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“Thomas Moore has a lovely poem called ‘Come O’er the Sea’ that says ‘the true soul burns the same where’er it goes.’”
“You memorize a lot of poetry,” said Michel.
“What do you think Mr. Moore meant?” she asked.
Adele’s nose wrinkled as she thought about it. “Maybe... maybe he meant that what’s inside us, the things that make us different from anyone else, those things don’t change when we live somewhere new.”
“I think that’s precisely what he meant, you clever girl.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, watching carts and carriages cross the bridge.
“Interesting things, bridges, don’t you think?” asked Mari. “They connect one place with another. I think perhaps you need a bridge right now.”
Michel frowned. “We don’t need a bridge. We need a ship.”
Adele elbowed him in the side.
“Ow!”
“You’re not supposed to tell anyone about the ship, Michel,” scolded his sister.
“So there is a ship,” said Mari. “I thought as much. And this ship will take you back to France, is that right?”
Another glance passed between them.
“You must miss France, and your life there. And you don’t want to be separated. That’s why you’ve been running away, I suppose. So... which ship is to be yours?” She pointed into the distance between London Bridge and the Tower where the ships’ masts bristled in the Pool of London. “Will you sign on as cabin boys?”
Michel’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Adele will have to chop off her hair, to pass as a boy,” mused Mari. “Luckily, I’ve brought some scissors.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a glinting pair of sewing scissors.
Adele scooted away. “What, right now?”
“No time like the present, I always say. Oh your father will surely weep for your absence, and I shan’t be thought much of a success as a governess, but you’ll be on your ship bound for France. You’ll swab down the decks, and trap rats, and clean up drunken sailor vomit. It will be ever so much fun.”
“You don’t make it sound very fun,” said Adele.
“Hello there, sir,” Mari called to a wizened old man mending a net below them on the bank.
He touched his cap.
“Might you know of a ship sailing for France that’s hiring two cabin boys?” called Mari.
His tilted his head. “Can’t say as I do. But perhaps my nephew might. He’s first mate onThe Fairweather.”
Michel tugged on Mari’s sleeve. “Miss Perkins.”
“Yes, Michel?”
“We’ve changed our minds.”
“What? Changed your minds. How can that be? This fine fellow will take you to his nephew.”
“We want our tea and biscuits,” said Michel, his lip wobbling.
“Never mind, sir,” called Mari to the fisherman. “They’ve changed their minds.”
The man gave her a confused look and returned to mending his net.
