A/N: This chapter includes Kimber being predatory in a way that's specifically fetishizing Trixie's Blackness, which is very gross and I don't condone it at all; it's nothing explicit but it does vaguely reference stereotypes about Black women's sexuality that are incorrect and offensive. If you want a version with those lines removed, please let me know and I will be happy to provide it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
both ends of the candle

"Do not be deceived: 'Bad company ruins good morals.'" —1 Corinthians 15:33

"Are you alright?"

It was hardly what Trixie had expected him to say, but Tommy was full of surprises this evening. Here they were, pulling up in Kimber's long, winding driveway, the sun setting low and casting them in golden light that would've been impossible to achieve in Birmingham. Part of Trixie wanted to flee the scene altogether, and just sit in Kimber's garden while Tommy sorted it out, but that was hardly a real option. So she sat up a bit straighter and nodded. "Yes," she said. "Why?" she added, to be combative.

Tommy bristled. "Kimber had his hands on you."

"Oh, that?" Trixie said, as if the memory wasn't making her nauseous at the very moment. She shrugged in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "It's not important."

In the driver's seat, his grip on the steering wheel turned white-knuckled. With a grimace, he dug something out of his pocket. "Give me your hand."

Trixie eyed him for a moment, but offered her palm. In it, he deposited something wooden. "What's this?"

"Butterfly knife," Tommy replied. "Keep it latched so you don't stab yourself, please, but if he gets out of hand, use it."

She pressed her thumbnail against the latch and pulled the knife open carefully, a glinting silver blade concealed between the split wooden handle. Trixie had never stabbed anyone before, but if she had to start, she might as well start with Kimber—though Campbell was an equally appealing contender. "Can't imagine it would be good for business if I stab him." That brought his eyes to her, and Trixie wrapped her hand around the handle of the knife, jutting the blade out forward. "You think he'd be more amenable to a deal if he was bleeding out?"

He almost looked amused for a fleeting second, only to inform her, "You're holding it wrong."

She looked down at the knife. "What do you mean, I'm holding it wrong?"

"Blade goes up," he explained, reaching for the knife. Trixie let him take it easily, allowing him to reposition her grip on it with his own hands so that her thumb rested on the flat of the blade. "Angle it up if you're stabbing, but it'll be easier to slash if you can get far enough away."

Suddenly, the possibility of having to stab another person felt far more real. She had a knife, and Kimber, presumably, had blood running through his veins that would...come out if he was stabbed. Trixie flicked the latch back down, rotating the handle and re-concealing the blade. Once it was fastened, she tucked it into her clutch and buried it under her coin purse. "Oh-kay, well—hopefully that won't come up." She looked at Tommy. "Alright?"

"What."

"Are you alright?"

He furrowed his brow. "Think so."

Trixie huffed. Why did he have to be so difficult about it? "You asked me, figured I'd return the favor."

"Fine."

"Well are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Jesus. Are you alright?"

Tommy met her eyes with mock-fondness. "Yes, Beatrice, all is well. Now should we go inside?"

She shrugged and reached over for the level to open the car door. "Fine. Yes. Let's go." As she gathered her things, Tommy stepped out of his seat and met her on her side of the car, a hand waiting for her own. "I'm sure I'll be alright," she told him, but he didn't move. Trixie grabbed onto it lightly, making a point of not needing him to stand up straight, and descended carefully into his driveway. The house, stone on the outside, looked significantly more inviting than she remembered Kimber being, unless she included in that his aggressive invitation for dinner in her factoring. Almost immediately, a white-gloved valet greeted them, and Tommy passed the keys to him wordlessly as he led Trixie inside.

A maid in a pristine uniform opened the door and bowed her head slightly. "Mr. Shelby, Miss Price. Mr. Kimber, Mrs. Kimber, and Mr. Roberts are in the reading room."

Trixie glanced over at Tommy, wondering if he felt nearly as uncomfortable as she did. He knew power, sure, and wealth, absolutely, but not like this—5 Watery Lane was more comparable to Trixie's apartment than to a house like this.

If he was nervous, he didn't show it. Tommy smiled politely at the maid. "And where can we find the reading room?"

"Follow me," she said, turning and walking down the massive entry corridor. Her heels echoed against the floor as she dodged the central staircase for a room off to the right, with vaulted ceilings and pale blue walls. Inside, Mrs. Kimber was lounged out on the couch while her husband and Roberts nursed cigarettes and whiskey. "Mr. Shelby, Miss Price," the maid introduced.

Trixie, not knowing what to do with herself, resisted the urge to curtsy. This wasn't Buckingham fucking palace—there was no reason for her to be acting so absurdly. "Mr. Shelby," Kimber greeted. "Were you able to find the house alright?"

"It's a large home," Tommy replied. "Certainly hard to miss." Trixie wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not. Her home in the countryside would hardly be this extravagant. Just books and a garden and she would be happy. "May we join you?"

"Oh, I was just about to leave Scarlett here," Kimber dismissed. His wife lifted her head up off the couch for a moment to inspect the newcomers, but laid delicately back down with a dissatisfied glance. She threw one gloved-hand over her eyes and scowled. "She's complaining of a headache," he said, like he didn't entirely believe her. "No need to string her along. Do you play Billiards, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy leaned back the slightest bit and dropped Trixie's hand to put his own in the pockets of his jacket. "I'm a bit out of practice."

"Can't hurt to try, can it? Feel free to come along too, Miss Price."

"I'm afraid I don't know how to play," she said sparingly. "But I'd be happy to come along."

Kimber winked. "I'll teach you."

Trixie said nothing to that, just concentrated very hard on smiling politely as they followed Kimber back out into the central corridor and into another room, this one decorated quite differently, the walls boarded with dark wood and an expensive chandelier hanging over the billiards table. She didn't care much for that, though—Trixie found herself drawn to the shelves and shelves of books lining the walls.

"Do you read often?" she asked, before remembering that she'd been instructed to follow Tommy's lead.

Kimber scoffed. "No. They came with the house, I don't care for reading."

Trixie nodded, but wondered how he could be in possession of such an expansive library and not have any interest in reading its volumes. One book, with its thick blue spine adorned with golden trim, caught her attention from the shelf she was standing beside. Wuthering Heights. "Do you mind?" she asked.

Kimber waved her away, too busy shrugging off his jacket to care what she was doing. Tommy kept his own jacket on—probably for the best. If Kimber caught a glimpse of the holster he was wearing, negotiations might not be so friendly. Trixie pulled the book carefully from the shelf and flipped it open, the pages smooth under the pads of her fingers. While Kimber and Tommy moved to the Billiards table, she settled gingerly on the couch across from Roberts and began reading. The conversations were never interesting at the beginning—just small talk. And especially now, with Kimber making a show of explaining the rules of the game to Tommy, she knew she wouldn't be needed for a while.

So she read instead, all too interested in the stories of Catherine and Heathcliff to pay attention to the combative small talk playing out across the room. Roberts seemed to feel similarly, as he soon stood and selected a book off the shelf to read as well.

What must it be like to be Mrs. Kimber? To live in this great big house and have no one to keep you company but Billy fucking Kimber? No wonder she was complaining of a headache.

Trixie was a good three chapters into the book by the time she was disturbed—not by business negotiations, but by Kimber calling her over to the table. "Come here, Miss Price, I'd like the chance to speak with you."

She indulged him, setting the book aside on the embroidered couch cushion and heading to the side of the table, directly opposite Kimber and parallel to Tommy. "What can I do for you, Mr. Kimber?"

He beckoned her closer. Trixie shot a quizzical look towards Tommy but didn't refuse, rounding the table's corner. "The game's more fun with three," he explained. "And you ought to learn, in case this meeting gives way to future negotiations."

"Right," Trixie drawled, accepting the cue stick he held out towards her. She, for one, was in favor of the outcome where she and Tommy never had to do this again. Still, she would humor him for the evening. "What's the goal here?"

"Whoever pots the most balls wins," Kimber said, pointing to the triangle where they'd been neatly arranged on the other side of the table. "Now, I'm of the opinion that the lady should go first. Mr. Shelby, I'm sure you agree?"

"Please," said Tommy, and Trixie smothered a laugh. His politeness was hardly natural.

"Alright," Kimber insisted, guiding Trixie's hands as Tommy had with the knife. He pulled her right arm back and bracketed it with his own, sidling up behind her and bending her over the table with the force of her own body.

"I don't remember you doing this when teaching Tommy," she quipped, but Kimber didn't budge. He was hot, in a deeply unpleasant, muggy way. She met Tommy's eyes across the table and sent him a look of annoyance. Her knife was in her purse, which was on the couch next to Cathy and Heathcliff. And anyway, this didn't really warrant stabbing, did it? Tommy seemed to disagree, his face going murderously cold.

Kimber laughed graciously, which she supposed was a more favorable outcome out of all those available to her. Trixie allowed him to guide her elbow back and then forward again, sending the ball rolling forward at an angle, barely hitting the side of the triangle. "Not bad for a first shot."

Trixie might not have been familiar with the game, but she knew that there was no way that was true. She moved to stand up but Kimber held her down for a moment more, his breath hot on her neck as he inhaled her perfume. Tommy watched the exchange, looking momentarily horrified, before Kimber stood and moved to the next turn. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she straightened. On the opposite side of the table, Tommy caught her gaze, as if asking again, Are you alright?

She nodded the slightest bit, in case that was the question on his mind. If Kimber decided to touch her again, she'd just make an excuse to need the bathroom, or sit down.

"Do you find that games improve your mood?" Trixie asked politely.

Kimber shot the ball forward, and one of the violet balls rolled into the pocket at the end of the table. "I always loved watching the odds unfold," he said. "Races, gambling, it's all luck. But this is skill, and so all the more impressive when a man proves himself by winning." He lined up another shot, and then the white ball rocketed forwards and ricocheted off the green felt of the table, knocking a yellow ball just short of the pocket. "And all the more pathetic when he loses." Not accidentally, he followed up with, "Your turn, Mr. Shelby."

"Certainly, Mr. Kimber."

Tommy stepped back to observe the table again, and then lined up the cue stick to knock the yellow ball into the pocket that Kimber had missed. Trixie suspected that it wasn't accidental.

"Are you a fan of horses?" she asked. "Outside the races, I mean."

"Oh, no, they're repulsive," Kimber replied easily. Tommy stiffened. "They're best for making money—dignified in the way cock-fighting is not, and fast enough to draw a crowd. But outside of that, they're just large and unsanitary."

Trixie, who didn't care either way, shrugged to acknowledge his point. "I see."

Tommy's next shot was close, but successful. On the next, he fumbled. "Back to you, Trixie."

"Do you feel brave enough to go this one alone?" Kimber asked.

She forced a laugh. "Oh, I suppose I'll try."

Narrowing her eyes at the table, Trixie settled on a ball to shoot: the blue one that sat near the furthest corner of the table. She leaned balanced the pole in her left thumb and drew her right arm back. The white ball shot forward, but she'd miscalculated the necessary force, and it bounced over the edge of the table and landed noisily on the floor, before rolling towards the center of the table.

"Christ," she said. "Sorry about that."

"You don't mind picking it up, do you?" Kimber asked.

Trixie did mind, in fact. For a dinner invitation, the evening was sorely lacking in food, and if she had to keep humiliating herself for much longer, she might actually stab him. Still, she gathered the skirts of her dress in one hand and used the other to balance herself on the edge of the table, kneeling down and plucking the ball up from off the floor. When she rose, Kimber was grinning at her like he'd won some sort of game. "Here you go," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Price, very kind of you."

"Of course," said Trixie, who tried very hard not to gag.

Thankfully, there was a ringing from outside the door then that interrupted their game. "Dinner's ready," Kimber announced. "Do you like lamb, Mr. Shelby?"

"I like lamb," Tommy replied.

"Wonderful. Why don't you let Mr. Roberts lead you to the dining room, and I'll accompany Miss Price."

Trixie's stomach did a flip. Why would he want to speak to her alone? She watched helplessly as Tommy fixed his cufflinks and put his cue stick back on the rack. He shot her a quick, worried look, but didn't object, following Roberts out into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. "Something I can help you with?" she asked.

Kimber stared up at the door with aching concentration for a moment before meeting her eyes. "Beatrice," he said. "May I call you Beatrice?"

No, she thought immediately. "Yes, that's fine," she said instead.

"As interested as I am in doing business with your boss, I'm not quite tempted by the offer currently on the table."

"I see," Trixie said, jutting her chin out and trying not to look afraid. "And what else are you looking for?"

"Well," Kimber said, taking a step towards her and bending down a bit so his face was in her neck. "I've never had a woman like you before, but I've heard things."

Trixie swallowed, not wanting him to elaborate, willing to do almost anything to keep him from elaborating. Kimber's breath was hot, and she leaned away slowly, only for his face to follow. "Alright, um—well—" she stumbled. "I don't think that you should believe what you hear."

He laughed. "Well, then, I'd like to find out."

"Right," she said. "It's just that I—um—Mr. Shelby—" She hurried to come up with a reason he'd accept. "Mr. Shelby has arranged a marriage between his brother and I." Trixie cringed—Arthur was a pain, and John was more like her brother than anything. "And I think this could jeopardize any agreement between you two while negotiations are still pending."

Kimber froze, his face still in her neck, and stood up straight. "I don't need Thomas Shelby, though, now do I?"

Trixie bit the inside of her cheek. "I think you do," she said, taking a confident step backwards and trying not to trip on the hem of her own skirt. "Mr. Kimber, you're a businessman losing money because your men don't see you as a true authority figure. If they're willing to take a cut off the top, then who's to say they're loyal enough to protect you if the Lees come back—not for the money, but for you? Can they be bought?"

Kimber leaned back against the table, his pool cue still in his right hand.

Trixie continued. "If you do business with us, you won't have to worry about that—the bribery, the vulnerability, any of it. You can spend your days dancing with beautiful women at the tracks and your nights playing Billiards. Think of all you could do if you were safe. Secure." And then, trying to keep the disgust from creeping onto her face, Trixie added, "And as for the other—well—as for me. I can't do anything to endanger my engagement, but the Shelbys are Catholic." They won't go through with a divorce. She'd leave the door open for him with no intent of ever walking through it.

It took a minute, but he eventually seemed to piece it together. "And when will you be married?"

"We haven't chosen a date."

Kimber shrugged. "Perhaps at a later meeting, we can make a deal of our own."

She attempted to smile flirtatiously, putting a hand over his for a moment, and then said, "Shall we head to dinner?"

He nodded. "Please. Follow me."

In the dining room, Trixie was not disappointed by the options presented for them. After a soup course and an appetizer of clams, Kimber's staff delivered a plate of lamb, potatoes, and peas. It was, without a doubt, the most exquisite meal she'd ever enjoyed. If only the conversation between those around the table wasn't so miserable. Trixie sat beside Mrs. Kimber and opposite Roberts, while Kimber and Tommy occupied opposite heads of the table.

"I detest lamb," Kimber's wife mumbled. Trixie blinked and then looked to Kimber, waiting for a reaction. He just rolled his eyes. "You know I detest lamb."

"I love lamb," said Kimber. "Don't you like lamb, Beatrice?"

Tommy's fork clattered on his plate, and he cleared his throat. "Pardon me."

Trixie stared awkwardly between Kimber and his wife, both glaring at each other with such focus that they missed Tommy's misstep. "I've never had lamb before tonight, but the food is delicious," she offered, and took a large bite of her potatoes.

Scarlett Kimber dropped her fork onto her plate and covered her eyes with her hands, moaning quietly and miserably. Trixie found herself staring at Roberts, who offered her a slight roll of his eyes, like this was their daily ritual.

By the time the courses were cleared and dessert had been served, Trixie was full and happily sleepy. She sipped delicately from the wine—undoubtedly expensive, but tasting identical to every other glass she'd had before. The fruitcake was delicious, rich and sweet and decadent, but Kimber's wife refused to touch hers.

"Gentlemen, why don't we finish our game?" Kimber suggested, pulling the napkin from his neck and tossing it onto his plate. "We'll have Mr. Roberts take Beatrice's place, and maybe the ladies can keep each other company."

Trixie opened her mouth to object, but Tommy beat her to the punch. "A good plan," he remarked, and Trixie gritted her teeth. "Perhaps I'll manage to beat you one of these rounds."

"Wouldn't count on it," Kimber said, and then laughed like it was a joke, even though the tension in the room suggested otherwise. "Gentlemen," he prompted, and then the three men left, speaking privately among themselves as they returned to the Billiards room. Trixie watched them go, trying to understand what the fuck had changed and left her out of the equation. Mrs. Kimber didn't move, though, her head still in her hands, until the door of the other room closed and their voices faded. Then, like Lazarus out of the grave, she perked up.

"Oh, thank God," she bemoaned. "I thought that might never end."

Trixie's brow furrowed. "The—do you mean dinner?"

"Can't stand to eat with that man," she muttered. "I eat and he tells me I eat too much, I don't eat, he threatens to leave me for being ungrateful." Then, she skewered the fruitcake with her fork and shoved a large bite into her mouth, chewing it hurriedly. "What do you want?"

"I'm—sorry, what?"

"Fruitcake," the woman said. "It's out of season, the fruit isn't good anymore. I can have the cook make us something else. Do you like chocolate?"

Trixie had no idea what to say; she was still trying to process the character swap that had taken place before her eyes. "Yes," she said.

Mrs. Kimber nodded, standing up and marching towards the kitchen. When she returned a moment later, she had a plate of potatoes in one hand and a spoon in the other. She grinned challengingly as she settled into her husband's seat at the end of the table. "I don't know what it is they see from here," she remarked around a mouthful of potatoes. "The world cannot possibly be better from this part of the table, but he still acts like he's never going to die."

"The men get other things besides the best seat at the table," Trixie remarked, though her description of Kimber was horrifyingly applicable to Tommy, as well.

Mrs. Kimber pointed at her with the spoon. "That's a fact."

"How long have you been married?" Trixie asked.

The woman shrugged. "Too long. I'd leave, but I've no money of my own, so I may as well put up with everything else." She scraped the side of her spoon against the plate and scooped up the last bit of food. "What about you? Are you married?"

"No," said Trixie. Maybe she should've mentioned her fake engagement to Tommy, or her new fake engagement to his brother, but this woman was being so candid that telling a lie felt even worse than usual. "Maybe someday."

"Don't," Mrs. Kimber said. "Your name's Beatrice?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Scarlett."

A maid pushed through the doors to the kitchen, two plates of chocolate dessert in hand. Trixie watched as Scarlett handed off the old potato plate in exchange for one of the dessert ones, like she'd done this before. Hell, she probably had.

Trixie poked the dessert with her spoon carefully, and found that it was almost foamy in texture. She took a small bite—it was quite pleasant, rich and soft and cool. Had Scarlett told her what it was called? She didn't ask, for fear of looking stupid and out of touch. Instead, she ate the dessert without shame, noting as Kimber's wife did the same.

"Chocolate is good year round," Scarlett remarked. "That's why I like it best." She seized Kimber's abandoned glass and took a large gulp of wine. "Do you like it as well?"

"Haven't had much of it before," she admitted. "Small Heath has its charms, but not its luxuries."

"Oh, god, you poor thing," said Scarlett. Trixie liked the chocolate, sure, but that was hardly what was occupying her thoughts at the moment. Rather, she was busy with imagining the conversations and dealings happening in the other room. Only when Scarlett shoved her empty dish away from her did Trixie refocus on the table. "Come with me."

Trixie had not yet finished her dessert, but she was full from the fruitcake and the courses that had preceded it, so she stood up and followed the other woman out of the dining room and down the hallway.

"It's boring not being in the room," Scarlett remarked over her shoulder. She braced her hand on one of the doorknobs and pushed it open. "We women have to make our own fun."

"I'm supposed to be in the room," Trixie muttered, but kept on anyway, following Scarlett through the doorway. Inside, the walls were adorned by pink and white wallpaper, and the long white couch stretched out across the room. On the table beside it was a pipe and a dish, similar to the ones she'd seen in Tommy's room but clearly more expensive. Scarlett pulled her rings off her fingers and placed her hat gently on a sewing table. "What's this room for?"

"Me," she said. "I spent most of my time here, while he finds whores to sleep with and gambles. I used to be a milliner, you know. I make most of my hats."

Scarlett sat down on the couch and kicked her shoes off, crossing her stocking-ed ankles and laying sideways on the cushion. "Want some fun?" she asked, pulling the pipe off the table and holding it out to Trixie.

"What is it?" Trixie asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Patting the cushion with her foot, Scarlett grinned. "Some American thing. Indica. I just know it's good."

"I've only smoked cigarettes."

"It's the same thing," said Scarlett. "Well—not quite. This is better than cigarettes."

Trixie took a careful seat on the couch next to Scarlett, who opened the drawer of the table and found a matchbox. She handed it to Trixie and took a moment to scoop small, dried leaves out of a bottle and into the bowl of the pipe. Then, she put it into her mouth and took the matches back, lighting one and setting the leaves aflame.

One long inhale later, she tilted her head back and smiled pleasantly. "You want some?" she offered.

"I'm alright," said Trixie. She was still trying to figure out what Kimber was going to do to her, or to Tommy, and why she was here with his wife and not pretending to enjoy his stupid game. "Do his meetings take often?"

"Who knows," said Scarlett. "I've stopped paying attention." She sat up. "It is odd, though, that you're here. He never invites women into the house unless they're married to one of his associates. But I guess you're used to being odd."

"Maybe," said Trixie, but Scarlett didn't answer, instead taking another large puff off the pipe and humming to herself as she blew out the cloud of smoke. It had a strange odor, but Trixie couldn't find anything to compare it to. She waited for a while for Scarlett to say anything, but she had her eyes glued shut and seemed very much asleep. Standing from the couch, Trixie began inspecting the rest of the room. A vanity, a window seat overlooking the driveway, a collection of magazines and etiquette books stacked at the end of the cushion.

Was this going to be her life then? Trixie was grateful now to have more to worry about than surviving. No longer was she scrounging up coins for bread and trying to persuade the grocers to discount her cabbage, but what was she going to do with herself in a house in the countryside, alone? Sure, she could visit Ada and Poll and John, but what was she supposed to do beyond that? It wasn't like she could take the train every day.

She should probably get married, at some point, but it felt so wrong as it applied to her, like a dress that had been tailored with completely falsified proportions. If she did, though, she could keep busy with children, but then she remembered that most of the mothers in Small Heath seemed to be dead. Her own, the Shelbys', Polly's, Luca's. Trixie didn't want to die, but she didn't want her life to be empty, either, and it seemed that working with the Shelbys or embracing domesticity both ran the risk of the former.

Maybe she'd just numb herself, like Scarlett did. Smoke American drugs and pretend not to eat until after her husband had left the table and put up with the misery of a man who mistreated her. All of a sudden, from Scarlett's window seat, the world seemed like a very terrible place to live.

"Scarlett?" she asked.

For a second, the room was just deafeningly quiet, but then she answered, "Hmm?"

"Can I have some of that?" Trixie asked.

The other woman's head popped up from behind the back of the couch, a lazy grin on her lips. "And here I was, thinking you'd never ask."

Kimber had agreed to the terms of Tommy's proposal almost off the bat when they arrived in the Billiards Room, but he'd kept him hostage in a long game of pool even with all the business finished. Tommy didn't like having his time wasted, and he especially didn't like having his time wasted by Billy Kimber. By the time the game was over, his pocketwatch read past ten, and he was hardly in the mood for the long drive back.

"Your secretary," said Kimber, as Tommy tugged on the ends of his sleeves. "How long has she worked for you?"

"She's my accountant," Tommy corrected, strangely defensive. "And she's worked for my business three years now."

"Right," said Kimber. "And you trust her?"

Polly did, which for now was answer enough. "I do. She's never given me reason not to."

"Right, well, she's a bit of a slag, if I'm being honest with you," Kimber admitted. Tommy raised one eyebrow. "When you left, you know, she was asking me if I liked women like her. Do you know what I mean?"

"Women like her."

"She better learn her place, is what I'm saying," said Kimber. "If she wants to be a whore, she should make a living like one, too, but I don't want her coming back. That's a condition."

Tommy could've shot him. He certainly wanted to, and his gun was loaded in its holster, but that wouldn't help much with the Campbell situation, or the Lees, or the expansion. His fingers twitched at his side at Kimber's accusations, at the fact that he would bother to make them when they were so ridiculously false. Bang. Bullet in his head. But that was more fitting for Arthur, or even John, than it was for him.

"Deal," Tommy said, because Beatrice would never come back here by choice, and she'd be gone from the business soon altogether. "Thank you for your patience and generosity this evening, Mr. Kimber," he added, like he didn't care about Beatrice at all—and he didn't, really. She'd done what he'd asked of her. That's all there was.

"Mr. Roberts, another round?" Kimber said, already busying himself with the game. Rich men were like children. Tommy knew this, because Kimber was not the first rich man he'd known, but it fascinated him. Polly had warned him about Kimber being dangerous, but the man paid more attention to his toys than to his business.

One of Kimber's butlers was waiting to escort him out, so Tommy pulled the cap from his pocket just to have something to hold onto. "Where's Miss Price?" he asked.

"She's with Mrs. Kimber," the butler returned. "One of the maids has gone to retrieve her."

"Thanks," said Tommy, and slowed to a stop in front of the door.

The click of Beatrice's heels on the wood floor echoed unfamiliarly. Tommy made a habit of noticing patterns, and he'd noticed hers well enough; she was often quiet, and deliberately so. Now, though, her steps were heavy and clumsy, and when she finally came into view, she was trailing behind the maid with a kind of reluctance, looking extremely guilty. "Alright?" he asked, offering his arm to her.

In lieu of speaking, she nodded, grabbing onto his arm more forcefully than usual. Tommy led her outside towards the waiting car, and pulled the door open for her. "Ohhh my God," she said.

"Taking the Lord's name in vain, eh?"

Beatrice shook her head. "I…" she faltered. "I did something."

She...did something. Okay. Tommy shut her door and crossed the car, accepting the keys from the valet and sliding into the drivers' seat. "What did you do?"

Beatrice screwed her eyes shut and put her head in her hands. "Scarlett has a pipe like yours. The—helps you sleep."

Tommy turned the key in the ignition and started driving, because sitting in Billy fucking Kimber's driveway with her in silence was getting old fast. "You smoked opium?" he asked, glancing over at her. She was handling it fairly well, if she was still able to walk without collapsing. "Why?"

"Wasn't opium," she insisted. "American thing. Indica." She scrunched up her face, concentrating hard on remembering the name. "Cannabis."

She hadn't answered his second question, so he repeated it. "Why."

"I can't live—like that," Trixie said. "The fucking hats everywhere, and the American drugs, and the—the Billy Kimber."

"Well, good thing you won't be marrying him."

Trixie shook her head. "No, no, you don't understand." She took a deep breath. "I feel like my brain is evaporating. When I leave, that's it. I'll be bored, all day, and the only other thing I can do with myself is get married, but I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to get married anymore."

"Right," said Tommy. He probably should've been more irritated by this crisis, but she looked so desperate to be understood, so afraid that she'd never grasp onto it. "You wanted to get married before?"

"I had someone to marry before," she said. "Now—I can't be happy in a house all alone, and it's. It's just because you wanted to get rid of me, and now I'll have to find something else to do."

You wanted to get rid of me. Tommy mulled over her words and made a serious effort to find fault in them, but she was right, wasn't she? She couldn't be tricked. That was why Polly kept her around, and why he needed her gone. He would've commented on it, maybe, or made an effort to dispute it, if she didn't seem fine with that part. It was the implications that upset her. "You don't belong in a life like this," he said, not meaning to lie but not feeling truthful in retrospect. She had a priest for a father, for fuck's sake, and she was too small to make it in any fight that counted. But that hadn't stopped her from ending up where she was, which was maybe proof to the opposite.

"If I don't belong in a life like this, then I don't belong anywhere," Beatrice said, like a proclamation. She looked over at him. "Who's going to see me?" she asked. "What man is going to marry me and understand?"

If Tommy were a liar, he might make up a story about finding love, but he wasn't, and she probably wouldn't believe him, anyway.

"Who's going to want to see me," Trixie mumbled, and Tommy pulled his eyes from the road to look at her through the flashes of moonlight that shone over her through the trees. Who would want to see her, asked like he hadn't spent the last trying to learn as much about her as he could. "I can't live the rest of my life hidden, Tommy. I just can't. I've seen it, and now I can't just pretend I haven't." Suddenly, she let out a groan. "I am smart, you know, even if I sound stupid at this particular moment."

Tommy had never seen her like this, so open with him. Whatever she'd smoked with Kimber's wife had made her pliant and loose, in a way that struck him as almost being unfair; she should be home in bed in this state, not stuck with him. And she'd known it would be him—she'd known about the hour long drive ahead of them, and she hadn't worried. "Are you afraid?" he asked.

"Of Kimber?" she replied. "Yes. He thinks I'm going to sleep with him once I'm married."

"Not of Kimber. Of me."

"Oh, here we go again," she said, exasperated. "I know you. There's no reason to be afraid."

"You think?"

"You disagree?"

"If you know me, that's exactly why you should be afraid."

"But we're so alike," she said, broken like a confession. Beatrice reached across the car for his hand and seized it tightly in her cold hands. "Tommy. You see me, don't you?"

Her eyes caught the moonlight and glowed back at him, deadly serious. Never in his life had he been smitten, and he wasn't going to start now. But Tommy still found himself nodding, swallowing, his throat like sandpaper. Maybe he'd spent a year chasing nothing, maybe she'd been honest with him from the start. "I see you," he managed, remembering the morning by the canal. I see you for what you are. "And you see me."

She smiled, satisfied. "God, at least there's that." Beatrice turned back towards the road and blew out a breath. "At least we have each other."

Did they have each other?

"Sometimes," Trixie said, "I imagine God. And what he looks like."

"Man on the cross?"

She shook her head adamantly. "No, no. It's more like—like light. Light you can't look away from, even when you know you're going blind, even if it's set you on fire and burning you into nothing."

Tommy didn't spend much time thinking about God these days, but then again, he never really had.

"You're like that," said Trixie. "It doesn't matter how much it hurts. Nothing else compares."

Well, what does a man make of that? Tommy pressed his foot down harder on the gas pedal and tried to imagine how anyone could walk into a fire by choice. How anyone could be burning, and still unafraid. It was unnatural, wasn't it?

It was unnatural, but he and Beatrice were the same. He'd pulled a trigger once, at thirteen, and been gone from the moment the bullet spun out of the barrel. Tommy had been burning for years, now, and still, the worst thing he'd witnessed was himself, watching his sanity drift out through the trenches until he was too far gone, and now, whatever had survived walked the earth with a hunger nothing could satiate. There's no substitute for a heart.

Polly had been right about this, then. He'd been to hell and back, and nothing had scared him more than himself, his hands, the things he'd done with them. And if Beatrice wasn't afraid—if she didn't want to walk away, if she couldn't stand anything but him, then she had to be worse.

And maybe Tommy ought to be afraid of her, but she was drifting off in the passenger seat of his car now, her silver dress hanging off her body like the carcass of the bride she should've been. Beatrice was terrifying, and she didn't even realize it. Which left Tommy to wonder—

What would she be capable of if she knew? What would they be capable of together?

The next morning, Trixie woke up in her own bed, still in her silver dress, her memory of the previous night foggy.

On her bedside table she found Billy Kimber's copy of Wuthering Heights.

A/N: I am so sorry for this delay ah my partner surprised me with a visit and my writing got totally thrown off because I was just so happy to see her. I hope this extra long chapter helps make up for it! Thank you to Guest, junieyes, scars from the sun, Idcam, and EleanorJames for the lovely feedback last chapter and please let me know what you thought of this as well!

Chapter 16 / Red Wire, Red String

Tommy took a moment to inspect her face. Compared to Scudboat, Trixie had come out of their encounter with the Lees relatively unscathed, save for the cut on her cheek that would most certainly scar. Wordlessly, he removed his handkerchief from his pocket.

Trixie reached out to take it from him, but he bypassed her, cradling the back of her head gently in one hand and using the other to dab at the blood.

"Oh," she said, the word falling out of her mouth before she could stop it. Tommy wished she wasn't so lovely.