Chapter 1 - The Cold Altar
The rain picked up, driving needles of ice against Eleanor’s cheeks as she froze in the mouth of the narrow alleyway. The sound rattled off the brick walls—a ragged, breathless sobbing that sounded far too small for the towering canyon of steel and stone around it.
Eleanor stepped off the sidewalk into the gloom. Her tailored heels sank into greasy puddles, but for the first time in fifteen years, she didn't care about the leather or the suit. She flipped the small flashlight on her phone, cutting a bright beam through the rain and steam.
The light caught a tiny figure huddled beside a green industrial dumpster.
It was a girl, no older than six or seven, wearing an oversized, threadbare hoodie soaked through to her skin. Her knees were pressed tight against her chest, her red, dirt-streaked face buried in her arms. Beside her, a torn plastic shopping bag lay spilt open, its contents—a half-eaten pretzel and a crushed water bottle—soaked in muddy water.
"Hey," Eleanor said softly, keeping her distance so as not to startle the child. "Hey, sweetie... are you alright?"
The girl flinched, pulling back until her spine pressed hard against the cold metal of the trash bin. Her large, dark eyes met Eleanor’s flashlight beam, wide with terrifying, adult panic. She couldn't speak; her throat was making small, dry clicking sounds from hyperventilating.
Slowly, Eleanor dropped to her knees right in the wet alley mud, her expensive wool coat absorbing the grime of the street. She shut off the harsh flashlight, letting the soft amber glow of the distant streetlamp illuminate her face instead.
"It's okay. I'm Eleanor," she murmured, holding out her hands, palms up. "I'm not going to hurt you. Where are your parents?"
The little girl didn't answer with words. Instead, she lifted a trembling, blue-tinted hand and pointed directly into the gaping mouth of the industrial trash bin beside her.
Eleanor stood up slowly, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She stepped up to the edge of the bin, gripped the foul metal rim, and peered inside.
The smell of rotten produce and wet cardboard hit her first, but what her eyes found made her universe stop spinning.
Beneath a pile of soggy newspaper and thrown-away takeaway containers lay a bundle of filthy, grey fleece. The bundle was moving.
A tiny, purple-hued foot kicked through a tear in the blanket, and a faint, squeaking whimper—a sound barely louder than a kitten's sigh—rose from the bottom of the bin.
"Oh, God," Eleanor gasped.
Without thinking, without hesitating, Eleanor thrust her arms deep into the rain-soaked filth. She tossed aside wet trash, unheeding of rusted metal or broken glass, until her manicured fingers reached the warm, shivering form beneath. She lifted the newborn out of the dark, cradling the tiny, fragile bundle close to her silk blouse, under her heavy wool coat to shield it from the freezing rain.
The newborn was barely breathing, its skin mottled blue and ice-cold to the touch.
Eleanor turned back to the little girl on the ground, who was watching her with desperate, tear-filled eyes.
May you like
"Is this your baby sister?" Eleanor asked, her voice shaking uncontrollably.
The little girl nodded rapidly, her chin trembling. "P-please," she gasped out, speaking her very first word. "Don't let them take her... Please save Lily."
