A sudden shove made him lose his balance and tremble. The tin bowl slipped from his hands, falling to the floor and spreading the contents over his feet. Ayalal pressed his lips and swallowed.
“Oh, you must be more careful...” The boy behind him let out a mocking laugh. A hand taller than him, he was one of the group members who, day after day, messed with him, causing him all sorts of problems. “Looks like you're not having dinner today.”
Ayalal did not answer him. He kept his face as closed as he could, pretending not to hear, and bent down to pick up his bowl. Lysa had taught him not to react, not to show weakness and not to take revenge. She said that revenge would only make him bad. Ay walked away, followed by the eyes of other orphans, and after washing his bowl and trying to clean his shoes, he went to fetch a grimy cloth, squatting by the pool of soup. The rules of the orphanage were strict: in case of such accidents, to learn not to waste food, they would not serve a new dish – a night of hunger would teach him to be more careful.
“Ay, what are you doing?”
The boy looked up at Lysa, who had just arrived in the kitchen.
“I spilled the soup,” he muttered, after hesitating, then turned back to the floor. It was not really a lie. She already cared too much, he was not going to tell her how his dinner had disappeared. “I’m cleaning it.”
Lysa was silent, the silence of someone who expected a more elaborate answer. Ay continued to clean, gripping the cloth more strongly. One hand rested lightly on the boy's head, making him press his lips more as the tightness in his chest increased.
I'm not a baby, I'm not going to cry, he thought to himself.
“You know I'm here to help you, you can trust me,” she said softly.
And he knew. Lysa had always been there, since he remembered, to give him her hand, to support him.
Ayalal made a silent nod, without stopping what he was doing, and Lysa eventually withdrew with a sigh to help with other tasks.
Discreetly, the little boy looked up, watching her. Last week, one of the older girls had married a carpenter in town and left the orphanage. He had seen her bid farewell to the others, and had listened to Headmistress Drane congratulating her on finding a husband, as if it were the best thing in the world. He did not think it was.
When he finished, he put the cloth down beside the sink and left the kitchen stealthily. He walked slowly down the dimly lit corridor to a small room where two candles, the only illumination, were burning on a granite altar flanking a willow cane. All the orphans, early in the morning, went there and prayed to the demigod Andoletta, known as Grandmother Crow, guardian of the innocent. It was an obligation to which they could not escape. After that, they left as soon as possible. He, on the contrary, took refuge there, when he could not be with Lysa. It was a strangely reassuring solitude, as if there was really an invisible being protecting him.
He knelt in a corner and hugged his knees to his chest. Then he murmured a prayer to the venerable demigod, as a request to be allowed to stay until he had to go to bed. He didn’t get any response and, as always, he took it as a consent.
The minutes passed slowly. They always passed like that. From the corridor came the sound of footsteps and the rustle of a skirt that stopped at the door, before entering and approaching. Their owner sat beside him in silence. Ay hesitated a half-dozen seconds, before leaning his body against Lysa's arm, almost as if he was trying to be discreet, and not brave enough to face her.
“Little fool,” Lysa murmured, surrounding him with the warmth he sought. “Do not hide from me, please”.
