The servants called the two orphans malentski, little ghosts, because they were the shortest and smallest, and because they haunted the Duke's house like laughing spirits. They would dart in and out of the rooms in a flash, hide in the closets to eavesdrop, and sneak into the kitchen to steal the last summer peaches. The boy and the girl had arrived just weeks apart, two more orphans of the border wars. They were little refugees with dirty faces, uprooted from the ruins of distant cities and brought to the Duke’s estate to learn writing, reading, and a craft. The boy was short and chubby, shy but always smiling.

The girl was different and she knew it. Crammed inside the kitchen cupboard, eavesdropping on the grown-ups’ gossip, she heard the Duke’s housekeeper, Ana Kuia, say: “She’s ugly. No child should be like that. Pale and sour, like spoiled milk.” “And so skinny!” replied the cook. “She never finishes her dinner.” Sitting huddled behind her, the boy turned toward her and whispered: “Why don’t you eat?” “Because the food tastes like mud.” “It tastes fine to me.” “You would eat anything.”

They pressed their ears again against the crack of the cupboard door. A moment later, the boy whispered: “I don’t think you’re ugly.” “Shhh!” she said. But hidden in the dark shadows of the cupboard, she smiled.