The woman walked briskly, the child's legs bouncing against her thigh. She brought him into the squat building adjoining the local church and sat him onto a hard wooden bench as she asked for the head friar.
"Father Isidore," she exclaimed as the stocky old man entered the antechamber. He invoked a number of blessings and hosannas before letting her continue.
"My son found this boy two days ago. I feel it is my Christian duty to bring him to you, so that he may be cared for with love and piety," she improvised for effect.
Isidore blinked a couple of times, wondering how to convince her that it was definitely not her Christian duty to burden the church with another orphan. He was not uncharitable, far from it, but he already had more than enough mouths to feed, especially since just months earlier he received a wagonful of children survivors who came from a small village that fell victim to one of the rare and ecumenically inconsequential conflicts on the frontier. The war had come to a shaky, unofficial halt decades ago, but even so, trouble always found a way of transpiring.
"You cannot care for him yourself?" Isidore tried.
"You know I cannot, Father. Adriene and I barely survive as it is."
Isidore dubiously looked at her well-nourished body, but decided to let the matter drop. "How old is he?"
"He says he's four."
Isidore cast a businesslike glance at the tiny figure. He could barely pass for three, underfed and slouched. His face was attractive, however, symmetrical and with a small nose, and that was always a good thing; good-looking children had less trouble getting adopted. He gave the widow a curt nod and stretched out a broad, dry hand to the skinny boy. The child straightened up, shifting his eyes from the cleric to the woman.
"You will stay here, Arkarian. They will care for you."
"Arkarian?"
"Yes, that is his name. Fare well, child," she leaned over and kissed the boy's blond head.
"May God bless you," the friar raised his hand in valediction. "Come, child."
Arkarian followed.