The word “beach” applied both to Chéri’s memories of home and to the place where they currently were, but once within the category the long, wide and flat land that touched the sea in Whitby had very little in common with the irregular, sun-kissed rocky land where Chéri had learnt the family trade.
While a seaman mainly needs the water, in whatever form, a fisherman has a strong connection to their own beach, he knows it like the palm of his hands and knows what to ask of it when in need.
Whibty’s beach was’t Chéri’s beach, so their requests weren’t going to be granted just like that, but they could try. A beach could still chose to answer or not.

But what was it they were asking? Well, considering they were quite broke and out of their element here, in Whitby, Chéri needed to find another way to cater to their needs and potentially improve their situation. And one thing they could do is starting to wear feminine clothing again. It was good for business and also, they missed it. But alas, they had nothing of their old wardrobe here, so they were back to square one: building outfits from scratch.

There weren’t going to find gemstones, pearls, silks or velvets here, but they could find a different type of finery to create their own beautiful things. In this case specifically: seashells. And that was how Chéri found themselves walking barefoot, in their shirtsleeves, with their trousers rolled up their calf and a small basket collecting the bits and pieces the sea had decided to leave there for those who were patient enough to collect them, everything while humming under their breath. Their regular Parisian clothes were now in need of a wash, so Chéri was wearing some old shirt and pants that had been lent to them at the diamond pony, their expensive looks temporarily gone.

In this situation, they looked like what they were: someone who had been blessed with natural beauty and grace, but not money nor position, who was finding another way to get what they wanted.

Wesley had been walking the beach for a while. He'd been in a terrible mood since a run in with another person whom he wondered what was going on in the hiring process in this town. He saw he was mostly alone but one up ahead. As he approached he saw it was a boy, at least he thought it was. After his run in, he didn't know if he could be completely certain.

"Hey, you there. What are you doing out here?" He doubted they were up to anything, but he was in a bad mood and a person searching the ground could mean anything. Maybe he could simply feel better intimidating them.

Chéri, who thought they were going to be left alone in their collecting, was treating this as a sort of therapeutic activity, letting some of their worries and memories was away with the seafood. So it took a moment to realise the man had actually talked to them. Chéri rose their head and tilted it to the side, looking at the stranger with big eyes “Pardon?” They said, with an indisputably French accent and pronunciation.

Wesley rolled his eyes and straightened his collar a bit. Fantastic, a lost kid perhaps from rich parents who were traveling and decided to stop in this dirt hole. He took a deep breath and walked over forcing a smile upon his face as he spoke french, since he too came from a wealthy enough and educated family.

"Are you a lost tourist, child?" He asked curiously in french. He glanced around and indeed there were no others around. And the boy in front of him did not look like he'd been washed ashore. "Are you looking for something?"

Chéri stopped dead in their tracks and stared at them in disbelief. Had Wesley not been wearing a uniform, probably Chéri would have answered with an appropriately insulting remark, but getting arrested was not something they enjoy, so they avoided “No sir,” they made their voice as deep as they could without going for proper mockery. “I am just here, collecting seashells.” They answered, as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

Wesley nodded and walked closer before standing roughly a few meters away. He put his hands on his hips and watched them intently for any suspicious behavior. "Seashells? And what is someone like you doing out here anyway? You're alone in a place with not many French speakers?" This was strange and he wondered if this french boy was alone, maybe he was sent here to work at one of the houses and depending on his tasks, that was definitely an arrest-able offense.

Wesley came closer and Chéri stopped, looking at him with his determinate attitude. They blinked a few times, making their eyes bigger and their smile softer, serene, very “poetry of the simple life” considering they were carrying the shells they had collected in an apron in front of them, fruit-farmer style. “Why shouldn’t someone like me be here? The unusual happens.” Chéri had no intention whatsoever of being caught at fault and they could tell Wesley was trying to be somehow confrontational. So they just kept smiling and occasionally batted their long, long lashes. Kill them with sugar.

Wesley arched his brow and chuckled as if catching them up to something. "You are here alone? There are not many french speakers. So do you not have someone to help you translate? Or someone expecting you while you wander off, unable to get help if needed?" The dangers to him was obvious. Unless this person who was trying so hard to look innocent, was truly the one up to something. It would be so easy to be the picture of innocence and an easy target, only to lure them out of view and attack them to take everything they had.

Chéri shrugged “Did I say I was alone?” They were going full French “You’d be surprised. I was myself, in finding so many refined people such as yourself.” Chéri knew enough English people to know that speaking French was kind of fancy. “And I don’t think I should worry about needing help, you are here, non? And you speak French.” They added, still with the same expression, as they bent to catch another seashell. “This one is very pretty.” They turned the beautiful circular shell in their hand, appreciating how it was blue on one side and orange on the other.

Wesley watched curiously and rose his brow. "Oh really? But you are alone now. There is no one else around. You could find yourself in a predicament. I will keep an eye on you for now so you can ... look for seashells safely." He would keep an eye out and see who was so 'kindly' keeping an eye out on him. Maybe this would lead to an opium den and young men who entertained. He couldn't imagine such a place normally in Whitby, but there had been more and more wealthy people moving to town. Something must be drawing them in.