Chapter 1: Amberstone in the Outskirts

Before receiving that letter, Roland was still working at the county poorhouse.
He had been there since he was no taller than a wheel.
Everyone said they had never seen a child so beautiful. The female workers adored him fiercely; the nurses and cooks showed him special kindness—his face was thin and delicate, with black hair and slender arms and legs, and his golden eyes shone like amber stones.
No one didn’t love him.
No one passed by without teasing him with a few words.
That was until they discovered he was blind.
That was until he was sick all year round, one ailment after another.
Roland had thought he would spend his whole life in the “stable” (the children’s nickname for their roofed, walled shelter), or, when he came of age, be taken away to glue paper boxes, clean chimneys, or dig coal—he was clearly better suited to coal mining—saving oil more than others.
Until he received that letter.

“Wishing you good health, Mr. Collins.”
“If I may call you Roland.”

The woman reading the letter was Yarm Jones, who had cared for Roland for several years and was the only one unafraid that his blindness might be contagious.
“I am Will, the butler of the Collins family.”
Under the flickering oil lamp, she carefully held the corners of the letter, reading each word aloud.
The envelope was made of fine leather paper with a stamp; the ink was fresh, and when she rubbed it with her finger, a faint scent rose.
This was the scent of wealth.

Yarm Jones, experienced and knowledgeable, understood clearly that the arrival of this letter was not necessarily good news for little Roland.
“Recently, a grievous event occurred in the Collins family: Mr. Tellis Collins’ eldest son, Wendy Collins, died in a traffic accident.”
“This devout, generous, and kind master not only faces the sorrow of losing his son in his old age, but his daughter, your sister Nina Collins, has also been bedridden lately due to overwhelming grief.”
“With a heavy heart, I write this letter in hopes you will soon return to the Collins family.”
“The return of a son, in some measure, may soothe the deeply wounded heart of Mr. Collins. (By the way, we also hope to discuss inheritance matters with you personally.)”
“Additionally, I took the liberty of sending a second letter to Mr. Stitch Abner, the councilor of your district, along with travel expenses; I hope you will forgive me.”
“Finally, the Collins family—Tellis Collins, Nina Collins, and their most loyal servant Seth Will—await your arrival at any time.”

That was all.

The two in the room fell into silence.
After a while, Roland pushed back his black hair, revealing those autumn-leaf-colored eyes, and spoke jokingly,
“So, Yarm, I have a father.”

The woman quietly folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope.
The letter was short, but beyond the obvious, Yarm Jones read between the lines another bitter truth:

The Collins family had always known Roland was here.
Otherwise, how could a butler have sent the letter directly into his hands?
But…
The Collins family lived right in town.
The mansion of the old merchant Tellis Collins was in town.
Less than an hour’s journey from here.
Ten years…
Right in town.

Ms. Jones felt a tightening in her stomach, as if something was stuck deep in her throat, choking her, making it hard to breathe.
They hadn’t even sent a messenger, nor had the letter said, “We searched far and wide to find you.”
The whole letter felt like a condescending hand, as if the writer had foreseen that someone would bow and scrape to open it and then wave it around triumphantly.
She could not bring herself to be happy for the boy, to rejoice that he had finally found “family.”

“Little Roland.”
Yarm called softly, pulling the boy into her arms and gently stroking his hair.
“Little Roland.”

Her arms were a cradle; her body the wooden frame that gently rocked it from side to side. In her heart, she prayed to the divine Father of all things to send a warm breeze to soothe the boy’s cold and wounded spirit.

“May the Father of all bless you, my dear.”

Roland leaned on the worker’s shoulder, smelling the heat of her sweat and the sharp scent of medicine, his words light and drifting:
“If the Father of all blesses me, then He should send divine punishment to burn that devout, generous, and kind master to ashes…”

“Roland!”
Yarm pressed down on his head in alarm, her eyes darting toward the door, “You mustn’t speak like that!”

Roland lowered his head, reached out one hand, and felt along the wooden boards until he found the letter’s sharp edges.
“...Or perhaps He already has blessed me, Yarm.”

Yarm Jones lowered her gaze, looking at the boy’s pale knuckles.
She didn’t know how to deal with this letter.
No one would help her, nor him.

“Yarm.”
Leaning on her shoulder, Roland’s voice softened,
“I heard that people from the Notting Lamp came by yesterday.”

Yes.
She had only learned that today as well.

Notting Lamp.
That den of vice.

The Notting Lamp’s manager promised Councilor Abner that if they took Roland into their care, the Notting Lamp would forgo the poorhouse subsidy—three pounds? Five pounds?
They didn’t want a penny.
Of course, in the ledgers, the money would still be marked as spent. In a few days, the councilor might have a new pair of leather shoes.

Yarm Jones thought numbingly.

“I don’t want to go to the Notting Lamp,” Roland said slowly, sitting up. His thin, pale limbs looked like icicles melting under the lamp’s heat. His deep golden eyes wandered aimlessly, but his hand gripped the woman tightly, “Any choice is better than the Notting Lamp. You have to be on my side.”

Yarm Jones stared at the boy’s exquisitely delicate face, where the soft lines held the sharpness of a newly forged blade.

“Yes, yes, you’re right, any choice is better than the Notting Lamp, you’re right, Roland…”
“Of course, I always, forever stand by your side…”

If this child went to that vile place, then…
It would be utterly over.

Old Collins was one of the few wealthy merchants in town. If Roland went there, it would be better than being adopted by the manager of the den of vice…
Yes, yes.
Roland was right.

Thinking of this, she released the boy, turned away, and lifted the bedding—
Between the wooden boards lay scattered coins, like a dartboard.

Yarm Jones tidied her hair, bit her lip, and counted the coins one by one, stuffing them into the boy’s hand.
The coins were as cold and hard as a frozen chopping board.

“I suppose I won’t lack money from now on.”

“Roland.” Yarm Jones ruffled his black hair and whispered,
“Keep the money safe. What if… you want to come back here, and wait for the Notting Lamp people to come take you away?”

“This isn’t right.”

Roland clenched the money in his palm but said nothing.

“You are blind, but I can see. Since my husband died, I’ve been able to work every day: if I can work today, I can work tomorrow, and the day after. I’ll save this money quickly.” Yarm sensed Roland’s hesitation and pretended to relax, patting her coat pocket.

“There’s hope in here, and I’m sharing a bit of it with you, Roland.”

“You can’t buy anything here with what’s in your pocket.” Roland sighed, hesitated, then carefully put the sweaty coins away. “I’ll pay you back.”

Yarm Jones feigned anger, pulled him back into her arms, and patted his back firmly several times.