He had buried the grief under work. Under ambition. Under money. Now, he looked at the dirty, sleeping faces before him, and something inside him cracked like ice giving way in spring. One of the children stirred. The lighter haired child blinked up at him. The eyes were the same shape as Milo’s. The same improbable shade of hazel-green.
“Hello,” Augustine said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “What is your name?”
The child blinked again. “Rafael,” he whispered. “And that is my brother, Finn. We stay here so nothing bad happens to us.”
Milo took Rafael’s hand. “Are you hungry? We can get food.”
Rafael nodded once, tiny and tired. “It is okay. We learned how to sleep so we do not feel it.”
Augustine swallowed hard. “Where are your parents?”
“We never had any. A lady told us we had to leave the house because it was not ours. She said someone paid money for us once but no one came so we were bad luck. We are not bad. We try to be good.”
A sound escaped Augustine that was not quite a sob and not quite a curse. He reached forward, adjusting his coat to drape it over the boys. When he lifted Rafael’s small wrist to wrap the sleeve, he saw it.