I sat back as the boat pulled away from the dock. The sun rose as the green fields rocked in my vision, the sailors straining against the waves, pulling me farther and farther from my home. I had nothing now. Nothing but my father’s book and the spare set of clothes I’d grabbed when Maria came to warn me. The ashes of my home would be cooling by now. Gone, after the hundreds of generations that had loved its halls and windows.
“Revolution,” Jacques whispered bitterly next to me. I could not tear my eyes away from the slowly receding shore. “To think we wanted it.”
And the sailors rowed on.
*****
Years later, I stand on the shore, looking south. Jacques has gone on, on to a new country, to the French Americas. I cannot: my land is France, and I am not welcome there. Our cousins here in England were kind enough to take us in at first, until we got over the shock and loss. Now I work for a bank, and I have a son who has gone off into the army.
I still come here, each day, to look for my Lady, my France, through the fog over the channel. But never have I seen it.
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