His mother's perfume would always be branded into his mind. She'd hugged him for the last time, and he strove to memorize every contour of her face, of her presence so that he could comfort himself during his lonely hours. He loved his mother; he'd never even met the millionaire that was his father. He only knew the man through the "charitable donations" that went towards his upbringing. But he hadn't needed a father—he and his mother had always been just fine; just the two of them.

But then they'd gotten a letter from the millionaire. He was tired of paying for his bastard son, and demanded that his ex-mistress stop asking for money. His mother had tried to fight it, but all the transactions had been under the table and the man had promised hell to pay if she brought his affair into the light. His mother was too weak.

So he found himself surrounded by the fragrance of Joy Parfum for the last time, breathing the floral scent in deeply. He looked up at his mother, with her flawless perm styled just right and her indigo eyes enhanced by the smallest amount of makeup. She smiled at him, her lacquered nails scratching him under the chin like he was a puppy dog as she pulled out a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed the corners of her watery eyes.

"Potrai comportarsi, si?" He nodded and she took his small hand in her own, squeezing it and murmuring her continued thanks to the parish priest for transferring him to the orphanage. The priest nodded and she backed away, letting her hand slip from his and he stood there, watching her practically jog away as her high heels tapped a rapid staccato on the cobblestones surrounding the chapel. He sniffed the air, realizing that all the perfumed smell was nowhere to be found. The last of the Joy had gone with her.

"This orphanage is my home now." He looked up at the gargantuan man standing in front of the large home. He'd been told that this was Father Alexander Anderson, who worked with the Mother Superior to be caretaker of the orphanage. The blonde man was bigger than anyone he'd ever seen before, with thick stubble and a long scar running up the side of his face. He wore a friendly smile as he stood watching the pair make their way down the walk to join him. He stood before the man, clutching his mother's bible—the only possession he'd been allowed to bring. Even his clothing had been changed into a plain black outfit that rivaled the priest's.

"Father, why have I been brought to this place?" He unconsciously tightened his hold on the bible, feeling the stings of betrayal pounding away at his heart. "Why did my parents abandon me to the Church? Is it because I'm a bastard?" The enormous priest bent down to his eye level, and he saw the father's eyes were a marvelous green behind the spectacles. Father Anderson said nothing, only blinking at him with a mixture of pity and resignation. Would he not be answered? Was everyone so afraid to call him what he truly was?

His mother hadn't used the term, but she'd never thought twice about letting him know the truth about why other children had fathers and he didn't. He'd heard others talking though—about his mother and her bastard son, and the shame it had brought the entire family. That's why his mother's family never spoke to her. That's why they'd always been alone.

"I don't need them anyhow." He was vowing to himself, now. "I don't need parents! I don't even need friends." He could live by himself. It wasn't hard. If his mother could have done it, as weak as she was, than he could do it too. "I will become great," he promised aloud to the two men listening. "And once I've done so, I'll have revenge on all who have wronged me!" He didn't know how he'd do it, or if he even truly could. But until he found out, he'd keep on striving for it.

Father Anderson's eyebrows rose and he placed a hand on the boy's head, rubbing the hair slightly. He looked at him seriously, green eyes burning into indigo.

"Vengeance is for God and God alone, lad. However, divine punishment can be wrought by those who are able to answer the call." He gave him a long look before standing and turning to look out at the sea of children running around the orphanage. "Samuel!"

"Yes, Father." A gangly, mousy-haired teenager appeared from the crowd, looking at the boy with interest.

"This is Enrico Maxwell; show him up to the boy's dormitory for me if you would."

As it turned out, living your life without anyone to talk to wasn't easy. All he ever found comfort in was his mother's bible, and the father's words that "Jesus is always by your side, ever your closest friend". But Jesus couldn't play games or read books with him or just pass the time by talking.

So, for the first time since he'd come to the orphanage a week ago, Enrico decided to go exploring. He'd never been much anywhere except the boy's dormitories, chapel, the mess hall, and the bathrooms. He tried to avoid the other children as much as possible, and they children pretty much left him to his own devices. A few of the boys tried to talk to him, and out of politeness he always had short conversations with them. But he had no one whom he could call a true friend.

Enrico wandered the hallways, looking at the beautiful paintings of bible stories on the walls, and the classroom where he was told classes would be held in the fall, and the girl's dormitories and restrooms, and suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor. A muffled squeak had him wondering if he'd tripped over a particularly large mouse.

No, it wasn't a mouse—it was a little girl about his age. She looked like the stories that his mother had told him, about wildwood fairies who come to cause mischief. Her black hair lay in a tangled mess around her face, only one brown eye visible through the locks. She held a book up to her mouth, the title reading "Artists of the Italian Renaissance". She wore large, thick glasses that he had knocked askew when he tripped over her legs.

"I'm so s-s-sorry!" she burst out in a lilting accent as she scrambled to help him get on his feet. "I didn't think anyone would be w-walking close enough to trip over m-m-my legs," she sputtered. Enrico dusted his plain uniform off and looked at her closely as she adjusted her glasses and held the book to her chest shyly.

"It's alright. I should have been watching where I was going," he conceded with a polite nod in her direction. He turned to leave and she grabbed his arm. Turning back, he was slightly confused by the fierce blush on her cheeks. She coughed and shook her head, mouthing something under her breath. "Excuse me?" he asked, leaning closer.

"I said… what's… your name?" she asked again, barely whispering.

"Enrico Maxwell," he said, shaking her fingers free of his sleeve.

"I see. I-I-I'm Yumiko." She blushed brighter and buried her face back into her book, curling up in the corner she'd been sitting in previously. He waited for another moment, but she apparently had no more to say and he walked off, his mind wondering about the shy girl for another moment before putting her out of his consciousness.

"En-Enrico Maxwell!" The call came from across the mess hall and he looked up to see the girl from the hall—Yumiko, was it?—catch his eye and immediately turn red. She waved him over and he stared at her before picking up the tray with his modest meal on it and walking over to her. She sat by herself over in the corner of the large hall, part of the other children and yet not. "U-um, I wondered i-i-if-you-wanted-to-sit-with-me," she finished in a rush. When she saw the look on his face, she looked down at her hands fiddling in her lap. "If you h-have someone else, I don't mind if—"

"There is no one else," he cut her stuttering off and placed his tray across the table from her, sitting down and beginning to eat. However, he found it rather hard to concentrate on his meal when she kept staring at him every few minutes. "Yumiko, was it?"

"Ah-yes!"

"How old are you?" he asked, looking her over. She couldn't have been more than seven. She was so tiny!

"I'm-I'm ten years old. My birthday was in spring." She carefully bit off a piece of roll, scraping out the inside to pile it up with food for a makeshift sandwich. He looked at her in astonishment and she colored under his scrutiny. "How old are you?"

"I'm ten. My birthday will be in the fall." He ate a bite of roll and carrots at the same time, chewing as he blinked at her thoughtfully. She smiled shyly and took a bite of her sandwich, looking everywhere except his eyes.

"Yumiko? Who's this loser? Is he bothering you?" Enrico looked around to see a little girl glaring at him angrily, her watery green eyes narrowed in suspicion. Yumiko hurriedly swallowed and shook her head.

"This is Enrico Maxwell. He and I met this morning in the hallways. He's very nice," she offered. She turned to Maxwell, lapsing into a slight stutter again. "Enrico, t-this is m-m-my friend Heinkel."

"Heinkel Wolfe; and you're in my spot," she said snappily. Enrico looked her over and frowned at the impolite tone.

"Are you a little girl? Why are you wearing little boy's clothes?" Heinkel gasped and gaped for a minute before blushing.

"Of course I'm a little girl! And that's none of your business, dummkopf!" Enrico didn't know German, but he knew an insult when he heard one, no matter what language it was in. He stood up, bristling at the blonde in front of him. Yumiko eeped and ducked behind the table, taking hurried bites of her food.

"Don't call me names, scrofa grasso!"

"I'll call you what I please!"

"Enough!" Father Anderson's voice boomed over everyone else's in the hall. "What's this all about?" Heinkel turned, her voice rising to a whine.

"He's sitting in my chair! And he made fun of my clothes!" Enrico's eyes widened.

"I didn't! I just asked why she wore little boy's clothes! And Yumiko asked for me to sit with her," he retorted, pointing out the cowering girl. Anderson raised an eyebrow at both of them and frowned, pointing to the double doors leading into the mess hall.

"I think you both need some quiet time. Go to your rooms and stay there until I come to fetch you."