Prologue

… A storm lashed Saint Bartholomew’s Orphanage as though intent on peeling the slate roof away to gain entry to the old redbrick building on Liberty Street.⁶ St. Bart’s stoically withstood the howl of the wind and the torrents of rain as it had for over a century. Water gushed from its leaky gutters, pooling in the asphalt courtyard and overflowing the sewer grate, creating a small lake at the bottom of the cracked stone steps leading up to the front door. In the flashes of lightning the slate roof tiles glistened like molten lead traced with silver. The building seemed to cringe as the thunder rolled across the purple night sky.⁷

St. Bart’s had begun its life as the chapel of Toronto Central Prison in the late nineteenth century.⁸ The prison, now long since demolished, was located on what was then the outskirts of the young city of Toronto. Farther west, along the waterfront, was the small affluent village of Parkdale, home to the rich burghers⁹ who could afford to be away from the soot and train yards of the growing metropolis. The prison was built on land that was surrounded by warehouses, rail yards, and the pungent hog slaughter yards that gave Toronto its nickname Hogtown.¹⁰

When it was built, the prison was hardly in a coveted location. No respectable person would want to live next to a slaughter yard on a rail line. But the reek of pig manure and the clatter of freight trains were thought to be a fitting addition to the misery of those incarcerated for their crimes. Decades later the prison was shut down as the city swelled westward to encompass its grounds. The only vestige of the correctional facility was the grimy chapel and the name of the road that ran before it, Liberty Street.

The chapel escaped destruction only because a Catholic charity that cared for orphans was willing to take on the task of renovating the building for their needs. The nuns of St. Bartholomew raised the money from wealthy, guilty Catholics to turn the chapel into a dormitory for children made bereft of parents by accident or neglect. Their young charges slept in rows of cots by night and learned their letters by day in a schoolroom overlooking the bleak asphalt playground that had once been the convicts’ exercise yard.

St. Bart’s had endured much over the decades, but slowly the district around it slid further into decline. Industry moved to cheaper locations outside the city, and the orphanage gradually crumbled despite the sisters’ best efforts. St. Bart’s was teetering on the brink of a precipice of debt.

On this night, the sisters convened in the kitchen after all the children were tucked safely in bed. They were discussing the future of their enterprise. A tray of biscuits and pot of tea on the table were largely ignored.

Bleak! Sister Anna Grace announced. Spread before her on the table’s scarred surface were the orphanage’s ledgers, displaying an alarming amount of red ink.¹¹ We are in a very desperate situation, sisters. Our creditors have been quite patient with us up to now, but we can’t hope to rely on their patience much longer. They will not wait forever to be paid.

Why shouldn’t they wait? Sister Hildegard grumped, her normally sour expression deepening, lips twisting, and nose wrinkling as if the air itself offended her. We do the Lord’s work here!

Indeed, Sister Hildegard. Sister Cecilia, the Mother Superior, raised a hand in gentle entreaty. She was tired and had no stomach for Sister Hildegard’s belligerence, even when it was aimed at others. We must thank them for their generosity. They have done so much for us up to now, extending our lines of credit and donating all they can, but one must remember that they have families of their own and businesses to run. They have been kind, but we must face the possibility that St. Bartholomew’s may be forced to close its doors.

The announcement silenced the nuns. For a long moment the kitchen was filled with the sound of rain lashing against the windows and water dripping from the leaking roof into a metal bucket placed in the middle of the table. Sister Cecilia looked at each of the sisters in turn, her watery blue eyes taking in the defeat on her colleagues’ faces. She sighed inwardly.

Motivating the staff was becoming more and more difficult. The sisters worked so hard in the face of so many difficulties. And who was going to shore up her own flagging spirits? No, she chastised herself. You are the Mother Superior! No time for self-pity.

Sisters, she said, masking her worry with a smile, let us not be so downcast. We still have a little time. I suggest we all get some rest and perhaps the Lord will send us some inspiration. Say an extra prayer tonight. Remember: miracles do happen. The Lord will provide.

Sister. The heavy male voice made all the nuns startle. They turned toward the doorway and saw Finbar, the groundskeeper and general handyman, looming there, his flat woollen cap in his thick, scarred fingers. Finbar had served in his post for many years, coming to work at St. Bart’s after his sentence at the old prison was finished. His large ruddy face and pale blue eyes spoke of his Irish origins, and broken veins on his florid cheeks spoke of his fondness for whisky, a failing that the sisters chose to overlook. He had a full head of thick white hair. He was tall and solid, filling the doorframe with shoulders that were still wide and sturdy despite the fact that he was well into middle age. A career as a petty thief and housebreaker had landed him in jail many times. When the Toronto Central Prison finally closed in 1915, the then Mother Superior, despite the other sisters’ objections, had decided to take a chance on him. Finbar had been with them ever since. He was good with his hands and could fix almost anything. He also seemed to have a soft spot for the young children, teaching those who were so inclined woodwork-ing and basic mechanics in his workshop across the yard. In a nightly ritual, he informed the sisters, The windows is all latched and the shutters closed. If there be nothin’ else, it’s me for bed.

Thank you, Finbar. Good night.

The big man nodded and clomped off to the cellar, where his bed was nestled in a cozy nook, up against the warmth of the ancient furnace.

As I was saying, sisters, a fervent prayer would not be out of place tonight, Sister Cecilia suggested with a confidence she didn’t really feel.

Humph, huffed Hildegard, pushing her chair back from the table. It’s a miracle we’re hoping for, is it? Well, they’re few and far between these days. And the Lord didn’t have a mortgage.¹² With that, Hildegard tramped out of the kitchen. Sister Cecilia and Sister Anna Grace listened to the tread of Hildegard’s feet on the stairs as she ascended to the nuns’ sleeping quarters on the third floor beneath the rafters.

I’m sorry, Mother Superior. I wish the news was better, but we’re just running out of money.

I know, my dear, Sister Cecilia said. Don’t worry. You’ve done an excellent job. There’s only so much any of us can do. Never mind Sister Hildegard. No one likes to hear bad news. You gather up your things and go to bed now. Those children will be up early tomorrow as they are every morning. You need your rest.

Sister Anna Grace gathered up her ledger books. What about you, Mother Superior? You should get some sleep. You look tired.

Oh, I’m fine, dear. One always looks tired when one gets to be my age, Sister Cecilia said with a rueful sigh. I’ll just clear away these tea things and I’ll be right up.

Left alone in the kitchen, Sister Cecilia cleared away the remnants of the sisters’ meeting. Placing pot and cups, creamer and sugar bowl, and crumb-laden plates onto the tray, she carried it to the counter and set it down by the sink. The window over the kitchen sink gave her a view of the rain-lashed waste ground across Liberty Street and farther on to the lights of cars crawling along the expressway. The grey bulk of the buildings that made up the Exhibition Grounds rose in a dark silhouette, backlit by flashes of lightning. In years past the great lake beyond had spread out as far as the eye could see, but the concrete span of the highway now blocked it from view.

Not that I could see that far these days, Sister Cecilia mumbled ruefully to herself. She was getting old. Her seventieth birthday was approaching, and in the damp early mornings she felt every year in her bones, the dull ache lingering longer and longer into the daylight hours.

SISTER CECILIA HAD BEEN BORN Nuala Callahan in the County of Cork, Ireland, far across a sea of water and years. She’d gone to teachers’ college and graduated high in her class, applying for missionary work overseas and dreaming of a posting in remote African climes or South American jungles. She was shocked and slightly disheartened to find herself appointed as a teacher in Canada at the orphanage of St. Bartholomew’s in the burgeoning city of Toronto.

She’d found herself shuddering west along King Street in a rackety red and yellow streetcar, crushed against the window by a grimy worker who was eating an enormous sandwich. Past warehouses, past a hospital, past some small shops, she watched the city go by. She was so engrossed she almost missed her stop. If she hadn’t asked the driver to alert her when Strachan Avenue came up, she would have ridden to the end of the line.

Strachan, the streetcar driver announced, drawling the name over the loudspeaker, missing the ch in the middle completely and saying it Straaaaawn. By the exasperated tone of his voice, he must have had to repeat himself to get Sister Cecilia’s attention. Flustered, the nun hauled her suitcase out from under the seat and made her way through the car and stepped down onto the street. The doors clattered shut and the streetcar pulled away.

Sister Cecilia stood on the side of the road looking around in bewilderment. She fished out of her pocket the directions she had written down on a scrap of paper. Before she could even look at them, a gust of wind plucked the paper from her hand and sent it sailing high into the air.

Oh, Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Sister Cecilia shouted. She watched the scrap of paper disappear over the roof of a house.

Strong language from a nun. The deep voice startled her. She spun around to see a tall man in overalls and a flat cap. His blue eyes were smiling.

Oh, yes. Well … I lost my directions.

The man nodded slowly. He swept the hat off his head, revealing dark hair heavily salted with grey. Aye. That can certainly happen.

You’re Irish? Sister Cecilia asked.

I am. He smiled again. Before she could ask more, he picked up her suitcase. What’re ye lookin’ fer? Reckon I can guide ya.

Sister Cecilia bit her lip. A strange man, albeit someone from the home country, was holding everything she owned. He could just walk away and leave her there with nothing in this strange new city.

Don’t worry, the man said. "I’ll not walk off with yer valuables, Sister. We bog-trotters¹³have to stick together." He grinned again.

Sister Cecilia couldn’t help smiling back. Saint Bartholomew’s Orphanage. Do you know it?

The man nodded once. Well, isn’t that a happy turn of events. Amn’t I goin’ that very way meself. He turned and headed south down Strachan toward the lake. Sister Cecilia had to trot to catch up with him.

They walked down the road, passing crumbling brick warehouses. The road was potholed and rough. Trucks passing by kicked up clouds of dust.

Are you sure this is the way? Sister Cecilia asked.

Have no fear, the man rumbled. I wouldn’t steer ye wrong. A foul stench filled the sister’s nostrils. Noticing the look on her face, he chuckled. Aye, the pigs are being slaughtered over yonder today. It’s a fine neighbourhood. This way!

A wide swath of waste ground stretched away to their left. Brick warehouses rose on the right. "Liberty Street. Aptly named. All the lads fresh out of prison would walk this road on their first day of liberty. Mind you, most would be returning in a paddy wagon¹⁴ in short order."

There’s a prison? Sister Cecilia’s voice was tinged with alarm.

Was. The worst characters ended up in Toronto Central Prison. Murderers. Thieves. Arsonists. Evil fellows all. He turned his head and winked at her. Don’t worry. The prison’s long been closed. The blackguards are all gone. Well, most of ‘em, anyway. He chuckled again. Sister Cecilia suddenly regretted wandering off with this strange man.

Here we are, the man said. St. Bart’s. Safe and sound. They stood in front of a decrepit building besieged by scrubby grass and a brick wall that rose just above their heads. A wooden gate stood closed, and beside it was a faded sign that announced in fading letters SAINT BARTHOLOMEW’ S ORPHANAGE AND CATHOLIC MISSION.

Her guide pushed the gate open and stepped through. She followed quickly after him, entering a cobbled courtyard with forlorn swings creaking in the breeze. Ivy grew, shaggy and untended, on all the walls. Here and there weeds had poked through the paving stones. A vegetable garden struggled to survive in the corner.

I think the Mother Superior’s office is this way. The man hefted her suitcase and went to a stout wooden door. She followed him into the building.

The interior was a great deal more welcoming. They were in an entry hall with hardwood floors and threadbare carpets. The smell of wood polish filled the air. Children’s voices, raised in song, drifted down the hallway. Sister Cecilia recognized the hymn: Hail Queen of Heaven, the Ocean Star. She smiled. The song had been a favourite of her mother’s and she always felt better when she heard it. The man led her up a set of wide wooden stairs and they came to a closed door. The man set her bag down and rapped twice on the door.

Enter, came a clear female voice. The man opened the door and stood aside, sketching a courtly bow and indicating that the sister should enter.

Stepping into the office of the Mother Superior, Sister Cecilia found herself in a cramped room full of filing cabinets crowded around a huge oak desk. The nun wore an oldfashioned habit with a cowl that covered her whole head save for her wrinkled face.

Sister Cecilia swallowed and mustered her cour-age. Sister Cecilia reporting for duties here at St. Bartholomew’s, she stammered. I was told to report to Sister St. Martin.

The old woman stared at her severely for a long, uncomfortable moment before saying, I am Sister St. Martin. I’m sure you’d rather be somewhere more exotic, my dear, but make no mistake, there are young souls to save everywhere, even in the heart of the most civilized places in the world… perhaps more so! The severe nun looked past Sister Cecilia to where her guide filled the doorway. Finbar, take her to the attic room. She can share with Sister Teresa.

Sister Cecilia frowned as she turned to the man. You work here? Why didn’t you say so?

Finbar chuckled, tugging the bill of his hat in a mock salute. Never asked, did ya? He picked up her bag and went off down the hall. Sister Cecilia made to join him, but the Mother Superior stopped her with a word. Sister.

Sister Cecilia faced the Mother Superior. The older woman smiled, transforming her stern face in an instant. We welcome you here. There are so many children who need help and so few hands to turn to the work. We get some angry and desperate young people to take care of. Patience and kindness work wonders. Finbar is a good example. He was a prisoner here when there actually was a prison. Sister Cecilia’s eyes went wide. I trust him completely. We took him in when he couldn’t find any work and he’s been a loyal friend and excellent worker ever since. Patience and kindness: remember those two words and you’ll do well here. Now go and settle in. I’ll see you at dinner.

PATIENCE AND KINDNESS. Sister Cecilia had taken those words to heart. For years, she had taught and counselled the young children who came through St. Bart’s, and eventually she herself rose to the position of Mother Superior. She worked hard and long, battling to keep the orphanage alive, but now, perhaps, they had reached the end. Sister Cecilia leaned against the counter, her heart heavy, listening to the rain. After a moment of silent prayer, she opened her eyes.

I’m sorry, Sister St. Martin, she said to the empty kitchen and the rain on the window. I’m sorry that everything will end this way. But the Lord has a plan for each of us in his wisdom. We must trust in him. She sighed heavily, placing the tea things into the sink. She turned the faucet and carefully commenced washing each cup and saucer.

Outside the window, huddled under the eaves, two small figures, one burdened with a squirming, wrapped bundle, peered in at the woman as she went about her chores.

What’s she doing?

Rubbing a cup. Be quiet.

What a strange thing to do.

They are an odd folk. We must be wary.

Ooh. He’s getting heavy, this little baggage.

Shhh. She’ll hear you!

It ain’t my fault it won’t sit still!

Just be quiet, will you?

Uh-oh. Do you smell that? I think he’s soiled himself!

Be careful! Don’t …

EW! What a filthy little baggage!

Just don’t …

Uh-oh! I dropped it.

The sound of a baby crying cut through the drumming of the rain. Sister Cecilia’s head jerked upright and, for a second, she thought she saw two small faces peering into the rainstreaked window. She blinked and looked again but they were gone. She could have imagined it, but she hadn’t imagined the sound of the baby crying. Years of comforting frightened children had honed her ears to pick up that sound. A baby was out there in the terrible storm. She immediately dropped the clean cup back into the soapy dishwater with a plop and went to the kitchen door.

There. I’ve got him again, the little nipper!

Drop him and let’s go. We’ve done what himself asked us to do.

Drop it? I only just picked it up again!

Just drop it and scamper!

Sister Cecilia opened the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the rain. In the darkness she thought she saw a flicker of movement at the corner of the small vegetable garden. The tomato plants rustled briefly.

Perhaps my ears were playing tricks on me, she muttered. Maybe it was just the rain on the roof. She was about to close the door when she saw the bundle on the ground.

It glowed softly in the darkness, catching the light streaming from the open door and transforming it into a pale blue-green glimmer like the luminescent dial of the clock on her bedside table. Sister Cecilia stared in wonder at the object, frozen by its beauty. The cry of a baby jerked her out of her stupor. The bundle began to wriggle.

What am I doing, standing here like a fool? She crossed the garden in an instant, wading through icy puddles and bending to take the wriggling bundle in her arms.

It was indeed a baby, wrapped in cloth swaddling that, for all its simplicity, was exquisitely woven out of a thread the nun had never seen the like of before. The weft of the cloth repelled the rainwater, making the droplets bead and run off without soaking in. Its surface bore a repeating pattern of minute, intricately entwined leaves and vines so beautifully articulated that they seemed to be alive. Sister Cecilia ran her fingers over the fabric, her eyes wide. With trembling fingers, she reached up and pulled away a fold of cloth to reveal a tiny round face.

The baby had a thick head of wavy, wheaten hair that formed a golden comma in the middle of its forehead. Round cheeks, flushed from the chill rain, framed a tiny pointed nose. The mouth was a perfect little red bow. The most arresting feature, though, were the child’s eyes. They were slightly almond shaped and a most unusual greenish blue with flecks of gold. Though the baby had been crying, as soon as it saw Sister Cecilia’s face, it left off its whimpering and looked up at her, beaming a most beatific¹⁵smile that melted the old woman’s heart.

What’s this? Finbar’s voice rumbled close to the sister’s ear.

A baby, Sister Cecilia said, flustered. She hadn’t heard the Irishman approach. He stood looking down at the bundle in her arms. He raised a giant hand and with one calloused finger chucked the little baby under the chin. The baby gurgled with pleasure.

Hmmm, rumbled Finbar. Curious thing. A child left on a doorstep on a stormy night. He raised his pale blue eyes and scanned the rain-swept yard. Uncanny.

Surely it’s just another child cast off by some poor soul at their wit’s end.

The little baby gurgled happily and gripped the sister’s finger in its tiny fist. Her heart melted.

Let’s get it in out of the rain, Sister Cecilia said suddenly.

Are ye certain ye want to do that?

Sister Cecilia looked up into the heavy face of the groundskeeper. Something dark in the ordinarily cheerful face made her pause. Why ever wouldn’t we?

Finbar frowned and shrugged. Strange turn of events, this. A baby left in the dark of a storm. Puts me in mind o’ stories o’ the Fair Folk me ma told us to frighten us i’ the winter nights.

Oh, Finbar, the sister said with a chuckle, I wouldn’t have thought you so superstitious.

Finbar’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it.

What is it, Finbar?

Finbar’s eyes became wary. Not a thing. Those stories come from a grain o’ truth, Sister. Finbar squinted at the dark rain. You’re from the old country, you should know better. Some might say I ain’t so much superstitious as respectful of the Fair Folk. No good ever come o’ mixin’ in their plans. I heard tales of folks that were disappeared, lost in fairy mounds, shot by elf bolts, or even lumbered with the raising of a changeling child that had evil effect on all around it.¹⁶ He paused and looked at the little face. And I’ve heard tell of children being led away by Fair Folk and kept for their amusement, forgetting all that they once knew.

Sister Cecilia crossed herself. She had heard such tales too in her childhood in Ireland. She looked down at the beautiful little face framed in the cloth. The child had a radiant smile, showing a pair of perfect white teeth in its upper and lower gums. The sister’s heart melted again. I can’t see this little one causing us anything but joy, Finbar. And with the dire state of our finances, it might be a welcome diversion to our sisters here. I must prepare a cot. Hold the child for a moment. She gave the bundle over to the gruff Irishman, who grunted in surprise, and scuttled off down the hall.

Looking down into the eyes of the little baby, Finbar shook his head ruefully. Ye may have charmed the Mother Superior. But I’m another kettle of fish altogether. The baby stopped gurgling and looked up at Finbar. Finbar grinned back in spite of himself. Still, yer a sweet little bundle, no doubt about it. His eyes narrowed. What’s this? He dug a large finger into the swaddling, revealing a thin gold chain with a pendant hanging from it. The pendant was circular with spidery lettering delicately carved around the edge. The weight and the lustre of the object suggested that the gold was real.

Finbar’s eyes opened wide. He read the word aloud. Breandan.

He stared out into the rainy night. He suddenly had the feeling that eyes were out there watching him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was tingling across his shoulders.

I know yer there, he called into the empty courtyard. There was no answer but the wind and rain. I know yer there somewhere. I can feel it. What mischief are ye about?

Crouched in shadow of the courtyard’s brick wall, two small figures held a whispered conversation.

He can’t know we’re here.

Does he see us?

Impossible!... I think.

Has he been given the Sight?

I think not. It would be plain if he had the Sight.

Something strange then.… We should be off. Our deed is done.

The child will be safe.

Aye. For a while. For a while.

The leaves of the tomato plants rustled. Finbar stared a moment longer but saw nothing more. He carefully closed the door and turned the bolt.

I’ll hold on to this, Finbar whispered. He lifted the chain from the baby’s neck, letting the medallion spin on the end as he examined it in a flash of lightning. It may prove very useful indeed.

When he got to the kitchen, the sister was standing at the sink, now brimming with soapy water and steaming gently.

Let’s warm up the little one. Finbar handed the child over to the Mother Superior. The child had fought free of the wrappings and was clutching at the woman’s chin with one fist. A smile lit his tiny face.

It’s a boy, Finbar. The sister laughed. A lively one too.

Finbar came and looked down at the little creature, who immediately turned his beautiful eyes upward to look into Finbar’s own.

He’s a fine-looking child, he is. What’s this? Looks like a burn. Finbar traced a crusted scab on the boy’s left breast. The bloody blemish marred the otherwise perfect ivory of the babe’s skin. Finbar had seen such a mark on the hide of sheep when he was a boy. Someone’s branded the little tyke.

Oh dear, Sister Cecilia cried. She took the baby from Finbar and plunged him into the soapy water. Gently, she took a cloth and sponged away the caked blood to reveal a wound in the shape of a spiral.

Who would do such a thing to a child? Sister Cecilia demanded in outrage.

A Ward, Finbar breathed softly.

What did you say?

Finbar frowned. Not a thing, Sister. Aye, there are all manner of bad folk in the world, he said, peering at the revealed mark. He don’t seem to be in any pain, though, do he? He’s a hardy little chap. Aren’t ya, little fella? He clucked softly and chucked the boy under the chin.

Sister Cecilia picked up the beautiful blanket and something fell to the floor with a musical chink of metal. Finbar bent over and lifted a small black bag from the linoleum. He pulled the string that bound it closed. Gold glittered softly in the light. Sister Cecilia gasped. Finbar whistled appreciatively, weighing the bag in his calloused palm.

Looks like St. Bart’s is back in the plus column, Sister. The baby gurgled happily and splashed in his bathwater.

Finbar held out a little finger and the baby clutched it tight. Hello, young Breandan.

Breandan?

In the old tongue Breandan means ‘prince.’

Does it indeed? Well, it’s a good enough name, I think. Breandan it is. Oh, he shall certainly be a prince in this house when all the sisters lay their eyes on his sweet little face. Hold him a moment while I prepare a bottle for him. The sister held the baby out for Finbar to take in his huge hands, then she began shuffling around the kitchen, happily absorbed in her task. Finbar held the boy up, dripping, until they were eye to eye. He stared into the child’s face. The baby, sensing the mood of the man, became sombre and still.

Fáilte, Breandan, Finbar said softly in Gaelic and then repeated in English. Welcome, My Prince.

The medallion lay heavy in Finbar’s vest pocket. It’ll be our little secret, awright?

Out in the waste ground beyond the walls of St. Bart’s, the rain and wind flattened the tall grass. Two tiny figures scampered up to an empty oil drum that had been tipped onto its side and left to rust. A dark figure sat crosslegged on the drum, silhouetted by the lightning flashes. The rain poured down onto his bowed head, streaming from the tips of his white tresses. The small figures cowered on their knees at the foot of the oil drum, waiting on the figure to speak.

"Is it done?" The dark figure’s voice was cold, like a door flung open on a field newly rimed with frost: beautiful but cold.

Done, Highness. Done. It’s done.

Completely done. No doubt.

Were you seen?

No! NO! NO! the two little creatures squeaked insistently. Not seen! Not seen at all.

Are you certain?

Uh …

YES?

"There was one who sensed us. He didn’t see us but he felt our