Sunny days were an uncommon occurrence in Small Heath, especially when fall was in full swing. Winter was in the air, the cold wind nipping at exposed skin, but plenty had ventured outside anyway to take advantage of the rare light. The streets were filled with raucous voices, women and men huddled in tight bunches to smoke and gossip while gangs of children chased each other through the alleys, shrieking with laughter.

To the bustling crowd, drunk on sunshine, Layla's arrival was of no importance; just the way she liked it. Her well-worn boots made no sound as she crossed the cobblestones, working her way through the winding streets in search of the address clutched in her gloved fingers. She kept to the shadows, her easy manner and downcast eyes ensuring that most of the gathered people paid her no mind - with some exceptions, naturally. The more curious children took notice of the stranger skulking through their areas of play and began trailing her with what they surely thought was utmost stealth, whispering amongst themselves about the bright red scarf at her throat and the odd drag in her step.

Layla wasn't particularly bothered by this - she had played much the same kind of games when she was a girl - and allowed them to trail her to her destination, the Garrison. It was dark inside - apparently even the town drunkards weren't willing to waste the day in the bar - but the knob turned easily at her touch, and when she tugged the door open a crack she could hear low, gravelly humming from somewhere inside.

She closed the door carefully, not wanting to alert whoever was inside to her lurking, then assumed a fierce glare and spun on her heel. The children scattered almost as one, disappearing into the safety of the crowd, but one boy remained. He glowered across the street at Layla from underneath his peaked cap, standing to his full height (which even from across the street she could tell wasn't particularly impressive.) She held onto her dour expression for a beat more, then let it fall. Dipping a curtsey, she flashed the young boy a smile and a conspiratorial wink, and entered the pub giggling at the sight of his ears gone bright pink.

The door shut behind her with a soft thud, the humming abruptly cut off as the lanky bartender lifted his eyes from the glass he was polishing to scrutinize the intruder. Layla paid him no mind for the moment, weaving through the tables and casting scrutinizing glances around the dark, polished interior. She had spent a lot of time in bars over the past sixteen years, and the Garrison looked to be a right classy one. A nice change from the scuzzy little watering holes she was used to.

"The bar's closed 'til twelve, miss," the bartender called, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He released his words in a cloud of smoke, studying her appraisingly. "You lost? Don't think I've seen you 'round here before."

Dropping her heavy carpet bag in a nearby chair, Layla turned to the man and offered a bright, disarming, and utterly false smile. "I believe I'm in just the right place, actually. Are you Harry Fenton?" Layla asked. Harry nodded slowly, his brow furrowed as he tried to place her soft accent. Layla clapped her hands and beamed. "I believe my associate placed a call to you yesterday regarding the space for rent - a Mrs. Elizabeth Pendleton, yes?"

Harry puffed on his cigarette, looking troubled. "Yes… yes, she did. Are you, uh, here to appraise the apartment for her? I haven't cleaned the place up much, I'm afraid - it'll look better after a bit o' dusting…"

Layla waved a hand, unbothered. "I should like to take a look anyway, Mr. Fenton. It was my intention to move in today, and a little dust won't change that."

"You - what?"

She blinked at him, the picture of innocence "Has someone else already taken the room? I thought your ad was placed recently."

"No, no one's come lookin' but -"

"Then what's the problem?" She asked, watching him expectantly.

Harry stubbed out his cigarette and led her upstairs.

The stairs in the back the Garrison weren't particularly high, but they were steep; steep enough that Layla had to pause, lean against the bannister, and clutch at her knee, the skin gone stiff and tight under her fingertips. Harry had made it to the second floor, ostensibly fiddling with his keys, but she could feel his eyes on her. She knew how she must seem to him - a soft, foolish little thing, and a cripple to boot. She was a little surprised he hadn't already tried to lecture her on what she was getting into.

Harry finally managed to figure out his keys as she reached the landing and now he hovered at the threshold, looking torn between offering her his arm and just calling the whole thing off. Layla limped past him with as much dignity as she could muster and flung the door open before he could make up his mind.

It was a shithole.

That was the politest way she could think of to describe the place. The hinges screeched like an angry cat, the floorboards felt worryingly unstable under her feet, and the whole room was covered in what seemed to be a few decades worth of dust. There was a distinct, cloying smell of mold and droppings in the air, and she was fairly certain she'd seen a rat scurry off into the far corner as she entered. When she pulled the sackcloth away from one of the windows, none of the afternoon sunlight could penetrate the layer of grime that covered the glass.

But it was big, open, and after an hour (or three) of scrubbing she would have a fine view of the street below. She'd worked in worse conditions. She could make this work.

Behind her, Harry shuffled his feet. "Miss, uh-?"

"Layla."

"...Miss Layla," he finally said when it became obvious she wasn't about to offer a surname. "I understand if you'd like to come back after a bit o' cleanings been done - I'm sure you and Miss Pendleton would prefer a cleaner apartment?"

Layla shook her head and flicked her braid out of her face. "I'm living alone. Liz just called to make sure the offer was still on the table. And I'd prefer to move in as quickly as possible. I'm no stranger to a bit of cleaning, trust me!"

Harry studied her doubtfully, his pale face looking all the more melancholy with his serious expression. "Miss," he began. "I'm really not sure you know what you're getting into here."

Ah. There it was.

Layla dropped her carpet bag (the floor made a protesting groan, but held) and clasped her hands, grinning. It was a dangerously maniacal expression. "Oh, wonderful. Hold on, I know this part." She cleared her throat and struck a thoughtful pose. "Let's see… Small Heath is no place for a nice young woman living on her own, and there are dangerous men around who will hurt me or manipulate me or whatever horrible things apparently happen to young women on their own, yes? Oh, and you'd probably be doing me a favor if you sent me away. Am I right? Got everything covered?"

"...I was going to get a bit more specific, but sure, close enough," Harry replied. Not a bad recovery, honestly. Layla sighed and gave him a sympathetic look.

"Look. I understand that you're coming from a good place, and I appreciate it." Harry scoffed. "No, I'm serious! I'm sure you think you're protecting me or something, and it's nice to be reminded that there are good men in the world sometimes." Harry flushed red and fiddled with his cigarettes, but she ignored him and pressed on. "I've done my research on Small Heath, Mr. Fenton. I know about the gangs, and the Communists, and whatever else you were going to warn me against. I wouldn't be here if I didn't know exactly what I was getting into."

Lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, Harry gave her a slow nod. Her spiel had seemed to lift some of his doubts, but she could still see some hesitance in his eyes.

"Let I show you something," she said abruptly. Layla took a deep, steadying breath, wiping away the sudden cold sweat on her forehead - she never liked showing off her leg, particularly not to strangers. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled up the hem of her skirt with one hand and pushed her stocking down with another.

A scandalized shout died on Harry's lips, his brown eyes blown wide at the sight of twisted flesh and gleaming metal. He made an abortive movement towards her, as though to take a closer look, then stopped and turned his face away.

"I was injured in Belgium. At Poelcappelle." Layla dropped her skirts, feeling somewhat relieved to have her leg out of sight. Mostly, she just felt tired.

"How long did you serve?" Harry asked. He was still staring out the window, puffing contemplatively on his cigarette.

"Joined up with the VAD in November 1914. After my leg got torn up they had me leave, but I would've kept working if they let me."

Harry nodded, and released a stream of smoke, looking back at her. There was something new in his eyes now; she believed it was respect. Layla raised her chin proudly and said, "I survived the war, Mr. Fenton. I can survive Small Heath."

For the first time, she thought she saw the ghost of a smile on Harry's lips. "You can pay for the first month now?"

Nodding, she rummaged in her carpet bag - now covered in a fine layer of dust - and pulled out two stacks of slightly-crumpled notes, passing them off to him. Harry raised his eyebrows but accepted them, flicking through them casually. Satisfied, he pocketed the notes and looked at her for a long moment. "My last barmaid left in a hurry. You ever got trouble with the rent, you come down and work the bar a few nights and we'll call it even."

Layla smiled, weary and bright, and Harry couldn't help but think it was the most genuinely happy expression she'd worn since she'd walked through the door. "Thank you, Mr. Fenton. Thank you for trusting me."

And so it was that Layla came to Small Heath.