Protégée

one.

When I wake, it is dark, and in my cramped attic bedroom , an unwelcome chill lingers in the air. I pull the blanket up higher across my chest, exposing my toes. The dark is thick and ominous and the air is heavy and wet, and I can’t see my hand in front of my face. The only source of light comes from the moon, which I crane my neck to see through the window. I close my eyes once more.

My day will begin soon. Though the sun has not yet come, not peeked over the rooftops of the District nor even the hilly horizon, a rapping at the door will come sooner than I know. My roommates - about nine - are not yet awake. Their thoughts are far away, over the hills, above the clouds, in a place where they live peacefully and care-free, the burdens of the worlds not daring to touch them. Their dreams are their livelihood.

Since I’ve arrived at Miss Elaine Winston’s Hospice for Girls, I’ve developed a thicker skin. Perhaps it’s the unrelinquishing workload, the strict sleep schedule, the verbal abuse we face on a daily basis - no matter, I’ve become stronger; less fantastical. Maybe I haven’t been the same since even the day of my arrival.

I was four or five, a skinny, rat-like girl, separated from my parents and looking for something to eat. That was one of the most brutal winters we had, the rain came in long bouts with barely any time to dry up in between. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was much too young to realize the enormity of my circumstance - my parents were long gone. I was an orphan, with no lawful relative to claim me. A ward of the state.

Finally I hobbled over to a doorway, taking shelter from the icy rain pellets, and collapsed. There I slept, cold and shivering.

By that point in my life, I knew few things, but I knew enough not to cry. It would only be a burden to those around me.

When I woke the next morning, I was in a clean room on a hard mattress. A wet rag was pressed on my forehead and a nurse was tending to me, her eyes widening when mine opened.

“My God, she’s awake,” she said breathlessly.

When a small crowd gathered, they began asking questions - my name, where I came from, what my parents looked like. Anything I could remember. And all I could remember was my name - Finch.

From then on I wore my name like an armor; a badge of courage or nobility. It was all I had left of whatever mysterious life I had been ripped from.

---

It is dawn now - just barely. The sky is mostly a dark blue, tinged with a furious orange. That’s the only thing I like about living here - the view of the sunrise. Because the sun rises on our side of the city, we’re called in the District of Light. The other districts - Scholars, Healers, Flora, Eve, and others - are named for their various characteristics as well. The scholars make the laws and philosophies we abide by. Healers keep us in good health. Most of our vegetation comes from Flora. The sun sets in Eve.

Like clockwork, there’s the rapping at the door, then the groans of the girls beside me. Then they rouse from slumber anyways, sleepily making their beds to avoid scolding from Miss Winston. Though morally I should not speak ill of her, given her taking me in and giving me food and shelter… she’s simply wretched.

I make my bed along with the other girls, then pull out a fine-tooth comb from under my mattress. Separating the knots in my coarse auburn hair, I bid my roommates good morning. They yawn, slipping out of their old, hand-me-down nightgowns and into simple, bland frocks that were donated to the orphanage most likely before any of our births. I do the same, grabbing a faded green dress that I suspect must’ve belonged to an adolescent girl before they grew tired of it and cast it off to the orphanage. My hair goes into a simple braid down to my lower back.

We hear the ancient grandfather clock downstairs announcing that it is time for us to eat. In an orderly fashion, we pile down the staircase and take our places at the table.

There’s no talking at meals. There never have been and most likely, there never will be. We eat our porridge and dry chicken and weak tea in complete and utter silence, no one daring to even utter a cough or clear their throat or sneeze.

After our meal, we begin heading back up to the dormitory, but Miss Winston stops me. My stomach wrenches. I’ve done something wrong. But what?

“I would like to - confer - with you, in my office. Please come with me.”

---

My breathing grows heavy as I make light tread down the hallway, trying to keep up with the quick pace of Miss Winston, without breaking into a jog. We reach her office, finally, and she sits down at her desk.

“Close the door,” she says, rifling through some papers, not even looking up.

Her desk is old and not exactly ornate, but sturdy and strong and formidable. She looks safe there, her castle wall, and she is about to catapult boulders at me.

“An… opportunity, per se, has arisen. For you to leave this establishment.” Her hands are folded, her knuckles white with pressure. Her beady eyes seem to pierce through my own, making me feel weak and vulnerable.

“W-What? Where am I to go?”

She pulls out a blank piece of stationery and a fountain pen from a desk drawer. Fingers flying, she tells me, “My sister has requested that you live with her in her establishment. However, it's not much like this one... it's more of an..." she searches for a word. "Academy. For young dancers. For what reason she may want you, I do not know.”

"But I've never danced, Miss Winston."

She purses her lips and shrugs. She finishes writing, folds the paper a few times neatly, and slides it across the desk to me. “Take this paper and give it to the driver when he comes at noon today. Pack your things, and make yourself as presentable as possible.” And with that, I am dismissed.

---

When noon comes, I stand outside the front hall of the orphanage, wringing my hands. I have bid goodbye to the other girls, who were sad to see me go. The spinster Miss Winston stands to my left, slightly in front of me, not uttering a word. From around the corner comes a car, bumping up and down as it rolls along the cobblestone. I’m sure my ribcage will burst open soon, and the butterflies in my chest will be set free. I’m leaving. Sure, I know absolutely nothing about my destination - but I’m leaving this wretched place once and for all.

The car slows to a stop right in front of us. Miss Winston smoothes out the wrinkles in her dress and approaches the driver. I stand politely in my place and wait for an explicit invitation to get inside the vehicle.

I’m sure, if I had friends in this facility, they would’ve come out to greet me. But I chose to isolate myself for the most part, never burdening the others with my feelings or expressions. The extent of my relationships with the others is polite and idle chatter. So, I decide, I will make an effort to make friends wherever I am headed to.

My explicit invitation comes sooner than later. I inhale, exhale, and pick up my ratty suitcase. When I’m situated safely inside the car, we take off. The last I see of the orphanage is Miss Winston, discreetly pressing a handkerchief to her eye.