Chapter 1

Cerise couldn’t remember her mother. She had a patchwork collage in her head of what she looked like and how she acted, but these were via her father’s memories. Her father once told her that there was a portrait of her mother, back in Paris. His good friend Jacques Louis, an artist, had painted it months after they married.

“Like an angel caught on canvas” is how her father described it. He said it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen next to the real thing. Cerise didn’t remember it though, and her father had left it with Jacques after they left their small apartment in Paris. Her father told Cerise that it was for safekeeping until they found a more permanent home. He sold all that they had and finally had to move when he could no longer pay rent. Cerise was just nine when her father came into her room that rainy night and told her they were going on an adventure.

“Come, chérie” he said in a hoarse whisper, his forehead dotted with small beads of sweat. He smelled strongly of smoke and wine, which let Cerise know that he had been at a tavern.

 “You must wake now, love. We’re goin’ on a trip and you need to pack your t’ings. Quickly now, up – up!”

He pulled her into a sitting position on her creaky old bed. Cerise rubbed her eyes and tried to focus on her father in that sparsely lit room. He was fully clothed, in what remained of his tattered overcoat and the deep red vest that mother had given him their first Christmas together. His trousers were originally black, but had become a dull grey with excessive washing – they were the only pair of proper pants he had anymore. He’d taken off his hat, the one thing he owned that wasn’t dilapidated. It was his father’s town hat that he’d inherited after he died. “The only thing me father ever gave me outside of a swat on me backside.” He would say as he traced the brim of the hat.

He already had a small sack by her bedroom door that looked to be stuffed to the brim. He pointed a small pile of folded clothes at the foot of the bed.

“Put them on, love, quickly now,” he instructed as he reached for another sack that lay on the floor. “I’ll start puttin’ in some of your clothes.” Cerise lifted up the shirt on the top of the pile. It was a long, striped shirt that was at least two sizes too big.

“This is a boy’s shirt, Papa” Cerise said, squinting at the shirt. She looked down at the trousers and suspenders, then back up at her father in confusion. “These are all boys’ clothes. Pourquoi?” Her father nodded impatiently.

”Aye, aye child, they are” he said whilst stuffing two of her favorite books into the sack. “I’ll explain later.”

And that was all he would say as he urged her on to dress, whilst feverishly packing up what few belongings she had that were small enough to fit into the tiny sack. Cerise didn’t even have time to say good-bye to the small house before her father hauled her out into the cold darkness of the night.

It was nearly five days after they left their home that Cerise’s Papa did explain their odd departure. Or at least tell her what he thought would keep her quiet and cooperative. He told her that he had inherited some land from his father back in England, and that he had to go back to sell it so that they would have enough money to live in a real home again. As for the boys’ clothes, those were so that Cerise would be safer while they traveled together.

“There are those who’d try to take advantage of a beau’iful girl like you, love” he said one day as he cut her long, curly ebony hair to just inches from her head. “It’s better if just for now they think you my son – oh, and that reminds me, from now on, I’m gonna start callin’ you Charlie, no more Cerise, okay?”

Cerise only nodded, too upset by the loss of her hair to speak. Too much was changing and she didn’t understand why, but she knew that her father wasn’t ready to divulge any more information, at least not yet. That haircut was the first of a series of things that changed in her life. From that day on, her father really did cease to call her Cerise, and started treating her like a boy. Anytime her hair started to get beyond her ears, he abruptly cut it off. It took about a month of him steering her to the boy’s lavatories before she began to do it on her own. All she had left of her former femininity were the two dolls her father had allowed her to take.

They spend many months traversing and staying within the French borders, her father doing any odd job he could find, keeping Cerise all but hidden from any he interacted with. But finally, they left France and stayed on the outskirts of Belgium for nearly two years, until yet again they had to leave, this time on a boat to Dover, Britain.

Almost as soon as they stepped foot on English ground, Papa told Cerise that she was not to speak French anymore. Cerise usually only spoke English with her father, but there were times that she would slip back into her native tongue, especially when she was excited or lost her temper.

“We got to work on losin’ that accent o’ yours” her Papa told her one night as they ate just outside a market. “Some o’ the people ‘ere don’t take to kind to the French – not that you’ve got a thing to be ashamed of, darlin’”

Cerise found it strange at first, but in time, as her father predicted, she found herself forgetting more and more of her French and her accent fading. Though she never mentioned it to her Papa, it bothered her to be losing so much. Her French was one of the few things she felt connected her to her mother. But Cerise continued to silently comply with her father’s wishes, not knowing where the path was leading.

It was just after her thirteenth birthday, outside a pub in small town of  Blackwood in Wales, that Cerise overheard the conversation that shed light on their six-year escapade. Her father was talking with a short, stubbly Scotsman with an accent so thick that she barely understood him. But she understood every word her father said.

The real reason that her father had left Paris was because he’d managed to accrue a substantial gambling debt. After her mother died, he spent much of his time at various chateaus and gambling houses, drowning his sorrows in whiskey and parlor games. His debts mounted, and he started running out of things to sell to cover them. After a while he just tried to hide, steering clear of his normal stomping grounds in hopes of being left alone. Things were quiet for a time, but he soon discovered why, and it was worse than he’d imagined. The ones to whom he was indebted had hired someone to take over their accumulating. The man chosen to collect on his debt was the Marquis de Mecrier, a man known for having much wealth and little mercy. He had hunted Cerise and her father throughout Paris into the French countryside, and finally right out of France. He was starting to catch up with them, and Papa feared that if the Marquis found out about Cerise, he would want to take her to work off his debt for him. He wanted this Scotsman – Mr. McCray – to let them stay in one the servants’ houses on his land just outside of Sheffield. He promised to work the land for Mr. McCray to pay rent. Cerise would always remember McCray’s face as he considered her father’s offer; cold and indifferent. McCray did finally agree but wanted collateral in case her father defaulted on his promise. And so, her Papa gave him one of the few things of value he had left – the gold pocket watch that Cerise’s mother had given him. Cerise had to fight not cry out as she watched yet another small piece of her past slip away. But at least they had a place to live, and deep down, she knew that was far more important.

They moved into the small house on Mr. McCray’s property shortly thereafter. It was a small stone cottage that sat on a mass of land planted with potatoes, carrots, leeks and barley. The terms of their stay were fairly simple. Work the land and make sure that the crops were ready for pick up every month. They were also required to sell some of the crops in the square of the nearby town, and give 75% of whatever profits they made to McCray for rent. They were given a small section of the farmland close to the cottage to grow their own food. The arrangement was livable, and for a time, Cerise and her Papa were content, living off of the land and more importantly, no longer on the run.

In their years on the farm, Cerise grew and changed; her body slowly but surely filled out the once oversized male clothing. She began to long for things that she couldn’t have, such as dresses and the pretty heeled boots she saw all of the proper ladies wearing. But every time her father ever took her into a shop, he always bought more boys clothing that was always too big.

As she got older though, she began to hope that perhaps her body would betray her father into allowing her to dress like a girl again. She thought perhaps that moment had come on her sixteenth birthday, when her father came in with two packages wrapped in brown paper. She had asked him for a dress earlier that year, telling him that she would only wear it in the house. But disappointment was to be hers yet again as she unwrapped a pair of heavy suit pants, matching vest and a crisp new dress shirt. The other package contained a journal with a tiny lock on it and a small silver pocket watch, with the inscription of ‘beloved child’ in it. She did like the watch, it was obviously second hand and slightly tarnished, but it did have some shine to it and she liked to run her fingers along the delicate pattern engraved on the face cover. She asked her father why she couldn’t have just one dress; just one feminine thing that she could keep hidden from the world.

“Houghton’s a small town, love” her father finally replied. “What do you think they’d say if they saw me buying a dress? Good ‘eavens, when I think of the kind of tongue waggin’ that would cause – no, no. Not at all, love. We don’t need that kind of attention.”

Cerise nodded, but she couldn’t help the disappointment that showed on her face. Her father looked at her somberly then walked over and hugged her.

“Soon, my dear, soon” he reassured as he stroked her short curly hair. “Soon all will be settled and you’ll be free to be yourself again. I promise you.” He gently kissed her forehead and squeezed her shoulder. Cerise had heard that promise before, and the more he said it, the less she believed it. She looked back at the pile of clothes her father had brought and noticed something underneath the pile. Cerise pulled on it, revealing a long piece of material the resembled an overly large scarf. As she shook it open, a large safety pin fell to the floor.

“What’s this, papa?” Cerise asked. Papa turned around and looked at the cloth. He snapped his fingers as though something had just come to him.

“Oh yes, righ’. Tha’ there is something I wanted to talk to you about. Er..” her papa’s face went a bit red, he was obviously uncomfortable. “Well, its just that… you’ve been er, growin’ up quite a bit lately and um… well, even though those shirts are a bit big, sometimes… Well I just want to be safe…”

Cerise rolled her eyes impatiently.

“What is it, Papa?” Cerise urged. Papa sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead.

“You need to wrap round your… up top there” he began, pointing at Cerise’s chest. Cerise stared at him bewildered, then looked down at herself. Her chest had indeed changed, in the last few months especially. Despite her leanness from all of the field work, she noticed that her breasts were growing dangerously close to the front of her shirts now.

“I…I have to wrap this around myself… all the time?” Cerise asked quietly, now letting the cloth slip from her fingers. Papa looked away from her.

“I’m sorry, dear girl. I know I’ve asked so much o’ you already. But, you’ve just changed so much and… well we’ve come too far to be caught now. Please, Charlie, could you do it… for me?”

Cerise could feel the tears burning from behind her eyes. It was one thing to not get what she’d wanted for her birthday, but now to have to bind herself seemed almost too much. She grabbed the clothes, journal and the cloth angrily and started towards her room. Just before she went in she turned and said,

“Mon nom c’est Cérise!” then slammed the door behind her. After throwing her presents on the bed, she ignored her father’s pleas to eat dinner and decided to sulk in her room that night.

Cerise opened up her new journal. The paper bound in it was coarse and yellowed; a sign that it was poorer quality. Cerise stared at the book for the longest while and then suddenly got up and took a pencil from the small table in her room. As though a dam had been broken inside her, she started to write furiously on the pages. First about how upset she was about not getting her dress and having to look and act like a boy; and then about her mother and how much she missed Paris and how much she desired to go to school. Cerise didn’t realize how involved she’d become with her writing until she found herself shielding her eyes from the sunlight. She looked at her new pocket watch and found that it read 6:15. She groaned with the realization that she would have to start her chores in less than an hour. She contemplated having a short nap, but decided against it and started breakfast instead.

She’d nearly finished breakfast when her Papa appeared in the kitchen. He looked more tired than usual and slightly green in complexion. Cerise recognized this countenance; it meant that he’d been drinking for most of the night. Though he had tried his best to keep it from her, Cerise knew well that her father would often drink himself to sleep. Sometimes it was only a glass or two of ale; sometimes it was the whole bottle. Last night had obviously been the latter.

“Was about to give your breakfast to the dogs” Cerise chided as Papa slumped into a chair. He looked up wearily and smiled.

“Was a bit tired this mornin’. You didn’t have to wait on me” he replied. Cerise made a plate and brought it to the table, but as she went to put it down, her Papa held up his hand.

“Oh, no – no ‘tanks darlin’. Not feeling too well yet. You eat my share; I’ll have a big supper later. Got to get out into the fields anyhow, have to be in the square today.” Cerise frowned.

She hated going to the square in Houghton, the small town near their home. She always found herself wanting after all that she saw. She would see the townswomen, clad in their flowing dresses and beautiful parasols, walking down the main road, gossiping and shopping. Following closely behind would be their young daughters with shiny well-brushed hair, wearing the latest and daintiest of clothing, their cheeks brushed with rouge. How Cerise would long to be them. She’d find herself staring at them in envy more than actually selling the produce. Unfortunately, one day she’d been caught staring at one particular young lady a bit too hard and too long.

Her name was Margaret Chambers, and she was one of the most beautiful girls that Cerise had ever seen. She was petite girl, just a bit shorter than Cerise, with a fountain of reddish-brown hair that flowed wildly from her head. She had blue eyes and a small pointed nose that looked to have been carved out of wood. Her lips were thin, but always quite pink, as though she had just been eating strawberries. Freckles spread sparsely about her cheeks, nose and neck which always seemed faded due to the powder that she would wear. She always had on the most beautiful dresses, reminding Cerise of a porcelain doll she’d had when she was just a child. Cerise always admired her stylish dresses, the way her hair would always shine even in the morning damp, her dainty way of walking and talking. She envied her femininity, and longed to have the freedom to be beautiful and soft.

It had been two weeks before; Cerise was in the main street square minding the produce booth as she and her Papa always did twice a month. This particular time, Papa had remained on the acreage. Cerise didn’t mind coming to town on her own, it gave her one of the few chances to see other people her age – really to see anyone else at all.

In the midst of the day, Margaret entered the square, surrounded by her usual clique of girls from the town. Being December, most of the town was more festive than usual, preparing for the holidays. What caught Cerise’s eye was the dress that Margaret wore that day. It was shiny red taffeta with a lace-trimmed bodice and a neckline that was far lower than most Cerise had seen of late. It had small white and green lines running along it and long ruffled sleeves. The skirt was a ruby waterfall, obviously supported by a large crinoline. It was the loveliest dress that Cerise had ever seen. She remembered staring at it, unable to turn away. It seemed to stir up a host of feelings; feelings she had repressed for too long. She became lost in her thoughts, enveloped in her own fantasies of being able to walk down the streets of town adorned in dresses, her ebony hair falling about her shoulders…she was so distracted that she was startled when the whisper came to her ear.

“You like what you see, boy?” a thin, crisp voice spoke. Cerise snapped back into the present and turned to look at the speaker. A thin, blond man who seemed to tower was standing beside her, a smirk crossing his face. Cerise had seen him before, but he’d never paid her any mind. She knew by his clothes that he was very rich, and by the way he carried himself that he was very snobbish. He had fierce blue eyes that were small and cold.

“Er – sorry sir?” Cerise replied in confusion. The man’s smirk widened. He looked Cerise up and down appraisingly.

“I asked you if you like what you see. I’ve asked you three times for an apple, but your attentions seemed to be otherwise engaged. Not a fine way to do business.” The man replied at length. His voice was deeper than Cerise expected, and she could now sense the condescension in it. He stood up straighter with his hands behind his back to look down at Cerise.

“Do you think she’s pretty, mmm? Think that she’s someone you’d fancy courting? Or perhaps you had things of a more carnal nature in mind” he pressed. Cerise lowered her gaze.

“I don’t know who you mean” she replied quietly, reaching for the apple barrel. The man laughed mockingly.

“Are you daft boy, or is that you think that I am?” he said between chuckles. “This isn’t the first time I’ve caught you gawking at her. You look like you’re ready to leap over these tables and ravage her right here in the square.”

Cerise bit her lip hard to keep from yelling, partly from anger and partly from frustration over the fact that she’d let herself be so obvious. She took a deep breath and replied.

“One apple, that’s sixpence, sir”. She extended the apple to him. His smile faded slightly and Cerise saw what looked like a flash of annoyance cross his eyes. He tilted his head slightly.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Charlie”

“Charlie what?”

“Charlie Barrington”

“Well, Charlie, I don’t think this apple is quite enough for my sixpence. You were quite rude to me when I arrived and I didn’t receive the quality of service that is due for a nobleman. You do realize that I’m a nobleman don’t you Charlie?” Cerise swallowed hard as she nodded her head.

“Yessir, I apologize sir.” She extended the apple again, but the man turned his nose up to it. He turned and looked at Margaret, then his smirk reappeared.

“Margaret!” he yelled down the street. Cerise’s head shot up in surprise, then followed the man’s gaze. Margaret turned away from her gaggle of friends and looked at the man, then smiled and waved. The man beckoned for her.

“Margaret dear, come here. I have someone I want you to meet.” Margaret nodded and started towards the booth. Cerise felt as though ice water had been thrown down her back. She looked frantically at the man.

“I – I’m truly sorry sir. Please – have this apple and another, no charge. It won’t ever happen again sir!” she pleaded, grasping desperately at the apples. But the man only laughed and he continued to beckon Margaret forward. Cerise began to panic, she could feel the color rushing to her cheeks. She turned to walk away from the booth, but then felt her arm being grabbed. She looked down at her arm and followed it up to the man, who now had a fierce look in his eyes.

“You try to run off and I’ll yell thief, you little worm” he said, his voice low and threatening. Though the accusation was false, Cerise knew well that in the eyes of a small town Constable, anything a nobleman said was truth. She stood frozen to the spot, staring at her worn out shoes.

“Well, if it isn’t the ever elusive Benjamin Winthrop” a silky voice cooed. Cerise didn’t have to look up to know that it was Margaret. Margaret had a low, breathy way of talking that made her sound both lady-like and mischievous at the same time. Benjamin’s laugh followed.

“I’m never elusive, Margaret my dear, one must make the effort to find me is all. It’s the power of pursuit.” He replied. Margaret let out a light, airy chuckle.

“Pursuit is the lot of men. The only women that do such things are heathens and brothel fiends.” Margaret’s gaze fell on Benjamin’s grip. “And who’s your young charge, then?”

“Oh yes, this here is your young admirer; goes by the name of Charlie Barrington. Fine name don’t you think? Says a lot about his upbringing.” Benjamin said, staring down his long straight nose at Cerise. Margaret giggled again.

“Actually I think Charles is quite dignified.” She replied, throwing a flirtatious glare at Cerise. Cerise felt as though her cheeks would burst into flames at any minute. Margaret took a step closer stared Cerise up and down in the same evaluating fashion that Benjamin had earlier. She tilted her head down, trying to meet Cerise’s eyes.

“How old are you, Charlie?” she asked. Cerise kept her eyes to the ground and remained silent. She felt a sharp squeeze on the arm that Benjamin was still holding.

“The lady asked you a question, boy. Haven’t you any manners at all?” He chided. Cerise looked up at him, her light brown eyes throwing daggers. Benjamin smiled at this. Cerise looked back quickly at Margaret, who was waiting expectantly with her mob.

“Sixteen, Miss” she answered, looking at the ground again. Margaret’s expression changed to surprise at this.

“Sixteen? Really? You’re very slight for a boy your age.” Margaret commented. Benjamin laughed at this and added,

“Indeed, dear Margaret. I’d say it’s almost a complete tragedy. Perhaps a trip to the doctor’s may be an order.” At this Margaret’s pack erupted into a flurry of giggles. Cerise wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole at that moment. Why did this Benjamin Winthrop have to torture her so? But to Cerise’s surprise, Margaret came to her defense and shushed the girls.

“Now, now, there’s no need to be cruel. We all have desirable attributes in one way or the other. Now really Benjamin, what has this poor young man done to deserve your venom on such a fine day?” she said. Cerise allowed her gaze to wander back to Benjamin’s face, and she could tell by its bothered appearance that he Margaret’s reply was not what he had anticipated – or wanted. He finally let Cerise’s arm drop.

“Well let’s see, he was so busy boring holes through you from across the square that I was treated rather rudely. I just thought it was my duty as a gentleman to make you aware of such obscene behaviour… and perhaps fulfill one of the little wretch’s fantasies at the same time.” Benjamin replied crisply. Cerise rather disliked the way his tone could go from friendly to frosty in an instant. Margaret merely chuckled at this.

“My dear Mr. Winthrop, I’m afraid that if simply looking at someone was considered an obscenity that you yourself would be guilty of several counts. My sister has more than once caught your less then honorable ogles.” She replied, her face taking on a rather mischievous look. Cerise could see just the slightest bit of pink flush Benjamin’s cheeks. He cleared his throat straightened his posture again, holding his head upwards.

“Well then, I suppose the adage that no good deed goes unpunished has been proven this afternoon. T’will be the last time I pay any consideration to a lady’s reputation.” He spat. His lofty gaze fell upon Cerise again with renewed coldness.

“I’ve rather lost my appetite, so you can keep your miserable apple. But I will be seeking compensation for my inconvenience, make no mistake. I never forget, Charlie Barrington. Never.” With this, Benjamin straightened his scarf and stalked off towards the business district. Margaret pouted at Benjamin’s back as he walked, and imitated his way of sticking his nose in the air, which caused her gaggle to start laughing again. Cerise was beginning to wonder if the girls did much else. Margaret finally turned back to Cerise with a curious smile. Cerise felt the heat come back to her cheeks.

“Thank – Thank you miss. I-I didn’t mean to stare, it was very rude. Please,” Cerise said, then waving her hand across the barrels at her stand she continued, “anything you’d like, no charge, for your trouble”. Margaret’s stare didn’t waver from Cerise’s face. Cerise doubted she could ever be so bold.

“Thank you, but I’m not quite hungry at the moment Charlie” Margaret replied, her voice was breathy again. “But I may stop by another day, when I’m, well, hungry.” With this she shot Cerise a flirtatious look, then turned to her aficionados. “Come on ladies, we still have plenty of shopping left to do. And I think I saw this perfect parasol for my sister in Perrin’s shop just the other day…”

Margaret’s voice faded as she and her troop disappeared into the shopping crowds. Cerise made sure not to follow them with her eyes again. She promised herself that day that she would avoid the market for a while, at least long enough that hopefully both Margaret and that awful Benjamin Winthrop forgot about their little interlude. Every time Cerise remembered his cold eyes, she’d feel herself shiver slightly. She didn’t like him very much at all, and the longer she went without seeing him again, the better. So far she’d managed to avoid the square for nearly a month.

Cerise took her time about her morning chores, partly because she was genuinely tired but mostly to procrastinate going the market as much as possible. Her father didn’t seem to notice that she was lingering all that much, in fact he seemed to be deep in his thoughts for most of the day. He was so distracted that he hadn’t noticed dusk falling on the horizon, a sign that it was far too late for Cerise to go to market. Cerise didn’t bother to remind him. Her Papa went to bed early that night, though Cerise knew that he didn’t go to sleep. He went into his room with a large bottle of ale, which he surely drank in its entirety before finally falling asleep.

Over the next few months, Cerise found that her Papa was more frequently going to bed early and barely able to get up the next day. His eating habits became more and more erratic; there were days when he wouldn’t have more than a slice of bread and cheese. Cerise could feel that something was wrong; her father seemed to be slipping away. But whenever she tried to talk to him about it, he’d wave her off, citing that he was just tired or having a “hard time of it”. Cerise had come to know that when her father said that, he meant that he was missing her mother. So she kept up with the routine, in part to keep her mind off her father, and also in order to keep McCray satisfied. She still tended the fields and went to the market, at which she thankfully managed to avoid both Margaret and Winthrop for weeks.

But the extra effort to keep up with her father’s declining performance began to take its toll on Cerise. Her hands became thick with calluses; her body grew more and more muscular with every passing week it seemed. All the while, she saw that her Papa was spending less and less time out in the fields, and making more trips down the road to the merchant who sold his homemade ale. He had started coughing, at first a bit here and there, but it soon progressed to happening daily and more severely. Cerise suggested getting the doctor in town to visit, but her Papa would refuse, simply stating that it was just old age. Cerise let it drop for a while, until one night when she picked up her Papa’s handkerchief that he use to cover his mouth while he coughed for washing and discovered it spattered with blood. Her fears were confirmed when she saw him later that night go into a coughing fit that ended in his hand being misted red. She made up her mind to see the in-town doctor the very next day and bring him back to the house, with or without her Papa’s consent.

It was late afternoon by the time Cerise was travelling back to the house from town. The doctor had told her that he wouldn’t be able to stop by until near suppertime, so Cerise decided to go back to the house and make sure that her father was raised and bathed in time. As she approached the house she saw a picture that was all too familiar to her, one that she had come to hate. Their carriage was stopped in front of the gate, the back filled with small bags and crates – and her bag. The same bag her father had packed for her when she was only nine years old with only a handful of her belongings.

They were leaving again.

She now ran to the house, bursting in the front door. She saw her Papa sitting on a chair, pushing clothes into a dark grey bag. He had been sleeping when she left that morning.

“What’s happening, Papa?” Cerise asked, her hands now on her hips. Her father didn’t look up.

“You ought to take a look into yer room and make sure there’s nothing there you’d be wan’in” her father said. His accent was thicker than usual, which Cerise knew meant that he was upset. But she didn’t move.

“I asked you what’s going on Papa! Why are we packing? We’re not leaving are we? What happened?” Cerise’s voice was starting to shake, she could feel her anger rising. Her father finally looked up at her. His face was very pale; his eyes were sunken and dark from many nights of ill sleep. He also seemed to be sweating despite the cool winter weather. Cerise saw the pleading look in his eyes, but she was too upset to care. She folded her arms and waited. Her Papa sighed heavily.

“Oh Charlie, I do wish you wouldn’t look at me like tha’. You look so much like… but ne’er mind tha’. We haven’t a lot of time, you need to do as I asked and get ou’ to the carriage. Please.” Papa pleaded, but Cerise’s face remained hard.

“No, Papa. No! I won’t take another step until I hear what happened. I - I don’t want to move again.” Papa stared at Cerise for a long while, then as he was about to speak, broke into a fit of heavy coughing. He was hacking so hard that he bent double; dropping the sack he was packing. Cerise grabbed his handkerchief from the laundry pile and brought to him. He could barely stop coughing long enough to take the kerchief from her, and she saw that the hand he used to reach out was spattered in blood. Her heart sank at the sight of it. She went to the sink and pumped some water into a glass and brought to her Papa, who’s coughing was finally starting to settle. He nodded at her with watery eyes and took the glass, sipping it carefully. Cerise waited until his wheezy breathing returned before continuing.

“Papa, please”, she began, her voice a whisper. “Tell me why we have to leave again? Things are fine here, no one’s come around for months, and Mr. McCray is happy with our work.” Her Papa took a long, laboured breath. He seemed to be carrying the world on his shoulders.

“You’re not a child anymore, Charlie. I know you don’t think tha’ I notice, but I see how you’ve grown up, how you seem to be taken more care o’ me these days than the other way around…” His eyes grew distant when he said this, as though he could see right through Cerise. “I think you already have an idea tha’ we haven’t just been travellin’ all these years. That we’ve been…well…running. I can’t…I can’t get into all the details jus’ now, but I can tell you - as sure as I’m sittin’ here - that it isn’t safe for us to stay here a day longer. We need to start moving again. Start heading back south, maybe for London. Big city, easier to mind you own affairs there…”

Her Papa seemed to drift away in thought again. Cerise felt her heart sink as she realized that trying to talk him out of leaving wasn’t going to work.

Papa went on to say that he’d been paying a man back in Wales to keep an eye out for any foreigners who might be asking about him. His contact had sent him a letter that he’d received that morning, saying that a Frenchman had been enquiring in various parts of Wales about a Gregory Barrington traveling with young girl. The letter had been dated three weeks before. Cerise listened in silence to her father. It was the first time he admitted to her that he was in trouble. Of course he hadn’t told her everything, but the fact that he said anything at all made a world of difference to her. It also scared her. For the last three years she had been trying to convince herself that there was still a possibility that she’d misunderstood what had been said in that tavern between Papa and Mr. McCray. But now her fears were no longer a wandering entity, they had found a new home in her heart.

After sometime, she stood and without a word, went to her room. It was almost exactly as it had been when they’d arrived years earlier. The bed neatly made with the worn wool sheets. The small wash table bare but for the basin and pitcher. Even the drawings she’d made and nailed to the wall had been removed. It was like no one had ever lived there. Her father was nothing if not thorough. She sighed as she went to the small closet and lifted one of the nearly rotted floorboards. This is where she’d taken to putting her journal. She took it from its damp home and tucked it into trouser pocket. She looked around the tiny room, the place that had been hers for the past three years. Though her work was hard, she enjoyed it on their little farm. It had been a small sanctuary from the rest of the world and its hustle for so long.

“Goodbye, little farmhouse” Cerise whispered as she backed out of the room.

She turned to see that her father had already left the house. She looked around the room carefully, but saw that despite her father’s pallor, he’d managed to remember to pack the essentials. Cerise took one last nostalgic look at the house before closing the front door and starting down the path to the gate. She walked slowly, trying to imprint as much of the place as she could in memory. She would write about this place in her journal that night, she decided, while everything was still fresh in her mind. Her Papa was sitting in the carriage with the reins in his hand, staring at her. Cerise looked at him, but he seemed to be looking right through her again. Perhaps he was doing what she was, remembering all he could about this little nook in the world that had been the closest thing to a home they’d had since France. At length, Cerise made it to the carriage and hoisted herself up next to her Papa. She pretended to stare at the brush on the ground to keep Papa from seeing the tears that were stinging her eyes. She knew he felt badly already, she didn’t want to make him feel worse. But her Papa knew her too well. He put his arm around her and gave her a tug. Cerise let her head loll over and rest on his shoulder, burrowing her face in his shabby overcoat. She didn’t see the farm roll away behind her, or the trees gather until even the road that led to their farm seemed to disappear. Cerise wanted to keep her face buried in her father’s arm until she could accept the fact that nothing was ever going to be the same again.