I stood in the small, dim room, feeling the heavy wool skirt pressing against my hips. It was scratchy and smelled of cedar and old dust. I looked at my reflection in the small, cracked mirror; the girl in the "magic" blue cloth was gone, replaced by a shadow from the 1800s.
Quickly, I knelt on the cold dirt floor. I grabbed my tattered jeans and sneakers—the only things I had left from my world—and shoved them deep under the wooden frame of my bed, pushing them into the darkest corner.
Manya stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron. She had just finished tugging at my vest, making sure every wooden button was fastened tight. She circled me, her eyes moving from my head to my toes.
"You look... different, Mary Ann," Manya whispered, her voice soft with a mix of relief and sadness. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you had lived in this house your whole life. The Eldress was right—this wool hides the stranger in you."
I gripped the rough fabric of my skirt, my fingers grazing the coarse weave. "It's so heavy, Manya. And it smells like... like time. Like things that have been dead for a hundred years."
Manya reached out, tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. "It's the smell of survival. We don't have the luxury of smelling like flowers here. But tell me... are you truly alright? Your hands are still shaking. Did the Eldress say something to frighten you?"
I looked at her, my chest tightening. I wanted to tell her about the "future," about the museum, about the fear of being called a witch—but the Eldress's command was a weight heavier than the dress.
"She just told me that if I want to stay, I have to be one of you," I said, choosing my words carefully. "No more stories. No more strange clothes. I have to be a 'forgotten' child now."
Manya sighed, a small smile touching her lips. "Being forgotten is a mercy in this town. If the world forgets you, it cannot hurt you. Just follow my lead, keep your head down, and—"
A sudden, sharp thud hit the door.
The wooden planks creaked open, and Dasha skipped into the room, her face glowing with energy. "Sestra! Sestra! You look... you look just like us!" she shouted, clapping her small, dirt-streaked hands together. She circled me like a bird, touching the hem of my apron. "You don't look like a ghost anymore! Manya, doesn't she look like a proper sister now?"
Manya laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders finally dropping. "She does, Dasha. She looks like she belongs."
"Good!" Dasha hopped on her heels.
"Because it is time for the evening meal! The Eldress is already at the table, and if we are late, Mikhail says we have to scrub the pots twice!"
Manya took my arm, guiding me through the dark, drafty hallways. As we entered the great hall, the air grew thick with the smell of woodsmoke and something sour. Two long, rough-hewn wooden tables stretched across the room, crowded with children of all ages.
At the very head of the main table sat the Eldress, perched in her high-backed chair like a queen on a throne of shadows.
As we approached, the loud chatter of dozens of children died down. I felt dozens of eyes on me. I kept my gaze low until Manya nudged me toward a spot on the long bench.
As I sat down, I felt a chill run down my spine. I looked up and froze.
Directly across from me sat Mikhail.
He didn't say a word. He sat perfectly still, his large hands resting on the table like stones. His eyes—dark, sharp, and completely devoid of trust—were locked onto mine. He didn't look at his bowl. He only looked at me, his gaze heavy with suspicion.
The Eldress tapped her spoon against her cup. Clink. Clink.
"The girl has a name," the Eldress announced, her voice calm but commanding. "She is Mary Ann, a kin of Manya's from the north. She has lost her voice to the sickness, so you will treat her with patience. The clothes fit you well, child."
"Thank you, Eldress," I murmured.
"Eat," she commanded.
A bowl was placed in front of me. It was a watery gray gruel, likely made of oats and sawdust to make it last longer. Next to it was a small, hard hunk of black rye bread, dense as a brick.
I picked up the wooden spoon, but I could barely swallow. Mikhail had not moved. He hadn't even picked up his own spoon. He just sat there, staring at me with such intensity that I felt like I was being interrogated without a single word. Every time I lifted my spoon, his eyes followed it. Every time I breathed, he seemed to be measuring it.
I leaned toward Manya, my shoulder brushing hers. "Manya," I whispered, my voice trembling, "why is he looking at me like that? He hasn't stopped."
But Manya didn't hear me. She had a toddler on her lap who had just sneezed a mouthful of porridge onto her apron. "Patience, little one," she was saying, busy wiping the child's face and shushing a crying baby next to her. She was completely consumed by the chaos of the orphans.
I looked back at Mikhail. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing into slits. He wasn't eating; he was hunting. He was waiting for me to make a mistake—to say something wrong, to use the "future" voice the Eldress warned him about.
I clutched my wooden spoon until my knuckles turned white and forced a bite of the gritty porridge into my mouth, knowing that even in these clothes, I was still a stranger in his eyes.