If a baby is found on a church's doorstep that is hardly strange. If a baby is found in a graveyard, gurgling happily in the shade of a headstone on a summer's day, well that is quite unusual, a good story that hardly anyone will believe. Who, you would wonder, would leave a baby in such a place, and lucky that it was found in time.
If a baby is found in a monastery, left to lie amongst the hydrangeas in the garden unattended, well that is inexplicable. The sort of inexplicable that would be gossiped about for months.
If you were to examine these babies closely, you would see that there is something strange about the basket they were found in, or the blankets, or the clothes, something off. The wicker wouldn't quite look like real wicker, the cloth not like real cloth, not like a thing made of stuff that was once another thing, woven by human hands, there's something too uniform, not quite real, as though the basket or the blankets, or the clothes have only ever existed to look like what they are. But why would you examine these things so closely? And in any case, they always go missing before long.
It might be harder to miss if a baby should chance to be found on the cold stone of a church doorstep with only the thinnest of blankets to protect it from the chill one frigid February morning. It would be impossible not to take notice if such a baby shows no sign of frostbite, seems hardly bothered by the cold. That such a child should survive at all would be a miracle. But then, a church doorstep is just the place for miracles.
Abandoned babies are not matters of historical note, regardless of how unlikely the circumstances of their finding might be. Such a baby might be found at any given monastery or church or cemetery once or twice in a century, and such children might be given to good homes and grow up quietly and hardly anyone would think anything of it.