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When I was five, my father (who at the time was a relatively well-off milliner, though what he does at present I cannot be entirely certain) sold me to the gypsies who happened to be rambling amdist the foothills of the quaint village where we lived. With them I tromped around the countryside for years, pitching their tents, fetching them water, and listening to them curse at me in their brusque and unintelligible tongue. I never did manage to grasp the finer points of Romani myself, despite being immersed in it for a good part of my formative years. Perhaps if I'd had more time -- but, fortunately, their making camp nearby London was my chance for freedom.

I managed to hide myself in a cheap brothel. The women there welcomed me and were kind, as I reminded them of their own lost girlhoods. As I had no means then, I ended up spending the next era of my life servicing the poorer end of the gentry and the richer end of the chimney sweeps. No one ever asked my age, and I proffered it to no one. In this way I accrued a considerable amount of money for myself, and when, one night, one of the older ladies attempted to slit my throat and take from me everything that I had earned, I flew from the sordid place at once and bought myself a ticket on a ship to the Americas, where I have since remained, spending all my efforts on furthering my education so that one day I might truly make something of myself.


Did I mention that this is Claire's writing journal? It is, bitches.

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