Canada stared through the window at the huge pot of stew cooling on the table inside. His freezing cold tiptoes pushed him just high enough to grip the windowsill to see.
The people who owned this house were farmers with ten or so indentured servants, people who signed away a few years of free labor in return for passage into the colonies. During this time, it was common for richer immigrants to pay the way for poorer people to travel and live with them, and in return they would have people to work their land for them whom they didn't have to pay, sometimes for more than a decade.
He licked his chapped lips hungrily. There was enough stew to feed a dozen hardworking ranchers. He could see the steam coming off the hot vegetables and broth, and was reminded of how brutally cold he was in the fall harvest season. Surely one little cup of soup wouldn't be missed. Canada was small. He didn't need much.
He slunk away from the window, creeping along towards the front door. He froze when an icy leaf crunched loudly under his foot. Panic gripped his chest and his heart thudded, the only sound not coming from the fields.
Several minutes later, he tried moving again. He glided over the land silently, as noiseless as a still wind. Sure enough, the door was unlocked. There was no blacksmith anywhere in this province yet, so metal locks were a European luxury quickly being forgotten. Sending away to have metalware imported was massively expensive and reserved only for absolute necessities. A lock was not one of those necessities, as it could just as easily be replaced with a strong leather strap on the inside, in a certain arrangement so that it could also be opened by those who knew how from the outside. But these people were new, relatively. Their neighbors hadn't taught them how to make a leather lock yet.
Canada pushed the door in carefully, hoping against hope it wouldn't creak. His soft feet padded across the floorboards, too small and light to make a sound. He started moving faster, gaining confidence. No one was going to catch him. He was too quiet, too smart, too good at this to be heard.
He climbed up onto the the table and stirred the ladle in the huge pot, making fresh steam rise off of it and warm his face. He pulled the ladle out and took a sip. The hot stew filled his stomach with warmth. Even just this, just this one sip, was so much better and more filling than anything he had had in months. Living off berries and stolen crops was nothing compared to real, freshly made stew.
"You're a hungry little guy, aren't you?" a soft French voice asked from behind him.
He jerked and dropped the ladle, scrambling to get down from the table.
The girl laughed and scooped him up. She was in her late teens and wearing a dress that no doubt would be considered plain in her native France, but was extravagant for a colonial farmgirl. Definitely not an indentured servant. She must be the owner's daughter.
"What's your name, little one?" she smiled goodnaturedly.
Canada shrugged as much as he could in her arms. "I don't know. No one ever told me."
"What? You don't have a name?" she asked. "Well, we're gonna have to fix that. But first let's get some soup in you to warm you up. I swear, your skin is like ice!"
She set out two delicate porcelain bowls and spoons and served some stew into them. Canada sat across the table from her as the girl laid out an immaculate place setting and prayed over it. He mimicked her as best he could, keeping one eye open during the prayer so as to follow her lead.
"Now what's this about not having a name, huh? Didn't your parents ever give you one?"
"I don't think I have parents."
"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone has parents. Even the smallest and scruffiest of little thieves."
"But I didn't," Canada said.
The girl got a sad look in her eyes. "Whoever they were they didn't deserve you anyway. That just means that you get to choose your own name. That's much more fun anyway. So! What do you want your name to be?"
"I don't know. I don't know any names. What would be a good one?"
She inspected him closely, cocking her head to the side. "How about..." she trailed off, thinking. Then her eyes lit up. "Mathieu."
"Mathieu," he said, trying out the sound.
"Yeah, Mathieu! It suits you," she nodded happily.
Mathieu giggled. "I like it."
Later that evening, a crowd of men burst into the dining room, talking boisterously in French. They were all served and seated, then, amazingly, hushed while their boss prayed over the meal. Mathieu watched unseen from a small alcove where the girl had told him to wait.
The prayer ended and the workers dug in to their food. Everyone was seated at the same table; owners, family, farmhands, everyone but the local thief.
The girl cleared her throat and addressed the man who had prayed. "Papa, today I found a little boy no more than three wandering about our property. His parents must have abandoned him, so I brought him in and gave him stew. He didn't even know his own name at first, his parents were so negligent. I was wondering if maybe he could perhaps stay with us, just for a little while until we can find someone to take him in permanently."
The table was silent as everyone looked to the older man who was clearly in charge. "Where is this boy now, Colette?" he asked slowly.
The girl leapt from her seat and got Mathieu out from around the corner, leading him by the hand and placing him in her lap once she sat back down. Earlier she had ruffled his wild curls to look even messier and smeared even more dirt on his face and torn clothes so he would look more pitiable. She had then very sternly told him to agree with everything she said, even if it wasn't 100% true. Especially if it wasn't 100% true.
There was a moment of stillness as they all took in the sight of him, then a heated debate flared up. Mathieu couldn't possibly follow it, only picking out a few words and phrases at a time. "Christian duty", "another mouth to feed", "disease", "orphan", "winter season", et cetera.
None of the adult men said anything, save the one, allowing only the owner's family to discuss it. Mathieu now noticed that the girl had two siblings: a girl a little older than him, and a boy somewhere between eleven and fourteen. None of them seemed particularly against having him stay; more like they just wanted to debate if that was really the best option for him before officially deciding.
They never actually said what they decided, and it wasn't clear when, but next thing he knew Mathieu was being rushed upstairs and scrubbed in a small basin full of suds.
"Your hair is so curly!" the mother exclaimed, running her fingers through the bubbly, tangled mess. "Oh—oh, there are leaves in it."
She picked a withered brown leaf out from deep in his hair. "That's strange, these don't grow around here," she murmured. "Where have you been, little one?"
Mathieu just laughed and blew soap bubbles up at the large woman.
