The place was packed with city folk, and Cleo felt more than a little out of place, but she was a stubborn child as the sisters had always said, and she was determined to find out what she could about her mother, and any family she might have, so she trawled up and down the midway, avoiding the hawkers as best she could, and trying not to meet anyone's eyes, just in case, while looking at everyone behind a stall or apparently working. It would have surprised her had she recognised anyone, the mission had raised her from an infant, barely a day old the sisters had told her.
Her fingers sought the smooth wooden cross that hung around her neck on a fine leather cord, Father McInerny had been good with his hands, carving all the children a cross each. Hers was plain, because she'd never been into fancy, and as he had said, simple was best for those who liked simple. He'd smiled, and, lost in her thoughts she'd nearly walked into someone, Cleo stopped suddenly and looked up, "Sorry, my fault, excuse me please?"