It's not just curiosity that's driving me to this, you know. I know you think I'm mad, and I really ought to be looked after. But that's why I'm leaving you. Do you remember when I first ran away from home to come and live with you? My father had beaten me every day, with spells, and jinxes, and table legs. I looked like I'd picked myself off the butchers counter. You took me into your arms and you said you'd look after me. But you looked after me too much, you were almost smothering me. You were more like a parent than a lover, and after time, more like an employer. I'd come to you for protection and love. You'd not let me take a single risk, but you made me keep your house, sweep the floors, cook the meals. And then, if I couldn't, wouldn't, didn't, you'd beat me. Just like my father did. Oh, and you'd hug me, and wail, and beg for forgiveness, say it'd never happen again. But it did. You went too far.
So the money that you saved for a rainy day on the shelf is gone. After all, it is raining. I needed it to buy a boat, provisions and sails. Maybe when I return from my trip, I'll take you back. You can stare into my suntanned face, see where the sea wind has rubbed my beaming face red and raw, see my hair, bedraggled and windswept, and see how this time, I was right.