"He's found me," Satine whispered through clenched teeth, her blue eyes wide.
Christian's fork fell to the floor. He hurriedly bent to pick it up, replacing it on the linen napkin.
All at once, Satine turned to her children, her smile diamond-bright. "Verite, Mat, Mother and Father are going to the parlor to talk for a moment. It's quite dull, and you don't need to hear any of it." She coughed, swallowed. "Excuse me."
Mat, who was shoveling roast chicken served with small red potatoes into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, didn't even look up; Verite, thirteen, with somewhat better table manners, merely nodded. She seemed only too happy to have her parents out of the way.
"Mom's scared," Mat whispered after their parents had left, leaning over the table.
Verite carefully put down her fork and knife, looking at her eight-year-old brother. "Sit up straight. How can you tell?"
"She always coughs when she's scared."
Verite nodded. "Do you think we'll have to move again?"
Mat shrugged. "I hope not."
The siblings fell silent, trying to catch an auditory glimpse of the conversation emanating from the parlor.
"Calm down, Satine." Christian stroked his wife's brilliantly red hair. "Who's found you?"
"The Duke." Pulling free from his embrace, she began to pace like a tragic figure in a ballet, like a caged unicorn. "When I exited the dancing school this afternoon, there was a man in his livery standing in the doorway of the haberdasher's across the street." Her eyes widened. "Watching me."
"I know the Duke sent him. Don't ask me how."
He nodded, solemn. "I won't."
"Thank you." She ran a hand through her hair. "We'll have to move again, then." Suddenly she sat on the sofa, stifling a cough. "I was so certain that we were safe."
Christian sat down beside her, draping an arm over her shoulders. "And we were safe. For seven brilliant years."
"I don't want to run anymore."
"I know, but we have no choice."
She nodded, smiling a little. "The children won't like it, though. Verity has all those suitors, even though she's only thirteen."
"She takes after her mother."
Satine smiled a little. "And Mat has so many friends."
"We'll tell them we're going to visit relatives."
"We told them that last time."
"Then... an extended vacation."
"All right. I'm thinking America. Yes, I know it's far, but you're always saying your books aren't as popular there as you'd like them to be. And the justice system is completely different there. They don't place as much store on titles and things."
"America it is, then," he said, and bent to kiss her.
Several minutes later, the pair re-emerged into the dining room; Christian re-buttoning his dark jacket, Satine smoothing down her rumpled blouse.
"Verite, Mat," Satine announced, cheerfully, "Guess what?"
"What?" Verite asked, sullen.
"We're... going on a vacation!" She snapped into a pose, fingers jazz-hand waggling.
Mat sighed; dropping his elbows on the table, he rested his head in his hands.
Neither Christian nor Satine got much sleep last night. Satine jolted away from nightmares, coughing and coughing, her hands constantly flying to her mouth; every time Christian thought he could melt into sleep, he heard the slightest noise and instantly awoke.
A few days later, they set off for the ship that would take them to America. Satine had made arrangements with her assistant teacher to cover her waltz lessons for "an indefinite period of time- I am quite fond of travel," while Christian arranged a last-minute tour with his literary agent and made plans to sell the house.
"I don't want to leave," Mat wept, clinging to the doorway.
"I regret it as well." Christian hoisted the boy over his shoulder, disregarding his protests. "If it makes you feel any better, there's a literary form called a lamentation. You should try writing one."
Mat just howled.
"Interesting mode of self-expression. Continue."
"I don't want to leave either, Mama." Verite stood by the doorway with a melancholy expression, her eyes downcast. Her arms were full of gifts given to her by the local boys- bouquets of wildflowers, hair ribbons, love letters- even a box of chocolates or two.
"I know, dear." Satine smoothed her daughter's hair.
"I mean, Roger said he'd take me to the harvest dance! Do you know what that means to me?" Her eyes shone with tears.
"Of course I do." Secretly, at least for Verite's sake, Satine was a little glad that they were leaving. She worried sometimes that her beautiful daughter would fall down the same path that she had, and it was slightly difficult keeping an eye on her all of the time. "I suppose you've never heard about American boys?"
Verite looked up at her, blinking back tears. "American... boys?"
"Oh, yes! They're all terribly handsome. Big and strong." She made a flexing-my-biceps gesture, squinching up her face.
The adolescent girl giggled in spite of herself. "All right."
"So you'll be more mature than your brother?"
"I always am."
"Good." Taking most of the packages, Satine followed her daughter into the waiting carriage.
When the doors were closed, Mat pressed a hand to the window. "Bye, house," he said sadly.
"I've been thinking," Christian said up in the next row of seats. "English history is actually full of courtesans marrying titled men. What if we changed our names?"
"Sounds good to me," she said with a smile. "Thought of anything?"
A shrug. "Not yet."
"What about..." Closing her eyes, she tilted her head. Then her eyes snapped open and she grinned at him. "The Lord and Lady Roulin-Mouge?"
Christian burst into laughter. "I love it."
"Good. Because I love you."
"Oh, disgusting," Verite moaned, slumping into her seat as she heard a kissing noise.
As the horses broke into a trot, the newly renamed Roulin-Mouge clan watched their house disappear into the distance.