- CHAPTER ONE - THE SELECTION -

The gloomy and damp autumn weather had slowly but surely come to Ireland. The year was 1880, and the Victorian era ruled over Europe during this time. During this society, there were horse carriages, Victorian-style architecture, puritanism, industrialism, inequality and especially figgy pudding, which were popular and very common. Insensibility, morality, and fidelity were, at least to begin with, the ideal of the middle classes by this time.

The rain was pouring down like hail, the sky was grey, covered with clouds, and the ground was almost flooded with water and mud. It was the middle of the night as a big horse carriage with two black Frieser horses trotted towards a building. What kind of building, you may wonder. Well, I will tell you. It was a Roman Catholic monastery that they had made into an orphanage. And to begin with you can just imagine what a Roman Catholic monastery looked like in the 19th century. The house was a huge grey, kind of worn-out building made of stone bricks, it was a rather unpleasant sight. There were many floors, and big windows which didn't look like they had been plastered or cleaned for a while. Actually, it almost looked like an old haunted castle. Beside the monastery, only a few feet away there was another building, it was a chapel. You could tell, because this building was quite smaller than the monastery itself. It was made of brown stone bricks and there were two huge crosses on it, one the top of the black roof tower and one on top of the door to the chapel. There was a tower bell which rang three times a day when it was time for prayer and worship, and there were several large square thin glass windows built into the walls. There were two doors, one which led into the chapel and one other which led into the monastery, both of them were made of dark wood and they were lit by two lanterns that hung on either side of each door.

The courtyard outside the monastery lay desolate, devoid of benches, swings, or any semblance of playthings for the children. Only gravel paved the ground, leading the eye to a towering statue at its heart. Here, Saint Mother Mary stood in serene prayer, her hands clasped and eyes closed in devotion. The courtyard outside the chapel, while smaller, appeared equally forsaken. Tall grass mingled with colourful autumn leaves, their vibrancy dulled by the incessant rain and damp air. Trees and bushes struggled for space amidst withered flowers and thorn-laden rose bushes, their once vibrant blooms now wilted and lifeless. The garden, encased within tall black iron bars, remained inaccessible, the gate to the chapel firmly locked.

When the horse carriage finally arrived, a quite handsome man in his thirties, wearing a black coat, a black top hat, and a cane, stepped out with a little help from the driver. You see, there was so much mud, leaves, and water, so it was quite difficult for him to walk and pass by the gate to the monastery. He was wearing black leather shoes, a whit