The easiest song for Mahala to play blindfolded was Darling Daisy:

Darling Daisy, Darling Daisy
Oh yes I did receive your letter!
Such kind words and such a smile
It is sending my heart aflutter

Darling Daisy, Darling Daisy
I tried not to but I’m enamoured
What must I do to make you mine, dear?
I’ll do anything, I’ll endeavour

Darling Daisy, Darling Daisy
We can finally be together!
My family’s dead so the fortune is mine
My love is for you and forever!

The children cheerily sang along as they huddled around the piano. 

“So, can anyone tell me where the song came from?” Mahala asked as she pulled off her blindfold.

With the song over, the children quieted down, less sure of themselves. They fidgeted with shaky breaths. It was the first time they had ever met such an important person.

Gingerbread House was an orphanage under the care of the Greenstone Homes charity. For such a fanciful name, it was a dilapidated mansion owned by a former lord whose family was punished early in the Lord Protector’s reign for abusing their power — as many nobility were. The mansion was undeniably beautiful with handcrafted wooden furniture, columns, and arches, dressed with faded intricate wallpapers. Its withered age came through in the rotting walls, a collapsed roof and lack of sea-oil installation for its appliances.

Mahala had plans to change all that. The raggedy children would have everything and more over the next few months, which should put more light back in their eyes.

“A long, long time ago, we Ikka were able to use magic,” Mahala said. “But a lot of us used it for bad things, just like Miss Daisy in the song. To punish us, the Gods took our magic away!”

“I had magic?” whispered a small girl, crouched by her seat.

Mahala pulled the girl onto her lap, smoothing down her brown hair. “All of us are still born with that potential! It’s just locked away. However, the Gods spared six magi and allowed them to continue the magical arts!” With that, she shook out a few candies from her sleeves, brightly wrapped as always. “Does anyone know who they are? I have a prize for anyone who can give me a name and title!”

Their eyes lit up with excitement and shouts followed full of half-remembered names.

The brunette child in her lap held up her hand quietly, mumbling, “Kinderum, the Pale Magus of Time.”

Mahala pressed a wrapped sweet into a sticky palm. “Very good! Tibalt Kinderum is our current Magus of Time. He will be serving Pomolin until the leylines around us shift again. Do you know what leylines are?”

“They’re magic lines,” said an older redhead girl. She caught a sweet tossed by Mahala with just one hand.

“Exactly!” Mahala exclaimed. “They’re the veins of magic that maintain its laws! They mark the boundaries of each magus’ domain. Like a hopscotch box. Around every 30 to 50 years, these lines shift and each apprentice will become the magus of the neighbouring domain. It should be within the next ten years the shift occurs. After that, Tibalt Kinderum’s apprentice will depart for the next domain to serve, and we will receive the Magus of Iron.”

The girl in Mahala’s arms pointed to Luck standing at the corner of the room. “Is that a Kinderum?”

“That is Luck. He is a homunculus, and who knows what that means?” Mahala asked, twirling another sweet in her hand.

The children eyed Luck with cringing shoulders. Some even clung to Mahala.

"He won’t hurt you, he’s a brave soldier of Pomolin who will protect you,” she said softly. “Our Magus of Time, Tibalt Kinderum was injured badly. His apprentice was too young to take over, so he created a very clever spell to create copies of himself. No other Magus of Time has ever done this! The man before you is wearing a copy of the magus’ soul. You can say he’s like Tibalt Kinderum’s little brother.”

"Little…?” a boy tested the word with uncertainty.

“I don’t get it,” mumbled another.

Mahala smiled at them. “That’s alright. You’ll understand when you’re a little older. Just know that the homunculi are your heroes! And what do you say to your heroes?”

“Thank you,” the children chorused.

Luck averted his gaze.

“What delightful siblings of mine you are!” Mahala exclaimed. “Well, as your big sister, I have gifts for you.”

“Sister…?” the little girl gasped.

“Of course. I am like you, an orphan. As all orphans are under the Lord Protector’s care, that makes you my siblings. We are all family, so it is only right that we share.” Mahala said.

She received a nod from one of her attendants. Everything was timed perfectly. She took the hands of two of the children and they all walked together into another room. Their eyes lit up immediately, gasping at the low tables arrayed with flaky confections and candied fruits. White nougat stuffed with roasted nuts and honey, soft cookies snowed over with powdered sugar, and flaky pastries soaked in apple syrup all gleamed invitingly in the fire-light. Warm honeyed milk waited in saucers to wash it all down, with a generous pile of napkins to spare the caretakers. 

“Go on then, enjoy yourselves,” said Mahala. “And remember to share, dear brothers and sisters.”

The children dove for the tables, but eventually spotted the toys underneath. Wooden trains, carved animals, and an entire village of dolls greeted them there. Mahala briefly relaxed as they let go of her, laughing and playing, but remembered to smile in time as she heard the click of a camera shutter. The photographer bowed and quickly ducked away.

He brushed past a plain-faced, plump woman outfitted in a crisp taffeta tea dress, and a blank expression indifferent to the festivity. She approached Mahala by linking arms with her.

“When I said I wanted to spend time with you, I meant without sticky children,” the woman groused.

“It’s only for an hour, Adelei.”

“It’s been an hour and sixteen.”

Mahala hugged her friend close. “Then you’re probably thirsty. Let me treat you to tea. How about Lacey’s?”

There was a pause, Adelei giving the wooden trains a side-glance. “I’ve a better idea on how you can pay me back.”