Pol had to leave to run errands through the morning. She locked Dahlia inside, save the girl tried to steal from her rather than if she fled. Upon her return at lunch, Dahlia was making an almighty clatter in Pol's kitchen. Pots fell, a teacup smashed and two eggs crashed to the floor. Dahlia, unaware of Pol's presence, sank to the floor in tears. Under her hand she found a knife and Pol rushed to it as her fingers wrapped around its handle. She pulled it free and caught a glimpse of the black of Dahlia's brown eyes as she looked to her rescuer.

"What were you trying to do?" Pol asked, crouching over Dahlia. Dahlia pretended she didn't mean to pick up the knife she was about to cut her own throat with and replied,

"I was going to make a pot of tea."

Pol coaxed her to her feat verbally and physically before setting Dahlia gently into a chair. She could feel the stiffness of the girl's movements: as though her joints were straining against rusty hinges.

Dahlia stared ahead and down slightly as she sat at the table. Pol wondered what to ask.

"It's Pol, isn't it?"

"Hrm?"

"Your name. I think you've been in my shop twice but most people see you when you walk by, they go quiet and say, 'There goes Pol.' And they watch until you've gone and start speaking again." Dahlia seemed to come out of her daze, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…"

"It's quite alright, love. And you're Dahlia."

"Right."

Pol set down two cups of tea and sat in front of Dahlia. "So what did happen to you, yesterday?"

"Two men came into my shop. They looked normal enough – a little too flashy for Small Heath but I thought they might just be passing through. Then they turned the 'OPEN' sign to 'CLOSED'…"

"Did they say anything to you?"

Dahlia shook her head.

"Why did they attack you?"

"One came round to the counter and put his arm," she placed her own on her upper arm as example, "on me and then he pulled, but I didn't want to go anywhere, so I struggled… I think I got hit on the head."

"You were well and truly out for a long time." Pol said by way of confirmation. "So they didn't say what they wanted? You have no clue why they were there for you or if there will be more?"

Dahlia shook her head in defeat. Pol pitied the girl.

In the evening, Tommy and John met in the Garrison for a drink before they faced home. Before their first pint was down their necks, two gents walked in. Tommy saw John's face as he stared at the pair of them and turned.

"Is that them?"

"Yeah, Tommy." John breathed. Tommy leaned on the bar, facing the spirits. The two walked to the other side of the bar and asked,

"Where might Dahlia-the-florist-girl go if she were in trouble?"

Tommy and John moved closer to the two and the barman made his self scarce.

"Tell me, gentlemen, what did our Dahlia do to deserve a visit from the pair of you?"

"'Our' Dahlia?"

"She lives in our Small Heath."

"She's got you fooled, I see. That's not a woman – that's the Burnes' property. Check between her shoulders."

"Ah yes, the Burnes family… You know, when my sister pisses me off, I tend to just use my words." He nocked over their drinks. "You both make me sick; you and the rest of the Burnes family. See yourselves out."

"Is that how it is, son?"

"I'd make haste for the door, friend."

"The Burnes' won't let this lie, you ought to hand her to us, save yourself some bloodshed."

The doors shut and Tommy shook with rage inside; drank from his glass outside.

"Shouldn't we go after them?" John wanted to know, itching for a fight so badly he bounced from one heel to the other.

"No: Old money's all talk. New money spends."

"You think they're full of hot air?"

"I think it's worth waiting to find out."

Dahlia was limping in Pol's kitchen, leaning heavily on the chairs and worktops for support as she moved. Tommy addressed Pol first, "Should she be up and about like that?"

"I can't get her to sit still. At least it's getting some colour into her cheeks."

"I need a word with her."

"Good luck getting her to stop."

"Dahlia." He announced as he set his hat and coat on a chair. She missed the worktop as she moved and slipped to the floor heavily. He moved to her aid on reflex, but she shied from him so violently he stepped back, palms raised. "You're alright."

"I know."

When she got to her feet, she looked at the floor, leaning her back against the units.

"What are you making?"

"Just some scones."

"Really? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I can't stay there." She shook her head. Tommy could see some of her features now, her skin had settled and the cuts were only yellowish around the scabbing.

"Suit yourself. You might want to sit down for this though." He pulled out a chair for her. She shook her head, looking down. Tommy sighed, "They came looking for you. John identified them both. He and I protected you this time, but if you don't want our protection, then we won't do it again."

"That suits me fine."

"Really?"

"Yes… Thank you, for everything, but I'd rather die than be indebted to someone."

"Those are some rather strong words."

"I have some rather strong feelings about it."

"I imagine you have."

He took out a cigarette, offered her one, which she refused, and lit his own. He stepped forward only once and held out his hands, palms up.

"Let me see your hands." He insisted, waving his hands around, towards himself, as though that could coax her into moving.

"I'd rather not."

He stepped close again; likening her to a frightened horse he could fix if only for a minute, and touched his fingertips to the backs of her arms. He slid down, pulling her arms from her back towards him until he reached her palms. Her hands were in tight fists. He prized them open, she only gave a little resistance, and ran his thumb and forefinger over each knuckle.

"How many times have they been broken?"

"Several." She said stiffly.

"And how young were you –"

"For God's sake." She hissed and snatched her hands away.

"- when you got away from them? How long have you been running? Is it really worth it, because I can help you."

"You don't help anyone, you trade, and good traders are thieves. And if I had the power to get out of here faster than you could drag me back in to tell me you 'can make the broken bones stop', I'd be gone."

"Most people know better than to speak like that to a Shelby." Tommy said very quietly and sternly. Any trace of nervousness in Dahlia was gone; it was hard to tell she was in an enormous amount of pain. She stood so tall and strong even with her hands white with her grip on the worktop, and her eyes were bright and determined on his even through the swelling.

"I'm not most people, and you know it."