In a former life, Chéri had been fishfolk. They had spent a great deal of time wrapping and unwrapping, scrubbing, pulling, pushing and just waiting for an eternal amount of time, which had turned into almost a sort of meditation so whenever they felt overwhelmed, they came here and listened to the sea. Very few things were familiar to them in Whitby and one of them was the waves. Different water, different ways to go about it but, at the end of the day, waves were waves and they understood their language. 

They were sitting down on the beach, covered in the anonymous brown suit they had taken to wear for security reasons while they roamed Whitby, their wrists on their knees, their green eyes on the water. Normally, their body was so filled with energy, they could barely contain it, but today they had woken up on the wrong side of the bed, it seemed and their mood just didn’t improve. And there was little they could do about it. Talking was hard, even beyond the linguistical aspect and they weren’t much one for talking anyway. The small wound on their thigh hurt, so dancing wasn’t a thing either, so they started to sing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYNJbuBo...%A9t%C3%A9

They had a beautiful baritone voice and their odd accent made the song more nostalgic, taking away, perhaps, from its political meaning in the most traditional sense. Chéri didn’t understand all it was suppose to represent, but the fact that it was a revolutionary song did hold an appeal: there was something they wanted to rebel against and even if it was vague and unclear, at least they could express their needs with their voice. And according to the french stereotype about basque folk, they sang loud and well.

“Stop for a moment, Anaisa,” Emilios called.

Athanasia turned around.  “What is it this time?”

“I need to take off my shoes.” 

She laughed. “I told you not to wear any.”  It was difficult to walk on the sand with shoes on.  She had told her stubborn brother that before they had left the house, as well as to wear lighter clothes.  But no, he’d had to dress in a suit as if he was going to his London office instead of to the beach.

She was dressed appropriately in a simple pink gown and a bonnet sitting atop her long dark brown curls.  Two liveried servants followed them, carrying the things they would need for their picnic.  Athanasia was surprised that Emilios had agreed to accompany her at all, but perhaps her threat to go alone had swayed him. 

If she had her way, he would even have fun.  He needed to start living again.  The time for mourning was over but she thought he was content to brood forever.  At least he had seemed to enjoy himself at that masquerade ball she had pressured him into going to.  The stories he told her about it had been hilarious.  And he had not complained about the ball either, though he spent most of the time looking at the paintings and not dancing with attractive women.

Athanasia chuckled again as she watched him stand on one foot and then another to remove his shoes.  He handed them to one of the servants.  “Much better,” he announced, catching up to her.

“Good.”  She smiled at him sweetly.  At least he wasn’t complaining like he usually did when she convinced him to leave the mansion.  Perhaps, like her, he was remembering the vacations in Greece during their childhood when the entire family had gone on picnics together.  None of them had had a care in the world and they had run through the sand, collected shells, and swum in the sea. 

As they walked side by side, talking quietly, Athanasia heard a lovely voice carried by the breeze.  “Somebody’s singing,” she remarked.

“I only hear those damned gulls,” Emilios muttered.

“Watch your language, Emil,” his sister admonished.  “I have innocent ears.”

Emilios sighed.  Why had he allowed Athanasia to talk him into this?  It was far more trouble than it was worth.  Angelina had loathed picnics and he had not been on one since before he had met her.  He knew what his little sister was trying to do … to get his mind off of his late wife and finally move beyond his grief.  It was why she had accompanied him to Whitby and to her credit, she had kept at it despite his many protests.

“We’re getting closer.  Can’t you hear it?”

He paused and could faintly make out the sound of one voice singing quite beautifully in French.  As Athanasia sang too and was fluent in that language, he wasn’t surprised that she was interested. 

“Come on, Emil, let’s go find the singer!”  She grabbed his hand and started pulling him down the shoreline, the servants following at their heels.  It wasn’t long before they could see a young man sitting on the sand and looking out to sea while he sang.  There was something strangely familiar about him, but Emilios couldn’t quite figure it out.

Athanasia walked right up to him, smiling brightly.  “You sing very well,” she said in English.

Occasionally, other people would appear on the beach. Often fishermen -Chéri would greet them politely, as they were starting to get used to them by now- some regular townies taking a walk for their health, who were less inclined to greet them, especially if they were acquainted and on occasion somebody who looked actually classy, actually fancy. That was the case with the two Katsaros siblings. Chéri had met the man -there were very few that were that tall… well anywhere-, but not the girl and knew better than approach them out of the blue.

There was no need to, though: the two siblings decided to come close to them. Chéri didn’t move, wondering what would happen once they were actually close. They blinked a few times, their big green eyes watery because of the wind.

With their great surprise, it was the lady who spoke first. Chéri bent their head to the side. They understood enough to know that was a compliment “Thank you,” they said, finishing their song. They smiled at her. “Would you like me to sing something else?” they asked, in French. They just didn’t have enough knowledge of the language to ask that in English and didn’t want to lose time when facing somebody who just seemed… so enthusiastic. They had met so many mopey people here in Whitby, it was refreshing, for once, to bump into somebody who wasn’t.

The said couldn’t be said about her brother. Chéri touched their hat upon seeing the man and grinned with a little bit of irony, wondering if they had any suspect “Good day to you, sir,” they said, still in french, with their baritone voice.

Although he thanked her in heavily-accented English, the young man continued in French, asking Athanasia if she would like him to sing something else. Always eager to converse in any of the many languages she knew, the pretty polyglot immediately switched to French. She was so fluent that she sounded like a native. “Oh, most definitely!” she enthused. “You are originally from France? How long have you been here in Whitby? Do you live with your family? Are you a famous …?”

Emilios squeezed her hand hard, as he often did when she asked too many personal questions. Athanasia looked up at him. Instead of a disapproving expression, he seemed to be contemplating something, glancing every now and then at the French singer.

With a mental shrug, she smiled at the man brightly. “Sorry for asking so many questions and for completely forgetting my manners. I’m Athanasia Katsaros and this is my brother Emilios. We moved here about a month ago from London. Emilios … ouch!” She winced as he squeezed her hand again. This time she wrenched it away, glared at him, and stepped out of his reach and toward the amazing singer.

He addressed her brother then, and grinned at him. Hopefully, Emilios would behave.

Emilios frowned when the young man spoke.  For some reason, he had already expected that he wouldn’t be able to speak English.  Why?  His voice did not sound familiar but there was something about him that was.  It was almost as if he had met this boy before, but he had an excellent memory and could not recall encountering him in the past.

If he had not been a bit perplexed, he might have been able to stop Anaisa’s tirade before it progressed too far.  His sister was always talkative but even more so when she was excited.  And she was certainly enthusiastic about this French singer.  He hoped she didn’t develop a crush on him.  Considering the way he was dressed, he was not high enough in status for his precious sister to waste time on.

She got his message when he squeezed her hand, but soon she was off again, introducing both of them.  If he had not stopped her a second time, Emilios was positive that she would have told the singer the reason that they had moved here and that was nobody’s business but his own.  When they got home, he would warn her never to speak of his wife’s death to either friends or strangers.

The French singer turned his attention to Emilios and grinned.  Again, he felt as if he already knew him.  There was something about that smile …

“Good day to you as well,” he replied, his own smile a bit tight.  “Please forgive my sister for asking so many questions.  Sometimes she talks too much.”

Where, he wondered again, have I seen him before?

The girl seemed very excited to talk to them and Chéri touched the side of their head, smiling wide than they would otherwise have, almost giggling, one could have said “I am French and I have been here… some months. I do think quite a few people in town know me…” no mention of their family. It was better that way. Her brother didn’t want her to speak to them anyway. Chéri leaned back, on their elbows, for a moment. They shook their head.

“You are curious. I like that. And you have a nice name,” they did not introduced themselves. It was something they preferred not doing, in general. “Why move here?” They asked directly, in general. Chéri turned to Emilios. That one, in particular, didn’t make much sense here. The lady might have been there for school or for the air, but the gentleman… maybe he had some interests. Money, probably.

“She is nice. Why apologise. You want to take hr away?” They knew they were being defiant and quite possibly the man wouldn’t like it, but Chéri did not see why they shouldn’t amuse themselves. Their mood had been rather erratic since moving here, but not as much as it had been before. So if the man gave them the time of the day, why not play with him?

As for his sister, she had the genuine sort of energy Chéri liked in a companion. It was encouraging, really. Heartwarming to have around. But it always felt as if it belonged to somebody younger and Chéri had never really learnt how to be an older sibling.