The first cold wind of autumn came curling down from the hills the morning we went to the orphanage, sharp enough to make the banners along the Avenue of Makers snap and dance. The sky over Ar was that particular pale blue I’ve loved since childhood—clear, brittle, and edged with the promise of winter. Perfect weather, I thought, for reminding people that warmth was slipping away and sickness would soon be looking for a way in. I shifted Elana’s weight in my arms and kissed the soft curls at the back of her head. She smelled faintly of the lavender soap Alex insisted on buying from the apothecary who overcharged him.
“You’re quiet,” he said beside me. He had the case of vaccines slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing, though I knew it pulled at the healing scar on his collarbone. He’d gotten that scar months ago when scaffolding gave way near the new public baths—his fall had shattered bone, and I’d spent three sleepless nights trying to keep fever from claiming him. He still carried the memory in the way he moved.
“I’m counting,” I said. Alex looked down at me, his dark brows lifting. “She only has two hands and four teeth. That shouldn’t require much math.”
“Not Elana.” I tilted my head to him. “Children. We have twenty-six registered at the orphanage now, if Lady Jera’s last letter is correct. Sixteen under five. I’m counting doses, reactions, time, probable interruptions… and the number of times you’ll wander off to fix something that’s broken.” He smiled; his eyes crinkled at the corners the way they always did when he was amused. “You wound me, I can multitask. I’ll fix things and entertain children simultaneously.”
“You’ll teach them to climb roofs,” I said. “And then I’ll have to come back with splints and bandages.” “They’ll learn resilience,” he countered. “Besides, someone has to show them where to get the best view of the city. That’s practically a civic duty.”
I rolled my eyes, but the warmth beneath the gesture was impossible to hide. The city’s northern quarter stretched around us, full of the usual morning bustle—vendors sweeping storefront stoops, apprentices carrying tools, the steady murmur of conversation underscored by the clatter of wagon wheels on stone. Somewhere behind us, a bell tolled the hour from the Temple of Lar Torvis, and three cart bosks lifted their heads in unison, as if considering whether the sound meant anything for them. Elana squirmed, small fingers grabbing at the collar of my coat. She made a frustrated little sound and then a louder one, demanding attention. I shifted her so she could see better over my shoulder. “Mama,” she announced solemnly, and then immediately tried to chew the edge of my hair.
Alex laughed quietly. “She’s going to charm the whole orphanage into letting her get away with anything. You know that, right?” “She’s eight months old,” I said. “Her crimes currently extend to drooling on important documents and attempting to eat my medical notes. If Lady Jera can handle twenty-six orphans, she can handle one baby.” “We’ll see,” he murmured, not quite hiding his fondness as he reached out to tap Elana’s nose with one finger. She lunged for his hand, missed, and squealed in delight anyway.
The orphanage sat at the end of a small lane that sloped gently upward, tucked between rows of flowering trees. The building itself was three stories tall, with ivy creeping up its front and wide windows that caught the light. On clear days like this, the laughter of children spilled out into the meadow, turning the air itself into something lighter. As we approached, the front gate swung open. Lady Jera stepped out, smoothing the apron over her sturdy skirts with a reflexive motion. She had a figure that spoke of long years of work—broad shoulders, strong forearms—and a face lined not from frowning but from squinting in sunlight and smiling too often at other people’s children.
“Elizabeth,” she called, her voice carrying easily. “There you are. Punctual as always.”
“Someone in this city has to be,” I answered, stepping into her embrace carefully so I wouldn’t squash Elana between us. Jera smelled of stew, flour, and the faint scent of jasmine. It comforted me more than I cared to admit.
“You bring your whole household,” she said as she drew back, eyes bright. “That pleases me. Children should see families. Sets a good example. Alex shifted the case of vaccines and bowed his head slightly, a habit he’d never quite broken from his apprentice days. “Lady Jera. Builder of Ar, at your service.”
“As if I’d ever forget,” she said, reaching out to clap his arm in greeting. “You repaired our back staircase, our guttering, and that catastrophe we called a roof. You’re practically part of the furniture.”
“Please don’t call me furniture,” he said. “I would prefer something at least structurally integral. A load-bearing column, perhaps.”
“Always with the dramatics,” I murmured and giggled.
Jera turned her attention to Elana, her face softening in that particular way adults reserve for babies. “And this must be the little marvel I keep hearing about in town.” “Elana,” I said. “Eight months as of three days ago. Currently training for the prestigious position of ‘Chief Distractor of Physicians.’”
Elana stared at Jera very seriously for a moment, then broke into a grin that showed off her tiny teeth. She reached out, fingers flexing, and Jera made a delighted sound. “Oh, look at you,” she said, scooping Elana from my arms with the practiced ease of someone who had lifted thousands of infants. “Heavy enough to be healthy, light enough that I remember when my own were this small.” Her tone dipped for a breath, and I saw the shadow pass through her expression—the memory of children lost to illness or accident, long ago. Jera rarely spoke of her past; her life was the orphanage now. But I knew enough of grief to recognize its ghost when it stirred.
“Come,” she said, the shadow gone as quickly as it had come. “We’ve set aside the dining hall for you. I told the children this morning they’re to get their flu shots if they want extra honey in their porridge for the next week.” She snorted. “Bribery, Elizabeth. You physicians underestimate it.”
“I prescribe bribery regularly,” I said. “If I thought city council would approve, I’d put chocolate on the standard treatment list for post-injection trauma.”
“Chocolate might exceed our budget,” Alex observed. “Honey is safer. Less risk of riots.”
We crossed the threshold into the orphanage, and the familiar scent wrapped around me: soap, bread, chalk, the faint metallic tang of old pipes, and something indefinably warm that only existed in places full of children. The main hall bustled—two older boys argued in a corner over a battered deck of cards, a pair of little girls practiced clapping games, and an adolescent with a mop struggled to control the streak of water along the floor. A few of the children paused to stare at us. Their attention latched onto Elana first—babies were magnetic. Elana, for her part, stared back with the wide-eyed seriousness of someone encountering new data. Then she burbled happily, apparently deciding that other children were acceptable.
“She’s going to have a following,” Alex murmured. “We’ll need to hire security.”
“Absolutely not,” I replied. “I can barely get her to sleep as it is. Give her fans and she’ll start demanding midnight audiences.”
Jera led us into the dining hall, which had been transformed into a makeshift clinic. Long tables pushed together created a central station, covered in clean white cloth. A row of chairs lined one side, facing the windows. I saw the care in the setup—Jera had made certain there would be ample light, enough space to move, and a clear path to the door in case anyone bolted. “You’ve done this before,” I said. She nodded. “You came last year, remember? And the year before that. Different physicians before you, but the same routine. We’ve had less illness in winter since we made it a tradition. You said repetition matters—that children feel calmer when they know what’s coming.”
“And when they know you’ll be there,” I added quietly. She met my eyes, then looked away, fussing with the edge of the table cloth. “Oh, they’ll fuss regardless. But yes. It helps.” Alex set the case down and opened it with the practiced care of someone who had watched me do it many times. Inside, neat rows of glass vials gleamed faintly, surrounded by insulation and layers of cooling stones. I checked the temperature, the labels, the seals. Everything was as it should be.
“You know,” Alex said, low enough that only I heard, “it’s kind of beautiful, seeing tangible proof of how you fight winter.”
“I don’t fight winter,” I said. “Winter’s inevitable. I fight what winter brings—the fever, the pneumonia, the infections that love cold noses and crowded rooms.” He watched me for a moment. “You’re still a fighter.”
“Romanticizing me doesn’t make me more efficient,” I replied, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a quick, reluctant curve. “We’ll start with the youngest. They get overwhelmed fastest.”
Jera nodded briskly. “I’ll send them in groups. You understand—if they see how you treat the littlest kindly, it calms the older ones. And if it doesn’t, well, at least I can say ‘you’re bigger than them, act like it.’ That usually shames them into sitting still.”
I set out syringes, swabs, bandage strips, a small bowl for discarded sharps that I’d take back to properly dispose of later. I cleaned my hands, adjusted the sleeves of my coat, and checked Elana was secure in Jera’s arms. “You sure you don’t want to keep her with you?” Jera asked. “Children might feel braver seeing you with your own.” I considered for a moment. Elana watched me, lips parted, one fist shoved in her mouth. Her presence would help some of the kids, I knew. But she would also demand attention at unpredictable moments, and my hands needed to be steady, my focus tight.
“Keep her for now,” I said. “You’ll be calmer if you’re busy, and she likes new faces. Alex…”. He raised his hands, palms out. “I’m officially on distraction duty. Physician’s assistant, emotional support builder, and general errand boy. I’ve accepted my fate.”
I squeezed his forearm briefly. “Your fate is being useful. You do it well.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “You do it better." I didn’t respond. There wasn’t time to get sentimental; it would have to wait until evening. I turned to the door just as the first group came in.
Four little ones, ranging between two and four, clutched at each other like a tiny herd facing an uncertain storm. One boy had a wooden kaiila in one hand and its detached head in the other, which did not bode well for that toy’s future. A girl with braids down her back eyed the syringes with suspicion, her lower lip already trembling. “Good morning,” I said, keeping my tone steady and calm. “I’m Elizabeth. You might remember me from our picnic. I’m here to help you stay strong this winter. Do you know what that means? Silence. Then the boy with the horse muttered, “Means we all get stabbed.” Jera, hovering near the door, gasped. “Rian! That’s inappropriate.”
“But true,” he added swiftly. Alex stepped forward, his expression serious but his eyes bright. “We prefer ‘small pinch,’” he said. “Less dramatic. Besides, stab wounds usually come with blood and screaming. This is much more civilized.”
One of the girls tilted her head. “Civilized,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Is that… like when you wash your hands before supper?” “Exactly,” Alex said. “This is the hand-washing of your insides.” I coughed, trying not to laugh. “Creative metaphor, love”
“Thank you,” he said.
We started. I took each child’s arm gently, explained in simple words what I was doing, counted aloud before inserting the needle. Quick, clean, efficient. I watched for tears, for flinching, for panic. The girl with braids cried quietly, tears slipping down her cheeks even though she sat perfectly still. I dabbed the corner of her eye with a clean cloth after and said, “Bravery isn’t about not crying. It’s about doing something even while you’re scared.”
She nodded, sniffling, then asked in a tiny voice, “Will it stop the bad coughs?”
“It won’t stop every cough,” I said honestly, because lies erode trust, and trust is more fragile than glass in places like this. “But it will help your body fight harder if the bad ones come. It gives you more strength.” She seemed to accept that, pulling her sleeve down over the small bandage like a shield.
As the morning wore on, groups cycled in and out. The younger ones were easier in some ways—they cried, yes, but their fear burned quickly and flickered out just as fast. The older children were a different challenge. They understood more and trusted less A thin boy of about ten crossed his arms and glared at me. “Why do we have to do this?” he demanded. “We still get sick. Last winter I had fever for four days. I remember.”
“You might have had it for ten without this,” I said, meeting his gaze steadily. “I can’t promise perfection. I can promise increased odds.” He snorted. “Odds. Words. Grown-ups always have words.”
“You’d rather I had silence?” I asked. He hesitated. “I’d rather you had… cures.” “So would I,” I said simply. “But I work with what we have. Let me give you a tool. Even if it’s not perfect, it’s better than nothing.”
His eyes searched mine for something—false reassurance, perhaps. When he didn’t find it, he sighed and thrust his arm toward me. “Fine,” he said. “Tools, then.”
I gave him his injection. He didn’t flinch. I didn’t praise him for courage; I simply nodded once, respecting it. He understood the difference. I saw it in the way his shoulders dropped slightly afterward, some invisible weight shifting. Between groups, I checked the vials, recalculated doses, recorded names and ages in my notes. Jera moved in and out like a general orchestrating troops, her voice alternately stern and soothing.
Alex, true to promise, became a distraction engine. He mended a broken chair between injections, showed a trio of kids how to balance spoons on their noses, and at one point ended up with two toddlers clinging to his legs, shrieking with glee as he tried to walk like a giant. He was ridiculous, and extraordinary, and I loved him with a fierce, quiet certainty that made my chest ache.
Elana was passed from Jera to a teenage girl named Lina, then to one of the older boys, then back to Alex. She took it all in stride, apparently delighted by the constant stream of new faces. When she tired, she rested her head against Alex’s shoulder and sucked her thumb, watching me with solemn eyes.
“You’re imprinting on syringes,” I told her under my breath as I prepared another dose. “That can’t be psychologically healthy.” “She’s imprinting on you being competent,” Alex said. “It’s a good template.”
By mid-afternoon, the light had shifted—longer shadows across the floor, the golden edge to everything that made the room feel almost sacred. We were down to the last few adolescents. They pretended nonchalance, but the tension in their shoulders betrayed them. One girl with a scar along her jaw—that particular shiny stiffness that speaks of burns—sat down across from me. She watched my hands as I drew up the vaccine.
“You won’t hurt the scar,” she said abruptly. It wasn’t a question, but I treated it as one. “No,” I said. “I’ll inject here.” I pointed to the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Far away from it. The scar’s old. The shot might make it redder for a day, but not worse.” She nodded. “Fire hurts,” she said. “This is different.” Her voice was too flat for her age. Someone had failed her once. I wouldn’t be another name on that list. “Yes,” I said. “This is different.” After her, there were three more. Then we were done. I set the last used syringe carefully in the bowl, washed my hands, and let the silence of the empty dining hall settle around me. My shoulders ached, my fingers were stiff from repetition. But the tiredness was the clean kind, untainted by doubt.
Jera came in, Elana perched on one hip. The baby’s hair had been—of course—decorated with a small blue ribbon that hadn’t been there this morning.“How is my patient?” I asked, reaching out to tickle Elana’s foot. She kicked and laughed. “She attempted to eat mashed carrots, refused mashed peas, and tried to launch herself off the back step,” Jera said. “Normal infancy, in other words.”
“Perfect,” I said, relieved. Alex entered behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. There was paint on the back of one knuckle.
“What did you fix?” I asked. “The railing on the second-floor landing, the leaking pipe in the washroom, and the cracked window in the boys’ dormitory,” he said. “Also, I organized a rebellion against afternoon naps, which I later heroically quashed. I’m now both revolutionary and rule-enforcer. Controversial figure, really.”
Jera snorted. “He did no such thing. He just told them stories about building bridges until they fell asleep. He’s good at dull stories.” “They’re not dull,” Alex protested, wounded. “They have structural integrity." “Your bridges are fine,” I said. “Your anecdotes less so.” He placed a hand over his heart in mock agony, then smiled. “How many?”
“Twenty-six,” I said. “All recorded. No severe reactions so far. I’ll come back in three days to check for delayed issues, though I don’t expect many. Jera, keep an eye out for high fevers, extreme fatigue, or swelling beyond the injection site." “I will,” she said. Her gaze softened as she looked around the room. “You know… every year you come, I worry a little less about winter. Not because I think sickness has disappeared, but because I know we’re not facing it alone.”
“Not alone,” I agreed. “That’s the point. Medicine is work, yes. But it’s also community.” She nodded once, firmly. “Stay,” she said. “Until supper. The children like seeing you at the table. It makes it all feel less… clinical.” I hesitated, thinking of the stack of pending consultations back at my practice, the letters I needed to answer. Then Elana tugged at my sleeve with a small fist, and Alex gave me a look that said he knew the battle was already lost.
“We’ll stay,” I said. “But only if I get some of that stew I smelled when we came in.” “You will,” Jera promised. “And bread. And honey. Even physicians need bribery.”
Later, as the sun bled out behind the rooftops and the dining hall filled with the hum of voices and the clatter of bowls, I sat at one end of a long table with Elana in my lap and Alex by my side. Children crowded around, asking questions about bones and blood and cities and bridges, wanting to know if shots made them stronger, if winter could be outsmarted, if I’d ever climbed to the top of the temple dome like Alex had. I taught them the difference between cures and prevention, between magic and medicine, between fear and caution. Alex, ever the builder, talked about foundations and support beams, about how structures survive storms because someone thought ahead, planned, reinforced. Jera watched from the doorway for a while, a small smile tugging at her mouth, then turned away to stir the stew, to slice more bread, to refill cups. She moved through her domain with the steady certainty of someone whose life’s work was not spectacular but essential.
As evening pressed against the windows and the first truly cold breeze slipped through the cracks, I held my daughter and listened to the laughter around us. I thought of fevers we’d prevented, of hospital beds that might remain empty this winter because of tiny pinpricks of pain accepted in a bright hall on an autumn day. We couldn’t stop winter from coming. The frost would creep along windowsills, the wind would bite at fingers and noses, the nights would stretch long and dark. But here, in this place, surrounded by people who cared enough to plan ahead, to share burdens, to choose discomfort now in exchange for strength later—we had tilted the odds. Sometimes, that’s all you can do. Sometimes, it’s enough.
I kissed Elana’s head and let her drift to sleep against my shoulder, her breath warm and damp on my neck. Across the table, a boy told Alex solemnly that if bridges were stories, he’d build one that reached all the way to spring.
“Good,” Alex said. “Elizabeth will meet you halfway.” And I would. I always would.
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