You knew it was coming: the first official author's note. Yep, here it is everyone. Hopefully, these will be a rare occurrence - I know they break the immersion of the story a bit, but I figured I should at least have one.

So, first off: thank you all so much for taking the time to check out/follow/favorite/review this story! You're all quality human beings and I sincerely hope you pet a dog/cat/favorite animal of choice in the near future.

Second, a couple notes. This is taking place in between seasons one and two, and will overlap with season two later in the story. Tommy and Layla are going to burn very, very slowly, because a) Layla is busy working and doesn't have time for romance (she THINKS), b) Tommy is still pining over Grace, and c) Tommy is kind of an asshole (but then again, so is Layla.) I promise they will actually meet each other next chapter, so don't worry. That being said, I am a college student (first year, actually) so my update schedule may be a little hectic. I apologize in advance for any delays, but will try to keep updates fairly close.

I'm almost done, but if you haven't already checked it out, this story is named after a song by Kate Rusby (which is also quoted in the description) which you should definitely check out! Kate has an absolutely lovely voice, and the song is very Tommy. And while I'm sure this is obvious, I don't own Peaky Blinders or any of the characters/property/what-have-you. All I can claim is mine is Layla and ideas relating to her.

Enjoy!

As it turned out, the newest addition to Small Heath was a frustratingly difficult woman to pin down.

The first time the Shelbys heard about her was from Finn himself, when he returned home eager to tell them about the strange young woman he'd trailed to the Garrison. His cheeks had remained a stubborn shade of pink throughout his tale, a fact that John and Arthur didn't fail to rib him about.

The second was from Harry, who each member of the family paid a visit to at some point. He had more information on the woman than Finn, but even that wasn't much: she was a foreigner with a contact in London, she'd been a nurse during the War, and her name was Layla. When Tommy stopped by the first time to grill him for information, Layla was, "out." She was also "out," when Arthur and John stopped in, and when Aunt Polly came by a week later.

Layla was often "out," which indirectly led to the next source of information; everyone. Whenever someone needed help, Layla was there. She nursed scraped knees and bloody knuckles, knife wounds and charred skin, all with the same calm, gentle manner. She had a tea or tincture for everything from flashbacks to fevers, and her equipment was always sparkling clean.

All this would have been enough to win her some loyalty from the poor and destitute of Small Heath - there were very few qualified doctors in the area that one didn't have to take a trip to see, and Layla's presence was long overdue. But what had truly won them over, what had made it so not one was willing to come forward with information on her whereabouts, was one thing in particular: she charged nothing.

People scoffed at the very idea - called her a charlatan, a cheat, some kind of conwoman taking advantage of the desperate. After all, what legitimate doctor would refuse payment for her work? In Small Heath, people learned early nothing came for free.

But then it happened again. And again. And again. Without fail, her remedies held up, and the most she ever asked for was something warm to drink before she headed off to the next job.

And finally, three weeks had passed since Layla arrived in Small Heath, and with the exception of Finn not one of the Shelbys had seen neither hide nor hair of the woman.

Arthur and John were more concerned about the possibility of a pretty face, but the issue of Layla was bothering Tommy, Polly could tell. It bothered her, too. Not even Campbell had been so hard to track when he came to Small Heath - but then again, Campbell was an unrepentant prat. The only loyalty he had inspired had been in the people on his payroll, and even that was a stretch. At least with him, they had known he was coming; Layla had simply appeared, and she might as well have been a ghost for all they could get a hold on her.

The key, Polly suspected, was Pendleton.

They had done a bit of looking into the woman, trying (unsuccessfully) to decipher her association with Layla. Elizabeth Pendleton was an heiress in the steel industry, and her husband Morgan had been an even more prominent figure in the pharmaceutical business before his death. The boys had passed over that little detail - widows weren't exactly uncommon, even before the war that made so many - but it stuck with Polly. Call it women's intuition, maybe, but she'd done her own research into the Pendletons, and the connection between Layla and Elizabeth was looking clear enough to her. Polly could never claim to know much about herbalism herself, but it made sense to her that someone as familiar with their healing powers as Layla was might be just as skilled when it came to their opposite use.

As she perched in the pew, rolling rosary beads between her fingers, her mind was less concerned with matters of God than it was with matters of business. If the girl could be convinced to cooperate, she was a potentially useful ally. If she couldn't, then she had just as much potential to be dangerous. Either way, she wanted to find Layla, and soon… for more reasons than one. Try as she might, Polly couldn't convince herself that her worry was completely impersonal.

There was a part of Polly that she had never been able to kill off completely that had an instinctive sympathy for young women trying to make it on their own, even young women as frustrating as Layla was turning out to be. But she had seen what happened to Tommy the last time a strange, kindly young woman arrived without warning in Small Heath. It was not something she'd like to see happen again, to any of her boys.

Before her thoughts could take a darker turn, the sound of someone sliding into the pew behind her shattered the quiet of the church. She was half-expecting to find Tommy behind her, ready to ply her for advice on Layla or the negotiations with Solomons or whatever other irons he had in the fire these days. Instead, she was met with a serene, unfamiliar face above a bright red scarf, eyes closed and hands clasped in a pose of prayer.

For a moment, Polly could do nothing but stare. She could claim it was scrutiny, trying to lock in every detail of the young woman that she could tell Tommy - from her long, dark curls to the intricate embroidery covering her clothes - but in truth, it was simply shock. Polly Gray was not used to being caught off guard, and that

"I don't think you should be praying to me, ma'am." The woman's voice was low and soft, and Harry hadn't been exaggerating when he swore that her accent was completely unfamiliar. Layla opened one black eye and fixed it on Polly, a hint of a smile on her lips. The glint in her eye looked almost playful, but there was something buried deep, something that made Polly think of Tommy and Arthur and all the other boys who'd returned from the war with something missing in them.

"Hardly," Polly snapped, any thoughts of honeying her tone forgotten in her irritation. "I was only trying to place your face."

Layla giggled, soft and sweet. The sound grated on Polly's nerves. Extending a ringed hand, she began, "My name is-"

"I know who you are."

The silence was heavy, suffocating. Layla's hand dropped into her lap, and the simpering little smile fell with it, replaced by a challenging smirk. The expression made her look older - older, and far more calculating. "Yes, and I know you. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gray - or should I say Ms. Shelby? Do you have a preference?"

Polly ignored the question. "You're the doctor everyone's gossiping about."

"Yes, ma'am. Are you in need of my services?"

"You're awfully difficult to contact, Miss Layla. We've been trying to get a hold of you for three weeks now."

"Well, I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience," Layla said, not sounding sorry at all. "I must say though, I'm sure a family with your influence could afford better than someone like me."

Polly watched her through narrowed eyes, looking for any chink in her armor. That she found none only worsened her mood. "Tell me something, Miss Layla."

"Of course, ma'am."

"Did you murder Morgan Pendleton?"

Layla let loose a startled laugh - a rich, delighted sound, not at all like that grating little titter she'd done when introducing herself. It was pleasant to hear, though Polly would die before she ever admitted it. There was a definite glint in her eyes now, but Polly didn't think it was playfulness; in fact, she had a sneaking suspicion it was actually admiration.

"I suppose I did, yes." Layla shrugged casually, like they were discussing the weather. "I didn't do it myself, but I sold Liz the poison, told her the dosage. Taught her how to make it herself too, just in case. She's a wonderful woman, but her taste in men is horrible."

Polly had to pause again, collecting herself. Layla kept defying her expectations, and it was starting to get under her skin. Fixing the woman with a cool stare, she leaned in and dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. "You should know, Miss Layla, that there are still people that have their doubts about Pendleton's death. I'm sure some of them would be very interested in hearing what you just told me."

If Layla was intimidated, she hid it admirably well; she only laughed again, dark eyes mirthless. "Please, feel free to spread the word. It might bring in new business. I'm sure there are plenty men in Small Heath that could use a bit of poison in their afternoon tea."

There was a long beat of silence before either spoke again, both women sizing each other up, both unwilling to break eye contact. Finally Polly cleared her throat, willing her hands to uncurl from their fists. "That sounds like a threat, Miss Layla."

"It could be, depending on how the rest of this little chat goes," Layla answered. She slumped in her pew, looking suddenly weary. "But I didn't come here to make threats. I came here to make you an offer."

"An offer."

"A truce." Any trace of teasing gone from her demeanor, Layla continued, "I don't want trouble with you, or your family. I've had enough trouble for a lifetime. All I want is to do my job. I don't want to get into business, I don't need protection. If you need help, I'll help, but on my terms. I want to be left alone to work in peace, and if you and yours can manage that then I'll offer the same courtesy."

Polly said nothing, did nothing, and Layla sighed. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing an errant curl out of her eyes. "If you're in need of my services and can't track me down, leave a lit lantern outside your door. Do not try to trick me." She rose, brushing off her skirt, and bowed her head. "Good day, Ms. Gray."

Polly watched Layla limp down the aisle until she disappeared out the door, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

So Layla knew how to play games. How very interesting. Polly tapped pensively on her rosary beads, mind racing. Layla had given her plenty of ammunition, but seemed sure it wouldn't stick. Despite herself, Polly was curious.

Polly thought that in different circumstances, she would have almost liked Layla.

Rising from her own seat, Polly decided that she would keep what she had learned between herself and Tommy - he was just as curious about Layla as she was, and knowing him, telling the police would be ending the game too early. Trading the silent church for the stinking streets, Polly couldn't restrain a small smile. Despite her misgivings, she was certain of one thing; it was going to be very interesting when Layla and Tommy finally met.