Morning arrived like an apology.
The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the world washed and dripping. Pale sunlight struggled through clouds that looked exhausted from the night's work.
Inside the orphanage, the day began as it always did: with noise.
The kitchen was the heart of the house, and at its center stood a woman built for usefulness: broad shoulders, thick arms, a waist that had given up the fight decades ago. Her hair was hidden beneath a kerchief that had once been white and was now the color of old flour. Her face was round and ruddy, permanently flushed from standing over hot stoves, and her eyes were the kind of sharp that missed nothing and forgave most things.
"We are out of goat's milk," she announced, banging a pot onto the stove with more force than necessary. "The storm took half the shingles off the goat shed, the goats are in a temper, and if Leo doesn't stop hanging upside down off that settee, I will use him as kindling."
Leo, who was indeed hanging upside down to see the baskets better, grinned.
He was all sharp angles and restless energy, the kind of boy who couldn't sit still if his life depended on it. Tall and thin, with hair the color of straw that stuck up at odd angles, and a spray of freckles across his nose that he pretended to hate. He had lived at the orphanage since he was six, long enough to know every creaky floorboard and drafty window. Long enough to know that Ingrid kept secrets.
"They're doing that thing again," he said, pointing at the baskets that had been set on the kitchen table. "Breathing at the same time. Watch."
And indeed, the two babies inhaled and exhaled in perfect synchronization.
"Who left them?" Leo asked, righting himself with the casual grace of someone who had been climbing things his whole life.
"We don't know," Ingrid said. She stood by the window, her tea untouched, her eyes distant.
"There were no footprints." Leo swung himself upright. "I went out before anyone was up. The mud was perfect, you could see the fox tracks from last week. But nothing near the door. No boot prints, no cart wheels, nothing." His eyes were bright. "It's like they appeared out of thin air. Maybe they-"
"Leo." The woman's voice cut like a knife through butter. "If you want breakfast, sit like a human being. If you want to be kindling, keep talking."
He sat.
Lucia appeared at the door, moving slowly. She wore her day dress now, her dark hair wrestled into a braid that was already escaping.
"I warmed the milk," she said, lifting a bottle. "The one Mrs. Hale found in the cellar."
She crossed to the baskets and lifted the baby from the first one, the one who had stared at Ingrid.
"This one's heavier," she said. "And calmer. The other one keeps grabbing everything."
As if on cue, the second baby let out a wail and snatched at his blanket with surprising strength for someone who had been alive for barely a month.
Leo inched closer, ignoring Mrs. Hale's warning look. "Can we... name them?"
"They're not pets, Leo."
"They're not 'Baby One' and 'Baby Two' either."
Ingrid's fingers tightened around her teacup. Her gaze went to the window, to the yard, the treeline, the long road that led away from Barrow Hill, and stayed there for a moment too long.
Then she looked at the babies. At the firelight dancing on those small faces, the warm skin, the dark curls.
"Two names. One each."
Leo studied the quiet one, the one currently cradled in Lucia's arms, dark eyes open and watchful. He found himself looking at Lucia instead. The way her braid was coming undone. The shadows under her eyes. She looked tired. He wondered if anyone else noticed.
The baby stared back at him. Unblinking. Leo tilted his head one way. The baby's eyes followed. He tilted the other. Same thing.
"Marcus," Leo said. "He looks like a Marcus."
"Very well. This one will be Marcus."
"Then the other one is mine," Lucia said quietly.
She was watching the second baby, whose fist was still clutching his blanket like he was afraid someone might take it.
"My grandfather's name," she said. "He wasn't anything special. Just fixed things. Doors, chairs, people's tempers. He used to say if life tried to break you, you should grow back stronger around the cracks."
She reached down and touched the baby's curly hair, soft as cotton.
"Darwin," Lucia said. "His name was Darwin."
Marcus and Darwin.
Something in the old house seemed to exhale. The fire flickered. The floorboards creaked. For just a moment, the twins' marks glowed silver, faint, barely visible, then faded.
Mrs. Hale muttered something about drafts and went back to her pots.
Leo and Lucia exchanged a look.
Then Ingrid's eyes drifted to the window.
And she saw the tree.
----
The Old Oak had stood at the eastern edge of the property since before the orphanage existed. Some said it was older than the hill itself. Its trunk was as wide as a cart, its branches reaching toward the sky like grasping fingers.
Now it was split down the middle.
One half still stood, a ragged pillar reaching toward the sky. The other half had fallen outward, crashing through the fence. Its roots were torn from the earth, exposing black soil and white, twisting wood that should not have been visible.
To the children, it was storm damage.
To Ingrid, it was something else.
She could feel it from here, standing at the kitchen window with cooling tea in her hands. An absence where something vital had been. Like a tooth pulled from a jaw.
In Lucia's arms, Marcus's eyes were open again. Watching the window. Watching her.
What are you? she thought. What have you brought to my door?
And for just a moment, the mark on his forehead glowed silver.
Then it was gone.