast courtyard.

She had not returned to this place since her mother had left. She had not wished to be reminded of heartbreak of that day but she was here now and that nagging trait of hers, curiosity, would never let her leave.

She wandered toward the large fountain at the centre of the courtyard. On the pedestal of the fountain, crafted in white marble with stripes of pure silver, a winged tiger lay on its belly and watched the gate. Tiny crystals, captured on the ends of hundreds of hair fine silver spindles, swayed like grass around him. They moved with the wind, at times taking shape and then dispersing to dance around the white tiger. From the central base beneath was carved a creature half human and half marine mammal, holding a carafe from which water once spilled. She was surrounded by a series of stone cherubs; the water that once flowed from their mouths long since dried up. Even their lips had cracked and withered. Long, thorny vines grew and wrapped around them, seemingly strangling them of all life.

Leyla remembered many years ago playing in the cool liquid of the fountain on hot summer days. She could watch the tiny crystals for hours, enraptured by their magical ability to capture the sun and spray tiny prisms of coloured light to dance across the statues. They seemed to come alive in the brilliance of the light and warmth. As the breeze whistled through they chimed against one another, their gentle song calling to her. She could hear them now…calling to her. But the voices were not the same as before. They seemed lost and distant amongst the weeds and thorns.

She drifted toward the entrance to the mansion. It seemed to lean over her, its corners like giant stone arms curved into the shape of a crescent moon. At the main entrance, were two immense mahogany doors, stretching nine feet high. In the centre of each door a winged being, almost the door’s height, had been moulded in copper. Their bodies rose almost three-dimensional from the surface, their hands reaching out, fingers intertwining, to lock the doors in place. Neglect had allowed the vibrant green of corrosion to leach into their flesh. It crawled down their lifelike forms and cracked.

Something caught Leyla’s eye in the darkness of a ground floor window. She dropped to the ground below the windowpane. Crouching low, she cupped one hand across her mouth and the other over her heart. She wasn’t sure, but she could have sworn she saw it; saw the same figure that had been haunting her dreams. Skin so pale it reflected the moon’s light. Eyes so cold they were like stone.

She stayed, frozen for a moment. It was so quiet. No birds, no breeze. Nothing. Just silence.

There was a low moan from the entrance. Leyla turned toward the giant doors. One of them crept open, just a fraction, but open. The winged being carved there seemed to whisper to her on the wind, its spindly unclasped fingers tempting her with unearthly secrets, pointing to the shadows beyond. Her first instinct was to run, to escape the unknown. But it was precisely the unknown that made her stay. To Leyla there was nothing worse than wondering. Always wondering, never knowing.

Leyla looked into the darkness beyond the door. She rose to her feet and edged to the opening, her eyes never flinching from the blackness behind it.

‘Hello?’ she called out and waited for a response.

Silence.

‘Hello!’ she called again, louder. ‘Is anybody there?’

Still silence.

Leyla pushed the door. The hinges creaked. She edged closer, held her breath, and slipped through the opening. It was too dark to see and she fumbled for a light switch.

‘Hello?’ she tried again.

The sun shifted and filtered in from above, gradual at first and then brilliant. Leyla looked up and caught her breath. Bursts of coloured light radiated through a stained glass dome and sent sparkling rainbows spinning across the circular foyer below.

It was then she saw it, the eyes that caught her own in the window. Eyes of stone. He stood over six feet tall, carved in white alabaster. Long, wavy hair framed his angular face. His powerful frame was sheathed in armour moulded from silver and gold. Mighty wings rose from his back, his strong hands wielding a sword, seemingly stopped in mid motion, as if only moments ago he had landed there.

Leyla breathed a chuckle of relief. The dream had been only a memory and once again she had let her imagination get the better of her. She stepped closer and reached up to touch his face. She had always wanted to touch his face, but then, so long ago, she had not been able to reach it. Even now she teetered on tiptoes. The alabaster looked translucent and felt almost like skin. She peered into the eyes, deep and powerful. Eyes so strangely familiar, as though she had known them long ago. She felt uneasy and drew away.

She gazed around the room. A double staircase spiralled away from the far side of the circular room, framing an old grandfather clock. It was still working after all these years. Funny images of cows jumped over a central moon in the clock face, the entirety of it rocking with the pendulum that swung heavy underneath.

Old paintings and portraits papered the walls. Some with opulent gilded frames, others with simple wooden ones. Her eyes carefully followed them all until they landed on one in particular. It was a portrait of a young woman swathed in a long chiffon dress of ivory and white. Her hair was long, straight and the colour of gold, not in its purist sense, but the way that gold reflects the light. In tones of honey, orange and fire. Her face was smooth and beautiful, with bold features. A soft smile played on rose lips and compassion softened almond shaped eyes, green as emeralds.

Leyla remembered that face; remembered that smile before it broke into a laugh. She remembered those loving eyes. The eyes of her mother.

Leyla had not seen so much as a photograph of her mother since that terrible day. The day her mother abandoned her. The day Lord Mayor Faolan came and took her from her home. This home. Galbraeth. It was nearly ten years ago. On her sixth birthday.

Her eyes flitted to the chair resting beneath. She tried to swallow back the lump forming in her throat and closed her eyes. It was fine if she just didn’t think about it, dismissed it as a dream instead of a memory. If she thought this way she could almost pretend it never happened and then the sharp pain was only a dull ache.

She took a deep breath and released, slowly opening her eyes. A ray of light had captured the glass encased painting, reflecting in it an unrecognisable script. Leyla turned to see where it was coming from and was almost blinded by its source: the silver blade of the statue’s sword.

Leyla stepped forward, half covering her eyes from the sharp light. She squinted and looked into the blade. A strange script had been etched into the metal. A script she had never seen before. She drifted her fingers over the foreign text…

What did it mean? Some form of secret message? The etching seamed ancient, from some other time and place. She felt a twinge of excitement, the kind that sends a tingle up the back of your neck. Leyla took her backpack off her shoulder and fumbled for a bit of paper and a pencil. She pulled out the crumpled scrap and laid it across the script, carefully rubbing the pencil over the strange letters until the images were perfectly impressed.

She reached up again and allowed her fingers to drift down the blade, across the handle, and over the statue’s wrist. She paused, sensing an unnatural groove. She peered closer. It was an impression, slightly blackened as though seared into the alabaster flesh: the symbol of an eye with a pyramidal shape replacing the pupil. There was something haunting about it. The prickle of excitement radiated up from the pit of her stomach. She could feel herself getting lost in the possibilities.

‘Perhaps tomorrow…’ she mumbled, still enraptured in the vision.

The old grandfather clock began to chime. Clang, clang, clang it sang, terribly out of tune. Leyla’s heart began to pound again and then it sank. She looked into the clock face.

‘Half past six!’ she exclaimed out loud. ‘Oh no…Oh no!’

She thrust the pencil and paper back in her bag. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she mumbled, gulping out an exclamation of despair. ‘I’m going to be late!’ She zipped up her bag, nearly catching the paper in her agitation.

Leyla ran for the entrance, shoving the door and leaving it open wide to sway in a gentle breeze.

The sun shifted back below the stained glass dome and a misty shadow crept across the room. Its darkness fell once again upon the silent statue and through its haze stone eyes watched.

****

CHAPTER TWO: A TRICK FOR A TREAT

It was almost seven by the time Leyla reached the Parish. Grey clouds hung low in the deep indigo sky, obscuring the church tower. The dark stone walls loomed ominous in the night. Black windows gazed out, soulless. The door, hidden in shadow seemed a gaping hole, ready to devour all who dared stray too close.

She slowed her pace to a brisk stroll. Fluorescent light flickered around the side of the building. The cold, blue light reflected off stone cherubs and tombstones eroding in the small church graveyard. Leyla wandered toward the kitchen door, her feet now heavy as weights. It was so still in the night. So peaceful. She reached for the door, her hand hesitating over the knob. Before she had a chance to think further, she slapped her hand on the handle, turned, and pushed the door open.

It was the Lord Mayor’s eyes she caught first. His red mayoral robe cast a harsh crimson light across his pallid skin. He glanced up at her, a soft smile curved his lips but his jaw clenched.

‘Well, look who decided to turn up.’

He looked at the six children seated around the large oak table. Their eyes remained downcast, the only noise the soft scrape of forks playing with the food. Mother Mire, the Parish nun and caretaker, tugged on the white habit beneath her chin but continued to eat in silence.

‘I’m sorry...’ Leyla swallowed too soon and the words caught in her throat.

‘I’m sorry what?’

‘I’m sorry Lord Mayor Faolan.’

‘Lord Faolan will do.’ His smile thinned. ‘You knew of this meeting. Get your plate and sit down.’

Leyla concealed a small sigh of relief. Mrs. Creven must not have mentioned her earlier strange behaviour to Lord Faolan.

Leyla placed her bag carefully behind an empty chair and picked up the plate. Turning to the old iron stove she dished out what she wanted, every clink of silverware against the pots echoing in the silence.

Lord Faolan spoke up. ‘I’m having dinner with you today as there will be a very special service this Sunday. The people, Town Council and Clergy will all be here. You must be neat, pleasant and presentable.’ He glanced at Leyla as she returned to the table, his voice pinched. ‘Poor behaviour will be severely punished.’

Leyla sat at the table, avoiding all eyes. Her mouth filled with saliva at the sight of her plate filled with beef roast, peas, potatoes and gravy. She picked up her fork.

‘Who’s still hungry?’ Lord Faolan raised his eyebrows, scanning the children’s faces.

Christian, who had just shoved in the last mouthful of mashed potato, tried to speak through the mush. ‘Me!’

Caterina sent him a sharp kick under the table. Seph, Lizzie, Jasmine, and Ali, faces unmoving, shot him a wide-eyed look.

‘Of course.’ Lord Faolan replied, his voice even. He reached across the table, grabbed Leyla’s plate and slid it in front of Christian.

Christian froze, staring at the food as though it were poison.

Lord Faolan leaned forward on his forearms into Christian’s view, forcing him to make eye contact. ‘I expect you to eat every last bite.’

Leyla stared at the empty space on the table then glanced at Mother Mire, her face pleading for a word in her favour. But Mother Mire kept her eyes on her food, her fork digging in, one pea at a time.

Lord Faolan smiled broadly at the other children, pulling a deck of cards from his pocket. ‘How about this everyone?’ He exclaimed, grabbing their attention. ‘Pick a card, any card.’ He spread the deck and nudged them toward Jasmine, who so far had avoided looking up during the entire meal.

She raised her head, her reddish, lank hair half covering her face, and edged her hand toward the deck.

‘C’mon,’ his voice was pinched, ‘It won’t bite!’

She flinched slightly, keeping her eyes averted from Lord Faolan and on the deck. She selected, pulling the card toward her.

‘Go on, show the others.’

She did as she was told, each acknowledging it was the Ace of Spades.

He averted his eyes, splitting the deck. ‘Put the card in the deck.’

Jasmine did as he requested, watching as he shuffled the cards elaborately and then reconfigured them in a neat pile.

Snapping the deck three times, Lord Faolan turned toward Seph. ‘Pick up the top card.’

Seph’s hazel eyes studied Lord Faolan coolly, they were striking in the harsh light against his dark olive skin. He did as instructed and raised an eyebrow. The others leaned in, catching their breath in surprise. The Ace of Spades.

Lord Faolan’s eyes sparkled at their amazement. He reshuffled the cards, preparing for another trick. His eyes flicked to Leyla. ‘Get the children’s rooms ready for bed.‘

Biting the inside of her bottom lip, Leyla shoved her chair back, the wood screeching against the stone floor. Without a word she snatched up her bag and stormed out of the room.

She was so tired of this. Every day the same. Every night consisted of making the beds, making sure the children were clean, in their nightclothes and tucked away for sleep. The mornings were an entirely other process altogether.

Her stomach rumbled as she made the beds in the boys’ rooms, laying pyjamas on each narrow, steel framed bed. The boys’ and girls’ rooms were situated next to each other. Both were large with worn wooden floors and high ceilings. The walls had been painted a dull gray, chipped and cracked in places with a large window at the far end. There was little decoration. Lord Faolan did not approve of adornment and any pictures or trinkets were kept under mattresses, in drawers or under pillows.

She wandered into the girls’ room. She opened the large, wooden wardrobe leaning forward heavily on a broken leg, and pulled out nightgowns and extra blankets. As she closed the wardrobe she became aware of a dark shadow watching her in the doorway.

‘You do well for them.’ Lord Faolan’s voice was low and admiring. He had removed his red robe, and his black shirt and trousers seemed to merge into the darkness of the corridor.

‘I’m not their mother.’ Her voice was harsh and flat.

Lord Faolan seemed to ignore her tone of voice and smiled. ‘No, but you are the oldest.’ He leaned against the frame, filling the doorway, eyes following her. ‘You know, I too was an orphan. My uncle raised me. You remind me of him, rest his soul.’

Leyla kept her eyes averted and on her tasks. She did not want to give him reason to enter and shut the door.

He glanced out into empty space, his voice wistful. ‘He was Priest of this Parish before I bought it. It was he who first began the orphanage here. How he cared for those children.’ His face fell dark. ‘More than he ever did for me.’

Lord Faolan’s gaze fell back on Leyla. ‘You were at Galbraeth today.’

She had begun creating tasks. Smoothing the sheets; shaking imaginary lint from the blankets; fluffing the pillows. ‘Why would you think that?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t play cat and mouse with me, Leyla. You know the mansion and all its contents belong to me now.’

She could feel the hot blood rising to her face. ‘Yes.’

‘Then I expect you to hand over anything you might find.’

Leyla clenched her jaw. She wanted to scream, You have no right! No right to anything in that house! but instead remained silent, her head down, organising the children’s clothes for the next day.

He stepped forward catching her unaware, and grabbed her arm, yanking her close. ‘You better listen and do as I say.’ He squeezed her arm so hard it hurt, his breath hot on her ear. ‘Never forget I took you in when I didn’t have to.’

She jerked back in an effort to get free. He squeezed tighter.

Leyla narrowed her eyes. ‘You only took us in so we could make you money in your stupid factory. I would have been better