A/N: Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for the lack of updates. A lot has been going on between school and family things, I was even out of the country a couple of times. And I had some trouble with motivation for this story, but hopefully we'll be back on track for a little while. I'll still be slow updating, balancing this with my other story as well as other things in my life. I won't add again to this story until I've posted on my other fic first, because that one has a larger audience and I've been away for far too long. Anyway, sorry for the long note and I hope you enjoy the new chapter!
I love reviews and feedback as well! Hearing from my readers is always wonderful.
Days pass achingly slow, before Logan feels like she can leave the orphanage again. She's spent her time doing chore after chore, hoping to get back into Mr. Carlisle's good graces. She's barely slept, not that she slept much before. But late at night, in the dark, she stares at her closed door and she fears.
She fears knives and piles of bleeding hair. She fears large hands and bruising grips. Logan fears the fascination she saw in brown unkind eyes.
Now, though, now she is tired of her fear. Logan knows she must follow the orders given to her; she understands the mistake she made regardless of her intentions. But after chores are completed, that time is hers and hers alone, so that muddy Thursday afternoon, Logan takes back her hours of freedom.
She stands in front of her mirror, eyes trailing the too big trousers rolled up to her shins and the billowing shirt tucked into her waistband. She's gotten thinner, somehow, since she's been here. The short cream sleeves still brush her elbows and her toes wriggle in the fabric of her socks as the common chill of winter seeps through her window. Normally, she wouldn't bother with the socks, even with the chilling days approaching, as they had many holes. But Logan finally sewed the holes up with a spare piece of thread she found and a needle made from the broken prong of a cheap fork. It's a patchy job and might not last through the whole winter, but the socks are still good, almost like the fabric shoes her mother used to wear in the way the soles have hardened and crusted over from layers of mud.
Logan sighs, fingers gingerly tracing the uneven tuffs of her hair, thoughts of her late mother coming unbidden. It still itches as the cuts scab over and new hair grows to fill the sheared spots. She looks stupid and pathetic, and she wants to hide. So, she does, beneath the low visor of an abandoned peaky cap she found in the hallway days before. None of the boys had come looking to claim it and the grey color does well to blend her in with the rest of the town. She feels small and unnoticeable and safe when she can't recognize the shape of her body or the curve of her cheeks in the shadows of the hat. Like just another one of the starving boys in the orphanage.
In taking back her afternoons, Logan decides to go explore, perhaps find a bookshop. Being able to read, despite her young age and rather unfortunate status, is one gift her mother granted that Logan hopes to never lose. That, and her music.
There's no rain or snow, despite it being the height of the December frost, though a fine mist resides in the air, damp and blurring the edges of the grey town. She expects the coming of storms in January.
Logan walks slowly, hands laced behind her back and eyes trained on her feet. Occasionally she'll glance up, hoping to catch the sign of a library or a small shop. She's seen neither so far and keeps walking, speeding past the bakery and ignoring Mr. Layton's small wave, even though she's sure he doesn't recognize her.
She hasn't been back to the bakery since that day. Mr. Carlisle doesn't trust her with the money anymore, and even if he did, she doesn't trust herself to not fall for that kindness again. Not when her stomach grumbles for more than bread and water. Instead, she forces herself to be grateful for the half of a hard-boiled egg she got that morning and be proud of the bathrooms she cleaned.
Her fingers are cold without gloves or pockets, so she tucks them into the warmth of her armpits and hunches her shoulders. Logan walks close to the edge of the street to stay clear of the few wanderers out today.
It's as she's approaching the local pub that her stroll is interrupted by a stray ball rolling to a stop just in her way, tapping her toes and wobbling for a moment on the gravel.
"Hey! Hey boy!" A voice, high and familiar, calls to Logan from just across the road. Ada bounds towards her, wearing the same ruffled yellow dress from several days before with much thicker stockings and a heavy looking coat that looks like it's been stitched together from pieces of other warm coats. One of the sleeves is longer than the other. She stops, just a meter between them. "That's our ball, you mind?"
"Uh, huh-um," Logan stammers and muffles a cough into her elbow. She almost stumbles when she bends down to pick up the ball, blue-tipped fingers trembling around the surface. She holds it out to Ada, keeping her head down and her spine curved inward.
Ada takes the ball with a curious brow raised. "Aren't you cold?"
"Huh?" Logan tucks her fingers back under her arms, shuffling under Ada's gaze.
"I said, aren't you cold?" Ada repeats, sadness settling in at the thread bare shirt and lack of coat. And no boots or really shoes of any kind, just socks.
"Ada! C'mon!" Her brother, the youngest of the three, yells at them. His arms waving for his sister. "We told mum we'd be back before dark!"
"Hold on John! Just a minute!" Ada responds, waving a hand over her shoulder. "What's your name, then? Are you one of the lads from the orphanage down the way? I have a friend, Lo. She lives there, I think. Have you seen her?"
Wrinkling her nose at the name, Logan huffs and takes a few steps back. "I-I don't like that name," she whispers, clicking her jaw.
"What are you –" Ada's eyes widen as realization sets in. She steps forward, hand reaching towards Logan's face. When her fingers brush lightly along the taller girl's freckled cheek, Logan flinches to the side. She sniffs and curls her fingers beneath her arms. "Lo, my God, it's absolutely freezing! Please, come back with me and John. We'll get some food, warm you up!"
Ada starts dragging Logan behind her, grip around the orphan girl's thin wrist tight but not too much so. Just enough that Logan fears the scratch of nails if she pulls away too abruptly.
"He-hey wait!" She tries to speak up, but her voice is still so frail and soft, Ada likely didn't hear her. She is pulled along, trying to keep pace and avoid tripping over the gravel.
John watches, looking thoroughly confused when they stop in front of him. "Who's the boy, Ada? Another crush? Dad's not going to like that." He shakes his head, stealing the ball from his sister and eyeing the taller child suspiciously.
"No, no John! It's Lo! The girl from the other day, with the red hair and bare feet, remember?" Ada says excitedly, already leading her friend and her brother down the block to their house.
Raising a brow, John appraises the other girl for a second until he reaches her eyes. An odd pale green mixed with swirls of blue, a combination he'd never seen before, and clearly pleading for him to release her from his sister's will. Smirking, John tosses the ball back and forth between his hands and laughs when 'Lo' just drops her head in defeat. "Well, alright then. I guess we're having a guest for dinner, you're lucky dad's not meant to be home till late."
Logan holds the cap to her head so it doesn't fly away.
They eventually stop in front of one door among a thousand similar ones. Thin and tall with chipping dark paint and cracked wood. A small brass knob with little dents and a scraped raw key hole. Logan barely manages not to stub her toes as she's pulled up the triplet of steps towards the gray stone building. It's not lopsided like the orphanage with the support from adjacent buildings, and the windows are clear, if a little frosted around the edges.
Something within Logan feels so distinctly wrong about entering a foreign home without knocking, without the permission of the head of the house. But she hasn't had the nerve to deny Ada, and likely never would. The notion felt dangerous somehow.
"Mom! Aunt Poll! Guess who I found!" Ada calls, leaving Logan standing prone in the foyer as she races down the hall.
John lingers for a moment, still slightly confused by the drastically different appearance of the little orphan girl he'd met several days ago, before stomping up the stairs. He should get Arthur and Tommy, since dad wasn't around.
Logan wilts in the center of the foyer, shuffling her feet as she awaits the family. Unsure how to stand, unsure what to do with her hands, unsure where to look. Rather than gaze at the ornate carpet peaking from the sitting room – a copycat piece, surely – or the paintings on the walls or the pictures perfectly placed on the table by the door, Logan stares at her feet. She laces her fingers behind her back and hunches just a bit forward so she looks small. The bow of her head offering her neck to an executioner.
It's not dark out yet, she isn't late.
"Aunt Poll! Remember the girl? The one with the pretty red hair," Ada says excitedly, skipping into the room with her mother and aunt not far behind. "I found her! Just walking down the street!"
"Yes, her name was Logan if I recall, odd name for a little girl," one of the women, 'Aunt Poll' Logan assumes, grins at the child's enthusiasm. There's a sadness in her eyes, something deep and personal and painful – like her father's eyes after her mother died, only different and wrong – so Logan's gaze shifts back to her feet.
Logan wonders why everyone seems so fascinated by her name, why Ada felt the need to change it. 'Logan' was the name of her mother's little brother, a kind boy who'd she'd only ever heard stories about because he'd died young. An accident with a horse when he was a child. She's always been proud that her mother trusted her to take care of his name.
Ada jumps towards the other girl, grabbing one of Logan's thin wrists and yanking her forward. Logan stumbles, her other hand fisting into the cloth of her shirt over her chest. "Mom, this is Lo. Lo, this is my mom, and you already know Aunt Poll," she introduces, rocking back and forth on her heels. Footsteps can be heard on the landing, coming down the stairs, and her expression sours. "And, of course, you know John. There's also Arthur and Tommy, but they're too big to want to play with us." She crosses her arms indignantly.
Logan stiffens when she feels the weight of the three young men stop just behind her. She likens herself to pray, a small doe cowering among a pack of wolves. It's a familiar feeling. "He-hello," she manages, though they all have to strain to hear her.
"Oh, honey, don't mind them. My boys are gentle, if a bit on the protective side," Ada's mother hums, obviously sensing the young girl's unease. The oldest – Arthur? – grunts at that and shuffles by to wait in the entryway to the kitchen. Mrs. Shelby smiles, trying to catch Logan's eye. She's unsuccessful and wills back a frown, not wanting to scare the child. Logan seems like the skittish type. "Oh, you must be positively freezing. Come, come, we'll get some tea to warm you up."
She's hesitant, of course, but Logan also knows never to disobey an adult. With her breath held tightly in her ribcage, she tiptoes behind Ada and avoids touching anything. Pausing at the threshold to the sitting room, she looks back and forth between the rug and her muddy socks.
"Uh-um, excuse me, Mrs. Shelby?" Logan starts, daring to use an extra octave to get the matron's attention. She does, and almost balks at the kind curve of Mrs. Shelby's eyebrows. "Should I…um should I remove my socks? The-uh the carpet, I don't –"
"You can leave them by the door, if you like." It isn't Mrs. Shelby that answers her, but Tommy. He slides out from behind her, the small curve of his smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle just so.
Logan holds her breath and nods, skittering over to the bench by the door where the rest of the muddied boots are. She squats down to unroll her socks, untucking the cuffs of her folded pants, and slides them off much too slowly. Stalling maybe? Her nerves make her shoulders shake.
Tommy, for his part, frowns at the bruises he sees purpling on the little girl's ankles and wrists. He notices the calluses on her palms and the strange redness around her clavicle and throat. Her face is still mostly hidden beneath the shadows of her peaky hat. He shares a look with his mother, and she nods in understanding.
"Honey, why don't you leave your hat there too? Make yourself at home, be as comfortable as you like," Mrs. Shelby adds, gaze picking out the details of abuse where she could see it.
Logan halts, shoulders rising practically to her ears before she obeys. Removing the cap, she folds her shame in her chest and wills her hands to not give into the urge to scratch her scalp. She carefully sets the cap next to her socks on the floor by the bench and stands to follow the family to the kitchen.
"Oh no!" Ada yells, dashing over to her friend. "You're beautiful red hair." Her lip trembles like she's lost a loved one and she tries to reach out to run her fingers through the sheared locks.
Flinching back from Ada's fast movements, barely catching herself on the wall before she could fall and embarrass herself further, Logan swallows back the bile at the base of her throat and stares at Ada in confusion. The others around the room are similarly disturbed by her hair, or lack thereof, and Logan can only sniff. Her eyes lower to her feet, still far too dirty even with the minimal protection of her socks.
Polly shakes herself out of her stupor first, as even the boys seem transfixed – with stiff jaws and raised shoulders, protective as they are, even of a girl they hardly know – and kneels before the shy girl.
"How 'bout that tea?" She grins, holding her hand out. Success blooms in her chest when little Logan hesitantly places her hand in Polly's – so small, far too small – despite the intense deliberation she'd seen in the girl's eyes. Such a peculiar color. Polly leads her through their home, pausing when Logan does at the carpet like she did before, and kindly urges her forward with a nod.
Logan feels tense, like she doesn't belong in this home. They're all staring at her – or rather, at her head. She isn't something to balk at! She's not! Please stop! "C-can I please have my hat back, miss?" She asks instead, hand tightening just a small amount on 'Aunt Poll' before she realizes what she's done. Logan drops her hand quickly.
"No hats in the sitting room, it's impolite," Polly says, a harried rule she came up with in the moment, but she uses a silly conspiratorial tone to lighten the blow. It doesn't seem to work, though, as Logan somehow curls further into herself. "Now take a seat with the others, while Ada and I get the tea." She shares a significant look with her nearly weeping niece and is satisfied when she hears those familiar small footsteps follow her to the kitchen.
"Aunt Poll –"
"No, Ada," Polly interrupts, arranging the kettle and cups on a tray. "We do not ask, we do not make her feel out of place. I know it's scary seeing her that way and not knowing what happened, but – Ada, if you want Logan to be your friend, you need to respect her boundaries." Ada nods, a few stray sniffles later, and helps to carry the plates and snacks into the sitting room.
Polly smiles when she sees her sister draping one of their thicker quilts around Logan's trembling shoulders. She could see the girl wanted to protest, but she didn't yet have the confidence to refuse adults, young as she is. Probably eight or nine, if Polly could hazard a guess. Abby – Abby only to her and Abigail to her husband, while the little ones call her adorable variations of 'mom' – catches Polly's eye as she settles the blanket. She doesn't like seeing such sadness in her sister's eyes, but she's always been the more sensitive of the two of them. Polly wonders about Logan's mother in that moment. Sighing at the loss the young girl surely suffered, she instead motions to Ada, and they set the trays down before her niece goes to huddle next to her new friend.
Logan feels like she's suffocating between the weight of the quilt now on her shoulders, her body warming up quickly beneath the fabric, and the strange semi-circle the Shelby family has formed around her. Ada is to her right, far too close for Logan's comfort.
But maybe she just wants the warmth of the blanket? Logan doesn't want her to be cold. She opens the cocoon Mrs. Shelby has wrapped her in and Ada immediately brightens, shifting to join her under the covers. Too close, much too close. Logan swallows her unease – as this was her own fault – and tries to keep as much of her body from touching Ada's as she could, as subtly as she could.
She's mostly unsuccessful, for Ada rests her head on the freckled girl's shoulder and bumps their knees together, but Logan's hands are free and at least Ada's hair smells nice. She's still far too warm though.
"Tea, Logan?" Mrs. Shelby asks, holding out a small porcelain tea cup. Their set is mismatched with different sizes and shapes of cups, plates, and bowls. The tea pot is metal – copper maybe? – and stained with coal along the bottom from many uses.
Logan doesn't know how to get out of this. They're being so kind, and Logan craves it despite the danger of kindness. She's going to be late. Maybe she shouldn't have left the orphanage after all.
She accepts the cup, sighing at the sting of warmth against her frozen fingers, and readies herself for the punishment to come.