I turn, the light of the stained glass dancing over my shoulders. 'I take it I should unpack?' I ask, heading for the staircase, and my luggage.

'Yes, as you wish.' Sister Mary glances at a small clock that takes up residence above the narthex. 'It is getting late, so you'll probably run into some of the children soon.' She laughs. 'They always show up when there's food on offer.'

'Well, until then, adieu.' I grasp the suitcase in both hands, and squeeze up the narrow stairwell. At one point, I get caught, jammed between the case and the wall. The edges and angles cut into my hips, and I wince, before slipping free and making it to the top. Neatly packed away in the roof are several tiny rooms: two on each side of a narrow, short passage, and one at the end.

I open one door. A tattered teddy bear lies on the bed, against the pillow. I try the door on the other side. The bed is smooth, and made, and unlike the other room, has a desk. I guess this would be mine. I push my suitcase inside, squeeze in, and shut the door.

Dusky light spills through the small window set above the bed, and I light the candle sitting nearby. Behind me, the door; to one side of it, a desk and chair; to the other, a chest of drawers. My knees touch the bed that barely fits lengthways against the opposite wall. I reach up to touch the sloping ceiling. Good thing I don't take up much space.

By candlelight, the room takes on a dreamy, burnished glow. One or two stars awaken, and the sky is starting to wash from blue to purple, in watercolour strokes. I sit crosslegged and open my suitcase. This place feels strangely familiar, much like the cramped lodgings I called home during my studies. I like it.

I start taking things from my luggage, placing them in the chest of drawers, on my desk, and under my bed — once I realise there's a decent amount of storage capacity under there. I hang my one change of clothes on a hook on the back of the door, and reorganise the papers I piled on my desk. The photo of Viktor's children slips out. I'm tempted to put it somewhere where I can see it, but if someone saw that photograph… I take it, along with some other items, and place them in a desk drawer. I lock it with a padlock and chain that I brought with me. The weight of the metal fits too well in my hands. You can do a lot of damage with a chain and weight. I let the chain go. Old habits die hard, it seems.

I push the suitcase under the bed, and fall onto the mattress. I've been behind a desk for too long, I think. I trace the grain of a wooden beam above my eyes, pressing my finger into a stained knot. Tree branches silently dance in the wind, and an invisible quill spatters the pale sky with stars.

I know you don't need to be in a church to feel God's presence, but still. He feels strangely close. Maybe it's the stars and sky, close enough to touch. I close my eyes. Thank you, for leading me here.

The rafters creak and rumble, and I sit up slightly. The winds are gaining strength outside. I take the heavy winter coat that I hung on the door — still creased from being packed — and pull it on, before descending the stairs. Sister Mary said that the children were out playing. I shouldn't, but I feel a tightening in my chest. Unwanted adrenaline pooling in my stomach. Stop it. When I had orphans under my care in Wienner, I was the only thing standing between them and many, many evils. But you're not in Wienner now. And the Glanzreich isn't what it used to be. You're in a forest in the middle of nowhere. It's safe.

I open one side of the heavy double doors, and step out of the church. The wind already has a bite to it. I step off the porch. In the fading twilight, the woods have an eerie feel. I walk, not in any particular direction, to get a better grip on my surroundings. I draw my coat closer. My breath clouds, and my glasses fog up. I should learn to find my way around the area, but I'll save that for daylight hours. Warm candlelight spills past my silhouette, soaking the bleached snow. I step out of the shadow of the church.

I look around, then head around the back. We'll need firewood in the colder weather, I muse. I can use an axe well enough, despite my size —

The girl strides out of the woods and we both stop, surprised. Is she one of the students?

A tangled chestnut braid falls over her bust, and her skeptical expression is dotted with freckles. She has a leather satchel slung over her shoulder. A long skirt and a man's jacket hide a supple, curved figure. And she's… a head taller than me. At least.

Her lips pucker, to make a biting comment, I think. While I look like a child in height, my build — unobscured by my dishevelled clothes — says otherwise. I imagine she doesn't know which way to go.

'And you are?' she prods.

'I am Professor Wittgenstein. The new teacher.'

She phrases it with all the grace and destructive beauty of a battering ram, saying, 'They sent us a child?'

I wince, and choke down my resentment. 'I'm not a child — I'm a full-grown adult.'

She scoffs. 'Oh, excuse me.' She steps forward, and to my shock, takes my face in her hands. She pokes my cheeks with her thumbs. 'Yes, excuse me for not believing that the little darling is a qualified teacher.' She laughs, and drops her hands to my shoulders. 'Very funny. You are cute, I must admit. So what's the story? You're an orphan, I take it?' She looks past me, at the church. 'I thought all due arrivals had gotten here before today…'

'I said: I'm not a child, my name is Heine Wittgenstein, and I am a qualified teacher and I — '

She blinks. In my irritation, my voice has dropped an octave or so. 'Oh. You're not kidding.'

'I am not, fräulein.'

'Wow. That's one baby face you've got, then.'

She pinches my cheek, and lets me go. I'm irritated, that I lost my composure to the extent that I… briefly considered biting her hand.

'Well, that's just lovely,' she says. 'What was your name again, Professor?'

'You're not taking me seriously. Please stop it.'

'You look like a child. I'm just wondering if I'm being had.' I give her a look, and she throws up her hands. 'Okay, okay, fine. You're short and you've got issues, I get it. You seem to be serious. Excuse me all the way over a cliff.' She extends a hand. 'You've educated me. Ah, what was your name again?'

I place my outstretched hand in hers. '…Professor Heine Wittgenstein.'

'No one's going to remember that for five minutes.' She tips her head to the side, and smiles. 'Rosanna. Charmed, I'm sure.'

Part of me wants to dislike her, but I'm also strangely drawn to her. I can't blame her for being wary. It's something I recognise in myself, after all. It happens when you're the only person looking out for you.

She flicks my hand away. 'So you just got here?'

'Yes, I was just unpacking…' I pause. 'I assumed the room with the desk was mine, is that right?'

She pulls her braid back from her shoulder. 'I should know, Dainsen and I were the ones who dragged the d_ thing up the staircase.'

I had enough problems getting myself and my suitcase up there. 'Oh. I apologize for the inconvenience.'

'Okay, okay, you can stop rolling out the twenty-cent words — you're a teacher, no doubt. I stand corrected.' She unties her hair, and re-braids it. Her fingers dance back and forth. 'So. Do tell, how did you wind up out here? No teaching positions left in Wienner?'

I shake my head. 'I wanted to come here.'

Her fingers stop braiding. 'What? I'm sorry, but really, what? You wanted to come here? What on earth is wrong with you?'

'Who's to say there's something wrong with me?'

She pulls and knots a string at the tip of her braid, and narrows her eyes. '…Why would someone, a well-off, academic teacher, for goodness' sake, come out to the wilderness, and — '

'Rozzaaaa!' The voice echoes from the shadowed, blackened woods.

She sighs, and yells over her shoulder, 'I'm not deaf!' Her eyes flicker. She turns back to me. 'Well. I hope you're the kind of person who thrives on burning themselves out on lost causes.'

A little girl, maybe four or five, darts out from behind Rosanna. She looks at me curiously.

I drop to one knee, and hold out a hand with a smile. She grasps my fingertip in her mittened hand.

I look up at Rosanna. 'Who says you're a lost cause?'

She blinks. A faint blush splashes across her skin. She turns and heads for the church doors. 'Good grief. Let's see if you last more than a day.'

She strides around the corner and slams the doors, nearly rocking the church off its foundations.

I turn back to the little girl. She's still clutching my hand. Her eyes are almost too big for her face, and strands of pale gold hair brush her cheeks. 'A pleasure,' I say. 'I'm… Heine. The new teacher.'

'I'm… Ledy. For Isolde. The saint,' she whispers. By her sheepish expression, it seems I'm not the only one with an unpronounceable name.

'Pleased to meet you.'

She fidgets. 'I… can't read.'

I squeeze her hand. 'Then I can teach you. If you would like.'

Her eyes light up. 'Uh-huh.'

Footsteps, and two boys race past. One small, and waif-like, and one a touch taller, with close-cropped reddish hair. They spare me curious glances, but they're too busy bickering to stop and talk, it seems. I hear the red-haired one laugh as they head inside the church.

Ledy, loses interest in me and follows them. An assortment of two girls her age scamper into the clearing, chased by a girl who's about eleven or twelve, her silken hair snapping in the wind like a flag.

'For the last time, stop jumping in the river, for — '

The children run past me and the girl stops at my side. 'Who are you?'

'Heine, the new teacher.'

'That's nice. I'm Kat, ah, sorry — ' she dashes after the children, ' — wipe your shoes off first!'

I swear a breeze lashed my hair as she passed. I feel as though I need something to hold onto so that these children don't knock me off my feet.

I turn to follow, and head back inside the church. But my ears prick at the sound of soft footsteps.

As though bookending the group, with Rosanna in front and him at the end, a young man slips out of the woods. As he approaches, the shadows fade, revealing a slender form, quiet tread, and ragged hair falling over one eye. A young wolf.

He stops, a short distance away. He's not wearing a coat: merely dressed in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. His uncovered eye is a deep yellow-amber, like melting gold. A silence passes. I realise he's not going to move, or be the first to talk. 'Greetings.' I'd offer a hand to shake, if he were closer. I step forward, saying, 'My name is — '

He swiftly steps back. I stop. He doesn't seem afraid, so much as… curious. Is that a habit of his? I lower my hand and gloss over it. '…is Heine Wittgenstein. I'm the new teacher.'

He looks interested. '…Welcome. I'm… Dainsen.' He cautiously approaches. 'Nice to meet you.'

He passes me, however, as though being too close to another person is uncomfortable. He smiles over his shoulder. His canines are a touch too sharp, and his smile is crooked. 'Well… come in… if you want.'

A window slams open above our heads and someone half-tumbles out. A chestnut braid drops between Dainsen and I.

Rosanna hangs half out the window, the window frame digging into her hips, one foot in the air. Her men's jacket is gone, leaving a blouse that tightly hugs her figure. She waves a hand in front of Dainsen's face and says, with a full-blown accent, 'Hey, dancer-boy, we need firewood. Would ye mind?'

He nods, perfectly straight-faced. He glances at me, and Rosanna turns. She slides right back into her clear-cut, musical voice. 'Ah. You're still out here.'

She gracefully flips back though the window and slams it shut.

Dainsen saunters past me, around to the back of the church.

I lean against the wall. I laugh a little, maybe in shock, I suppose. I didn't think about it that much, but for some reason I assumed that orphans under the care and shelter of a church would be prim and lifeless little dolls. But this feels like I've fallen in with the group of the orphans I used to know in Wienner. Yet it isn't the same; they're not the same children, and it's not the same place.

I head for the church, and press my hands to the wood. 'Well.' The hinges gleam. I open the doors.

Ne ad ludos incipere. Let the games begin.

To be continued...

A/N: One ensemble cast of orphans, with a side of parallels! Reviews welcome, and thanks for reading!