"Chéri," Anne repeated. She had never heard the name before, but then, maybe it was a common name in France. She wouldn't know. She looked away for a moment, feeling a little awkward because she didn't know what to say to someone who didn't speak her language. But she also didn't want him to tease again. She turned her eyes back on him. "What brings you to Whitby, Chéri?" she tried.

Anne looked away, Chéri didn’t. They never had much to say, but always had a lot to do for to experience. She asked something Chéri didn’t understand. They knew “Whitby” as a word, so they concluded it must have been a question about they being there “Not long.” Was said in English. It was not the appropriate answer. Chéri indicated her tools: they wanted to try. They mimicked the gesture of trying.

Not quite an answer to her question, but Anne smiled and nodded as if it was. She looked down at her handiwork. She didn't want to be rude, but she also didn't want her work ruined. Well, she supposed a beginner would be slow, and she could always undo some of the stitches.

She handed the knitting needles over to Chéri slowly. "Careful..." she warned, and she watched closely, ready to stop her pupil if necessary.

If they had a little more ability to communicate with each other, Chéri would have probably asked for suggestion and made jokes about the possibility of ruining the sweater, they would have offered assurances or an alternative way. They had none of that to concretely offer.

Chéri nodded. They made the first movement, the second one and then stopped to ask for confirmation. How were they supposed to continue from here on. They ask silently for help, their smile wider and sweeter.

Anne nodded. She was glad that he was taking it slow and giving her time to offer instructions. "Here..." she reached out and changed the position of his hands a little, showing him how to move them more efficiently. "Now, carry on until you reach here." She pointed at a part in the row above where the pattern changed.

She had never seen a boy knit before, let alone taught one, and she had never met one who even wanted to learn. But rather than shock her, it fascinated her. She glanced up at the fair face. He fascinated her.

Chéri kept his eyes on their hands, to memorise the movement, like dance steps. They pressed their lips together and repeated, nodding.
Chéri followed the operation once again. It was probably a lousy job, but at least the movement had been correctly executed. They did it once or twice again, so that they could legitimately start to see a pattern that had been created by their hands.

And once they looked up once again and found Anne’s eyes, Chéri smiled warmly and rose the work a little. Is this right? They were mimicking. As far as Anne’s fascination with them, Chéri was way too experienced with the world not to see it. They were also far too experience not to ignore it, since they had no reason to be cruel to Anne. She was -in theory- more his peer than anyone he had spoken to in Whitby. In practice, Chéri felt ten years older or more. This didn’t prevent them to enjoy the little lesson like a child would.

Anne looked down at the work and nodded. "A little tighter," she said, and she reached out to tug at the wool a little and get the stitches matched to the rest. She looked up at his face again. Then she pointed at him. "You, here," she waved her hand at the town below. "Why?" She hesitated for a second, and then held her hands up and shrugged, tilting her head a little.

Chéri’s eyes were gleaming as they saw the yarn getting tighter, turning into a fabric rather than a series of threads. It was a small form of magic and despite everything, Chéri had a lot of love for that sort of thing. They were ready to think about other things, but this time she asked the question more clearly. Chéri shrugged. I was in a relationship with a rich man that treated me very poorly, I let him bring me here because I was stupid, so I fled without a dime and this is the first place I got to that seemed far enough. What a terrible answer that would have been. How stunned could Anne turn out to be. Chéri would have not said that anyway. Chéri shrugged. “Sea. Pretty.” Eh. Close enough.

Anne watched him. There was more to that answer, she was certain, but it had to be hard for him to explain in English. "The sea is very pretty here," she agreed. Anne had never seen the sea in other places. Unless a few miles north or south along the shore counted.

Had to be rich, to travel from France to here just to see the sea. Why was he talking to a girl like her? Should she be suspicious? But he looked younger than Noah bloody Longbottom, and pretty harmless.

She held out her hands. "Can I have it back now, please?" she asked. She did not want to disappoint Chéri. But she also did not want him to ruin her work.

Chéri nodded in agreement, but the light tension was palpable even to them. She clearly wasn’t happy with the answer and was starting to look suspicious. It was just their destiny. Chéri understood the word “please” and gave back the work, not wanting to spoil it any further and guessing she was talking about it, then took a step back, intending not to bother her.

They would have probably walked further had they not heard in the distance someone singing while strumming a few notes. It was by no means a well executed song and Chéri had absolutely heard better music, but domesticated sound had almost disappeared from their life after being such an important part of it for so long and Chéri had been born fishfolk, it was in their blood to feel the songs of the sea. Chéri closed their eyes while their feet started to find a rhythm on their own, following the music.