"…so Tommy's given him some extra titles, like he's supposed to do extra for the business, what with him more monkey than man and can't keep his cock out of me, not that I mind at the time but then you get the sickness, and the aches in your bones and your tits fill up – Dahl? You alright?"

She hadn't meant to slow down scrubbing the clothes. Her own were half done when Esme arrived and she agreed to stay to help her, not remembering how mother-centric Esme's conversations were. Sickness and aches, what sickness and aches? Did God or one of his agents, or the devil and his want to hurt her more? Was she but a plaything and not really real, like Esme and her children were real? Was she a half-thing? Was that why she was born after the dalliances of a married man? Was she just a toy for powers beyond her grasp?

"Dahlia?"

"Hrm?"

"Are you alright? You look pale."

She sighed and picked up her pace, shaking her head and encouraged Esme to go on, but Esme's hand fell onto her forearm.

"What's the matter?" Dahlia asked Esme, convincingly twisting the positions of concern.

"You can talk to me you know." Esme said low. Embarrassment coloured Dahlia's neck and behind her ears, she felt the heat from it and told herself Esme didn't notice.

"I'm fine. Don't soak those too long."

"You're not fine. Look, John told me what happened."

"They'll go grey if you-"

"Dahlia."

"Esme, I'm not one of your kids, and I don't want to talk about what happened the way you do."

"I'm here for you, Dahlia, that's all. You lost a baby –"

"I lost my brothers."

"But what they did to you…"

Dahlia was so angry that she almost laughed. She shook her head and withdrew her hands from the suds, apologised to Esme for doing half a job and rushed out, quickly lifting her basket of clothes with her.

Dahlia rushed into her house through the back door. She set the basket down to hang her clothes later and strode to the kitchen sink. She pulled a bucket of water from beneath it and was going to just pour some in to splash her face with but instead set the whole bucket in the sink and dunked her face inside. It was cold and invigorating. She threw her head back up for air, faced to the window, let water pool into her open eyes and looked out of her window, seeing a clearing blur. Tommy looked at the window and saw her as he approached. She beat him to her door, her face and hair still dripping.

"What do you want?" she demanded, leaning one shoulder on the doorframe and the other behind it, filling all of the space it had opened. Tommy waved an opened letter to her.

"I intercepted this from the postman this morning. You don't normally get lawyers' letters you see."

She snatched it from him and regarded the addressee. "This has my name on it, how dare you!"

"Its from your family lawyer."

She clenched her jaw. She almost corrected him; she had no family thanks to him.

"Look, Dahlia, can I come in. We need to talk."

"All you ever want to do lately is talk, Tommy, just at me and not to me."

She shut the door on him and he tried to catch it with his foot but he wasn't quick enough. He beat the door with his palm. "Dahlia!"

She moved away from the door to her bedroom, and resisted listening for sounds outside to indicate his movements. She lay on the bed and opened the letter Tommy had read.

It was, in its entirety, legal jargon. She scanned it carefully to discern if any of it was related to her history – if there was any mention of her father's wishes, her mother's history with him, etc – and found nothing but a date by which she had to prove her relation to the Burnes and claim the remains of the estate.

She had to admit that she had no idea what the rest of the letter detailed. There were figures and sums and pound signs and historical information. She didn't know what she was supposed to do or how.

"Shit." She hissed.

Tommy walked down his street, watching the figure at his doorstep carefully. She pulled petals from flower heads on short stems, seated on the small step before his door, her arms stretched over her knees so the petals fell to the ground unimpeded by her shoes. There was a little mountain of cast off petals before her. When he was three strides away from his door she met his eyes, stood, and asked what she made of the letter.

"Tommy, can you help me?" she asked unwillingly. He regarded her, his face unreadable. Was he smug, was he concerned, did he simply have no emotional response at all? Then he put his key in the door and pushed it open, indicating for her to go ahead, inside.

After offering tea, she sat in his little living room as he pulled of his hat and coat, hung them up, went to the kitchen. His stomach fluttered at the memory of making her tea before, and she joined him in the kitchen, pressing herself to his bad, folding her arms over his shoulders and kissing his skin.

Or was that with Grace?

Dahlia remained in the living room and in her coat and accepted the tea gracefully. Tommy sat next to her, perched on the edge of the couch and twisted towards her.

"I'm struggling, Dahlia. I dream of you," and Grace, "and babies, and the tunnels again. Only now it's you digging at the other side, unless its my own son."

She closed her eyes and seemed to meditate but he was undeterred,

"I loved you, Dahl', and now I can't… I can hardly stomach the site of you."

Her eyes opened, "Tommy if I'm not welcome –"

"Just hear me out, Dahl'."

"I don't know if I can, Tommy." She moved as if to rise and so he kneeled in front of her, his hands on her knees. She relented.

"Dahl', I don't understand why you… It's just that you're brothers aren't going to be a problem for you anymore, and –"

"Dead, Tommy, my brothers are dead. Murdered, actually."

"And lets pretend," he raised his voice and talked over her, "that you didn't force events, but you miscarried." His hands slid up to her sides and his head dropped before he whispered, "Dahlia, we lost a baby."

She sighed. Looked around the room. Set her hands on his shoulders to push him away from her gently. He looked up at her, and held her head in his hands, looking from one eye into the next, "Why are you mourning them and not our son or daughter?"

Her lip quivered and her eyes filled.