MTO C43

Chapter 43

Barbara and David came hurrying after the children. At first, Michel assumed the youngsters had only stepped out for a little fresh air; but no—they stretched their necks toward the road, bouncing in place as though waiting for someone.

His heartbeat thundered.

The carriage jolted to a halt. Unable to restrain himself, Michel burst through the door.

“Headmaster!”

Charlotte shrieked and ran straight toward him. Michel ran as well, scooping her up, and the little girl clung to him like a koala to a tree.

“Where did you go? Why didn’t you tell us? Why are you so late? Did you leave because we cried? We were only surprised—were you scared too?”

She rattled relentlessly, the torrent of her voice dizzying. He wanted to assure her, but his chest hammered so violently he feared words would rupture it.

“…I’m sorry.”

He stroked her small back. At that, Charlotte burrowed in deeper.

“We waited.”

The simple words carved heat behind his eyes. Relief flowed. He had been foolish even to think of leaving this place.

“Head‑maaaaster.”

Another tug at his robe; he looked down. Leon spread both arms, demanding to be lifted too. Nearby Dan and Max lingered, uncertain, unwilling to come close.

“Dan, Max—come here!”

“Eeek!”

Laughing, Michel caught them all up at once. The children squealed they couldn’t breathe, then erupted in giggles.

“Welcome back, Saint.”

At last David arrived, greeting soberly. Michel, still loaded with children, looked up, delighted even after only a brief separation.

“David! All well here?”

“Nothing to trouble you. Except for the endless pestering—‘When will the Saint return’—these children are more dangerous than a thousand orcs.”

“Too mean! Orcs are ugly, we’re not!”

Clearly tormented in recent days, David only smiled faintly. Charlotte instantly protested they hadn’t that badly bullied him; they were closer now, it seemed. To others their clamor was noise, but to Michel it was as sweet as larksong.

Soon Sister Barbara also approached, smiling.

“Welcome back, Headmaster.”

“Sister.”

As Michel rose, he spied two children behind her. He hesitated, then dropped to meet their eyes, smiling gently.

“Oliver, Alice.”

The two he had feared for most. Especially Alice—once menaced by debt collectors, perhaps scarred forever. As always, the siblings held hands tightly. Oliver looked uneasy, Alice blinked anxiously. Unlike his rough embraces for the younger ones, Michel kept respectful distance.

“Have you both been well?”

Patience. Slowly. He murmured inwardly, forcing calm.

Then—a surprise. Alice released her brother’s hand, stepping forward.

“I, I…!”

“…?”

“Thank you for saving me from the bad men!”

The words burst out in a shout. She startled herself, clapping hands over her mouth, scarlet blooming on her face. Silence followed.

Then Oliver, rescuing her, spoke firmly:

“And thank you for driving them off, sir.”

Barbara gathered them close, eyes proud.

“That day shook them. But after, they longed to thank you properly.”

“…I am sorry.” Alice murmured, ashamed, leaning into Barbara.

“No—there is nothing for you to apologize for.” Michel waved hastily. He would not let their bravery fall to disappointment.

“Truly. Thank you, both.”

The children blinked, baffled at his gratitude. Yet Michel meant it. Opening their hearts—that was the one gift he desired, the greatest courage they could show.

Looking around, he saw it—fear and sadness had been washed from their faces, unnoticed until now. Emotion welled in his chest.

“Have you eaten lunch?”

“No!”

“I haven’t either! Gosh, I’m starving. Let’s go!”

Michel darted off for the orphanage, as though leading a race. Laughter bubbled behind him, children chasing, the noise swelling to fill the forest.

Winter’s chill was softening.

That night, once all had slept, three adults gathered in the orphanage parlor—a sudden staff meeting.

The children had embraced Michel, yes. Yet one problem still loomed.

“They must have heard the news,” David said, arms crossed. “For now, they watch the village before showing their faces.” He meant, of course, the debt collectors.

“But we can’t simply sit and wait. Who knows when—or if—new donations will arrive.”

Michel answered coolly. He had resolved not to leave. So long as the collectors still threatened, he could not sit idle.

“We’ll earn what we need.”

“If you mean that bizarre performance again, I shall throw my whole self in your path.”

“But—”

“No, Saint. The whole realm knows your face. Every word and deed is now a model to others. Remember that.”

David’s severity left him sighing. This “title” of Saint—it seemed only to steal freedom from him. Still, he understood. Kaidan had spent days drilling into him to remember his “station.” If the Saint’s reputation faltered, it would be Michel alone scolded—but others would suffer as well.

Yet how could he simply sit while danger pressed? He frowned, searching ways to persuade—when Barbara quietly lifted her hand.

“Headmaster.”

From her lap she placed a bundle upon the table—an old, dirt‑stained sack.

“Take this.”

“…What is it?”

“…The orphanage emergency fund.”

Michel gaped. Barbara fiddled with her fingers, eyes darting.

“I saved small portions from donations, plus coins you once gave me. Not much, but enough to chip at the debt.”

“Sister…”

“I know it was wrong to keep it secret. But—” She bowed, ashamed.

Michel understood without her saying. The former Michel would have squandered it in a gambling den by nightfall. She had not trusted him, and with reason. The thought pained him.

But though he was grateful, he could not accept.

“This money is for the children. I can’t.”

“But—”

“As it’s an ‘emergency fund,’ use it only for true crises for them. I’ll find another way.”

Firm refusal. Barbara bit her lip, face set. Then, with sudden resolve, she looked up.

“Then I will use it now.”

“Sister.”

“Our home is under crisis. I don’t want dangerous men coming again. Please, let this be used.”

Her tone was steady, calm. Conviction lit it. Michel felt shame—while he sat under shelter at Eglence, his family here had trembled in daily fear.

“I…” He faltered.

Barbara smiled faintly.

“And I think the children would rather keep you near, than see you leave to find work.”

“Sister…”

“And if needed—I will perform with you! Though, I doubt I’d be much help.”

“Forgive me, but absolutely not,” David interjected crisply.

Just then, from outside, a high whistle‑like cry pierced the night. All three turned toward the window.