The Saint Agnes Home for Children stood at the end of a long, tree-lined drive in the northernmost reaches of the Northern District, a hulking Victorian building with gabled roofs and tall, narrow windows that glowed faintly in the darkness. It had been built a century ago as a private residence for a shipping magnate, then converted to an orphanage during the economic collapse of the 1930s. Now it was a state-run facility, underfunded and overcrowded, a waystation for children who had nowhere else to go.
Dorian parked the sedan behind a grove of bare oak trees, far enough from the main building that the headlights would not be seen. Anya sat in the passenger seat, her weathered face tense. Elara was in the back, her hand resting on the door handle, her heart pounding.
"The caseworker who sent the letter said Celia is in the west wing," Anya said. "Third floor, room 312. She has been there for two years, ever since she was removed from Vane's custody."
"And Marcus?" Elara asked.
"Marcus was here too, until six months ago. He turned fourteen and was transferred to a facility for older children in the Southern District. Celia has been alone since then."
Elara thought about what it must have been like for Celia, a twelve-year-old girl separated from her brother, living in a state-run institution, knowing that her father was a monster but not knowing where she had come from or who she truly was. She thought about the letter in her pocket, the words written in a child's careful handwriting. I want to know the truth. I want to know who my real mother is.
"We need to get her out," Elara said. "Tonight. Before Vane's people arrive."
"It is not that simple," Dorian said. "The Saint Agnes Home is a state facility. If we remove a child without authorization, we are committing kidnapping. The Commission would love to have that charge to add to the others."
"The Commission is not here," Anya said quietly. "And sometimes the law is not the same as justice. I have learned that lesson many times over the years."
She opened the car door and stepped out into the cold night air. "I have a contact inside the home. A night nurse named Sister Marguerite. She is one of the nuns who used to live at the convent. She will let us in."
The side door to the Saint Agnes Home was unlocked, as Anya had promised. Sister Marguerite was waiting in the shadows, a small, birdlike woman in a gray habit, her face lined with age and kindness. She led them through a maze of dark corridors, past rows of closed doors and sleeping children, until they reached the west wing staircase.
"Celia is awake," Sister Marguerite whispered. "She has been awake every night since the broadcast. She knows something is coming. She just does not know what."
The third floor corridor was dimly lit by a single bulb that flickered overhead. Room 312 was at the end of the hall, its door slightly ajar. Elara pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was small and bare, with a narrow bed and a wooden dresser and a window that looked out over the frozen grounds. A girl was sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her dark hair falling in tangles around a face that was thin and watchful. She was twelve years old, but her eyes were older, the eyes of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.
"Celia," Elara said. "My name is Elara Sennett. I got your letter."
Celia looked at her, and her expression was guarded but not afraid. "You are the one from the broadcast," she said. "The one who escaped from the island."
"Yes."
"Did you know my mother? My real mother?"
Elara sat down on the edge of the bed, her movements slow and careful. "I do not know who your biological mother was," she said. "But I knew women like her. Women who were used by the Order, who were forced to carry children they were never allowed to keep. They were brave women. Strong women. And they deserved better than what happened to them."
Celia's eyes glistened, but she did not cry. "My father killed my sister," she said, her voice flat. "Iris. She was four. She fell from the balcony, but it was not an accident. I saw him push her. I told the police, but they did not believe me. They said I was confused, that I was making it up."
Elara felt the cold anger in her chest harden into something sharp and lethal. "I believe you," she said.
"That is why Marcus and I were taken away," Celia continued. "Not because of what happened to Iris. Because I kept telling people what I saw. My father said I was a liar. He said I was mentally unstable. He paid doctors to say the same thing. So the Department of Child Welfare took us away, but they did not arrest him. They never arrest men like him."
"Celia." Anya stepped forward from the doorway, her voice soft. "We do not have much time. Your father has sent people to find you. They may already be on their way. If you want to come with us, we can protect you. We can help you find out where you came from. But you have to decide now."
Celia looked at Anya, then at Elara, then at Dorian standing in the doorway with his hand on his weapon. "Where would you take me?" she asked.
"There is a place," Elara said. "A sanctuary. It is run by Anya, and it is filled with women who survived the same island you were born on. They will take care of you. They will help you find your mother, if that is what you want. And they will make sure your father never hurts you again."
Celia was silent for a long moment. Then she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. "I want to go," she said. "But I will not leave without Marcus. He is my brother. He is the only family I have."
"Marcus is in the Southern District," Dorian said. "We cannot reach him tonight."
"Then I will wait. But I will not leave this city without him."
Elara looked at the girl, at her thin face and her old eyes and her fierce, unyielding determination. She was twelve years old, and she had already survived things that would have broken most adults. She was her mother's daughter, whoever her mother had been. She was a survivor.
"All right," Elara said. "We will find Marcus. But first we need to get you somewhere safe. Will you trust us?"
Celia nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "I will trust you."
They slipped out of the Saint Agnes Home through the same side door they had entered, Sister Marguerite locking it behind them with a whispered prayer. The night was cold and still, the stars hidden behind a layer of clouds that glowed faintly with the reflected light of the city. They were halfway across the grounds when Dorian stopped, his body suddenly tense.
"Headlights," he said. "Coming up the drive."
They ducked behind a cluster of evergreen shrubs as a black sedan rolled up the long drive and stopped in front of the main entrance. Three men got out, all of them in dark suits, all of them with the hard, professional look of private security. One of them spoke into a phone, his voice too low to hear, while the other two surveyed the building with cold, assessing eyes.
"Vane's people," Elara whispered.
"They are early," Dorian said. "They must have had a source inside the home, same as we did."
Celia was trembling, her thin body pressed against Elara's side. "They will take me back to him," she said. "They will make me say I was lying. They will—"
"No," Elara said, her arm tightening around the girl's shoulders. "They will not touch you. I will not let them."
Dorian was already moving, his body low to the ground, his weapon drawn. "Take her to the car," he said to Anya. "I will create a diversion. Once you are clear, I will follow."
"Dorian—" Elara began.
"I have been doing this for a long time," Dorian said, and there was something in his voice that was almost like humor. "Trust me."
Anya took Celia's hand and led her through the darkness toward the grove of trees where the sedan was hidden. Elara followed, her heart pounding, her hand pressed against her belly. Behind them, she heard the sound of a door being forced open, the shouts of the security men, and then the sharp crack of a gunshot.
She did not look back.
They reached the sedan and piled inside, Anya in the driver's seat, Celia huddled in the back with Elara. The engine turned over with a soft purr, and Anya pulled the car away from the curb, heading not toward the main gate but toward a service road that wound through the back of the property. The headlights were off, the only illumination coming from the faint glow of the city lights reflected off the clouds.
"What about Dorian?" Celia asked, her voice shaking.
"He will be all right," Elara said, hoping it was true. "He is very good at what he does."
The service road emerged onto a side street, and Anya turned south, heading back toward the convent. The streets were empty at this hour, the houses dark, the shops shuttered. Elara kept her eyes on the rear window, watching for headlights, but none appeared.
They were halfway back to the convent when Celia spoke again. "The woman who carried me," she said. "My biological mother. Do you think she is alive?"
"I do not know," Elara said. "The records from the Order are incomplete. But Anya has been looking for the biological mothers of every child she can identify. If your mother is still alive, Anya will find her."
"And if she is not?"
Elara thought about Sorcha, dying in the Paradise Wing. She thought about Maeve, smothered in her hospital bed. She thought about the thirty-seven women who had been harvested and hollowed out, the ones who would never see their children again. "Then you will know her story," she said. "You will know who she was, and what was done to her, and you will carry her memory with you. That is a kind of connection too. A different kind, but still real."
Celia was silent for a long moment. Then she leaned her head against Elara's shoulder and closed her eyes. "I am tired," she said.
"Sleep," Elara said. "We will wake you when we get there."
They reached the convent just as the first light of dawn was beginning to creep over the eastern horizon. The ivy-covered walls glowed faintly pink in the early light, and the bell tower cast a long shadow across the courtyard. Lina and the other survivors were waiting at the door, their faces tense with worry. When they saw Celia, their expressions softened, and they moved forward to welcome her, to wrap her in blankets and press warm cups of tea into her hands.
But Elara did not go inside. She stood in the courtyard, watching the street, waiting for Dorian. An hour passed. Then two. The sun rose higher, burning off the clouds, and the city began to stir. And still, Dorian did not come.
"What if he was caught?" Celia asked, standing in the doorway with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "What if they took him?"
"Dorian is resourceful," Anya said, but her voice was tight with worry.
It was almost noon when the sedan finally appeared at the end of the cobblestone lane, its windshield cracked and its rear bumper dented. Dorian was behind the wheel, his face bruised and his knuckles bleeding, but he was alive.
"The security team has been neutralized," he said, stepping out of the car. "They will not be reporting back to Vane anytime soon. But it is only a matter of time before he sends more."
"Then we need to get Marcus," Elara said. "Before Vane realizes that Celia is gone and tightens security on his other children."
"The facility in the Southern District is more secure than the Saint Agnes Home," Dorian said. "It will not be as easy to get him out."
"Nothing about any of this has been easy," Elara said. "That has not stopped us before."
But before she could say more, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. A message from Lena Petrova.
"Turn on the news," the message read. "Now."
They gathered in the common room around the old television set that Anya kept in the corner. The screen flickered to life, and the face of a news anchor appeared, her expression grave.
"Breaking news this morning from the Valorian Supreme Court," the anchor said. "In a landmark decision, the court has ruled that the contracts signed by vessels of the Holy Order of the Eternal Cradle are null and void, having been obtained under duress and through fraudulent means. The ruling means that all children born through the Order's surrogacy program are legally considered to have been born to their biological mothers, not to the clients who purchased them. The Department of Child Welfare has been ordered to begin the process of locating and notifying all affected parties."
Elara stared at the screen, her heart pounding. The contracts were null and void. The children belonged to their biological mothers, not to the clients. It was a legal earthquake, a decision that would upend the lives of hundreds of families across Valoria.
"There is more," the anchor continued. "In a related development, Governor Silas Crowe has been formally indicted on charges of conspiracy, fraud, and accessory to murder. The trial is expected to begin within the month. And in a surprise move, Roman Vane, CEO of Vane Mining Corporation, has been taken into custody for questioning regarding the death of his daughter Iris and the disappearance of his other children."
The screen showed footage of Roman Vane being led out of his penthouse tower in handcuffs, his pale eyes cold and expressionless, his silver hair disheveled. Behind him, a swarm of journalists were shouting questions.
Celia was standing in front of the television, her thin body rigid, her eyes fixed on the image of her father. "He is arrested," she whispered. "He is really arrested."
"Yes," Elara said. "He is."
Celia turned to face her, and her old, watchful eyes were wet with tears. "Does this mean I can find Marcus now? Does this mean we are safe?"
Elara put her arms around the girl and held her close. "Yes," she said. "It means we can find Marcus. It means you are safe. It means that everything is going to change."
But even as she spoke the words, she knew that the fight was not over. The legal battles would go on for years. The clients would appeal. The powerful would try to claw back what they had lost. And somewhere out there, in the vast, indifferent city, the children of Aethelgard were still waiting to be found.
But for now, in the warmth of the convent, surrounded by survivors who had become a family, Elara allowed herself to feel something that she had not felt in a very long time. Hope.
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