CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
judas in the garden
"Would you really betray me with a kiss?" —Luke 22:48
MAUNDY THURSDAY. 1910.
"THERE IS A MAN WE KNOW AS UNFORGIVABLE, brothers and sisters. There is a man whose name we do not say. So disgraced is he that Saint Jude became patron saint of lost causes after bearing such a similar name to this man. Is that the greatest punishment? To be untold? Or is the reason we do not say it worse—that we hate him so? I would like to talk to you about Judas Iscariot. Forgive me for saying his name. But I would like to talk to you, brothers and sisters, about the man we have forgotten. A child of God left behind. Judas was the son of Simon, he was once a boy. Think about your children. Do they have toys? Do they play games? Judas was a child with toys, friends, and favorite games. But we do not hear of that. The tragedy of the Bible is that it tells us so much, but it cannot tell us everything—the Good Book tells us first about Judas when he is a disciple of Christ, the Son of Man. We never hear about how he probably loved his mother and splashed in the river on hot days as a boy. How he befriended Christ and was kind to him. We only know Judas Iscariot as one thing: a traitor."
In the front pew of the parish, thirteen-year-old Beatrice Price swung her legs back and forth nervously. This was the first time her father had let her contribute writing to a homily—delivered in English, despite the backlash he might've received from the diocese if they cared enough to enforce the rules. It was a big day, Maundy Thursday, and despite the mounting pressure of her own words being spoken back to her in front of several hundred people, Bea—stupidly—could only stare at him.
The DeSilvio boy. With his ink-dark hair combed back neatly, and his olive skin golden under the morning light. He knelt in the pew across the aisle, and she could have sworn she caught him staring at her earlier, during the first reading, but he hadn't looked back since then. What if he thought that she was staring at him? What if she was disturbing him somehow by watching?
Bea willed herself to focus back on her father's words. "We are all made in God's image, my friends. Even Judas. He may have done something that we think is unforgivable, but we must not forget: it is not our job to pass punishment or mercy. We leave that to God." Just then, the DeSilvio boy darted his eyes over at her. Bea held his gaze. Then, the unthinkable: he smiled. Oh, Lord, she thought, her heart squeezing. That smile.
This wasn't the first time they played this game. Ever since she had started helping her father write his homilies last year, she had assumed a position in the first row of the church. It was, she supposed, for the sake of the message; she often caught his eyes on her when he reached the sentences she had spent hours refining, but she was growing older and selfish, and couldn't seem to stop her attention from drifting over to the beautiful boy with the dark brown eyes. They had done this every Sunday, and now that it was Lent, more often, but they had yet to speak beyond the mornings when she washed out the ciborium and chalices before mass began and delivered them to him and the other altar boys, both his brothers. One older, and one younger. She didn't even know their names, for God's sake, just that they were Gio's boys, and Gio owned the cafe across town.
"...and to betray him with a kiss," her father said. Bea startled, her foot bumping into the kneeler in front of her and making a noise that echoed across the church's cavernous walls. She bit down on her tongue punishingly and cringed, forcing her gaze straight ahead, where she found the suffering eyes of Christ staring back at her. Anywhere but across the aisle, where she was sure the DeSilvio boys would be laughing at her. Don't look. Don't look. Bea broke, her eyes sliding back over to the middle boy, who was, admittedly, smiling, but his eyes were kind. "That is an act of intimacy Jesus had not before known; a certain intertwining of love and hate. Does it matter, though? It was a marker of possession more than anything else. As if Judas took Jesus into his arms and said, You are my responsibility, my fault, my friend, and now my grief. And Jesus did not resist it, did not fight back. For he knew that he was put on Earth to be betrayed, to die, and to save us all. Judas, too, was only fulfilling what God had made him to be: a traitor."
Bea blinked at the DeSilvio boy, and he shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal that she'd just made a very loud noise in the middle of a very important mass. She offered a shy smile in return, wanting badly to muster the courage to speak to him, for once.
"We were not put on this Earth to cast judgment upon one another, brothers and sisters. We are not the Romans. We will not persecute one another by playing God. It is love that Christ taught us, and love we must carry forward."
Bea caught her father's eyes, and he sent her a stern look. She knew instantly that her flirtation had been discovered, and she lowered her head in shame. It was only when the boys rose to deliver the Eucharist to the altar that she could stand to look at them again, and even then, their backs were turned. The rest of mass wasn't half as nerve-racking; once Communion began, it was almost over, anyway, and before she knew it, Bea was slipping back into the refectory to help clean up.
"Ahem," came from behind her, as Bea folded up the altar cloth. She spun, and there he was—the middle DeSilvio boy, his brown eyes somehow warmer up close. Bea couldn't help her nervous smile.
"Hi," she said. "Erm, more cloths? Or dishes?"
"No," he said. "But I, well–I wanted to give you this." From behind his back, he withdrew a pink rose. Bea recognized it from one of the bouquets that had been laid before the Crucifix. "Unless your father get mad that I took it."
"I won't tell him," Bea promised, too flattered by the gesture to think of trivial things like the resurrection of Christ or her father's strict standards.
"I'm Luca DeSilvio," he introduced. Now that he was out from under his cassock and surplice, she could appreciate the neat knot of his tie and the clean lines pressed into his slacks. He looked fancy. Important. The kind of boy who grew up to be somebody to a lot of people. A politician. A prince. Something like that. "I've seen you around."
"Beatrice Price. I've seen you too." Her face heated up.
"Father Martin said you helped write the homily."
She wasn't sure what to do with the praise. Never had she expected him to be so kind—never had she expected him to talk to her. "I did."
"I liked it. You're a lot smarter than me."
Bea blanched, unsure how to answer without coming off as rude. She didn't know him, but she was certain that he was far from stupid. "That's hardly fair. You don't even know me."
"I'd like to get to know you," Luca said. Bea's hand tightened around the flower's thorny stem. "I've been too scared to talk to you before."
"I've been too scared to talk to you," she crowed disbelievingly. "You're just—nice to look at." Oh, Bea, she thought. Always with your foot in your mouth. "And your brother frightens me."
"Enzo?" Luca asked. "The older one?"
"Yeah," said Bea. "Enzo." A nice, sturdy name. And he was certainly a sturdy boy, broad-shouldered and towering over the both of them. Though Luca was getting much taller, too—her nose barely reached his chin.
"Beatrice!" her father called from the rectory. "Would you come help me count the tithes?"
She smiled nervously at Luca. "I have to go."
"Don't be scared next time you see me," he said. "I don't mean to be scary, I'd like to get to know you."
"I'm not scared anymore," she promised. "Enzo, maybe. But not you."
She squeezed the flower again, and a drop of blood bloomed from the prick of the thorn. Bea dropped her hand behind her back, and dashed away from Luca before he could see the red.
BLACK STAR DAY. 1919.
In that very same church, many years later, a twenty-two year old Beatrice knelt quietly in the front pew, her head bowed over steepled hands. "Dear Lord," she murmured. "Keep us safe."
It was a lost cause, she thought. Wherever God was, she had turned her back on Him a long time ago. But she was counting on his forgiveness. She was counting on mercy.
I have become unrepentant. I have sinned without thought. I have violated your most sacred commandments, Lord, but I am here to confess. Trixie knotted her hands tighter together, her fingers going white under the pressure. Forgive me, Father, she willed, not sure if it was her own father she directed the prayer to, or God. I was made in your image. And now I, too, have learned to love the devil. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Lord." But was Lucifer not an angel before he fell? Was Tommy not a child of God too?
And she loved him. Or—something like that, some twisted, broken version of it that felt more like hunger than satisfaction, a bite rather than a kiss. How awful had she become, to whisper these horrible things in the early-morning dark, not only on the day that would inevitably bring about the deaths of many men, but also the three year anniversary of Luca's own passing? The guilt kept her bruising on the kneeler.
After their return to town he had wrapped a firm arm around her waist and brought her back to bed, kissed her all over and slept all the way through the night in her arms. She had decided then that she loved him, as he rested his head on her bare chest. He was only human in the dark of their bedroom, and she would've complained of the narrowness of his bed if they did not spend their nights lying atop each other in one way or another. Luca had not touched her as reveratly as Tommy had; Luca had not taken from her. Would she have given, Trixie wondered? Would she have demanded anything in return?
Distantly, someone struck a match, and one of the candles on the altar burned to life. Trixie didn't notice until a long shadow was cast over her, and she sat up quickly, jolted by the reality that the man in the cassock was not her father, but a red-haired man with a thin nose, who eyed her curiously. "My dear girl," he said. "We are not open yet. What are you doing here so early?"
She stood. After all these years, she still could not look a priest in the eyes. "I'm sorry, Father. I needed a quiet place to pray."
He seemed to soften. "I'm always available for confession. If you'd just give me a moment to finish with the candles, I can take you."
Trixie shook her head. "No, Father, that's alright. I ought to go, anyway. I'm sorry again."
She felt like she was looking into the eyes of a ghost. How easily had her father been replaced, by a man who knew nothing of him, or her, or the fact that she had grown up among these pews and learned her name in the middle of this aisle. Before he could object or insist, she had gathered her purse and burst out the front doors. Cold hit her like a slap in the face. Three years ago, she had walked this route to Garrison Court and begged for a job; now she couldn't seem to get the blood out from under her fingernails. You get what you ask for, she supposed. No room for regrets.
Hualing knew the difference by now between the men who came to her in search of release and the men who just needed to feel bigger than somebody else. She felt sympathy towards neither, but that wasn't the job. The job was to sit quietly and take whatever they dished out, smile politely when they were through, and leave. It wasn't easy, but she adjusted.
"What are you doing?" Fenfang hissed.
Hualing jumped, placing a finger against her lips. "Shh." They were cowered behind the curtains in the room she had just left, peering at the man she had just served. He was the kind who needed to feel big; the scars on her back made that much clear.
"You're bleeding!" Fenfang whispered.
Hualing smacked her on the arm. "I'm trying to hear."
The man—C, he'd introduced himself—was no longer alone. Tommy Shelby had arrived, and was cocking his gun as he shut the door behind him. Fenfang rested a hand on Hualing's arm, and she shifted over to make room for the other girl to watch between the gap in the curtain.
"I am unarmed," C said, knotting his tie. Hualing narrowed her eyes. No blood in the brothel—that was Mr. Zhang's rule. The white men descended from their corners of the city in search of sex and food and fabric, but they were always made to retreat before the shootouts started. The floor was carpet, after all.
Both girls watched as Tommy Shelby lowered his gun and replaced it in his jacket pocket. Fenfang and the others always fled when he and his brothers traveled through this part of town, but Hualing liked to watch the Shelby boys with their crowns of razors. Two of them had married in the last year—the blonde one, she expected. He had the look of an animal in need of domestication. But she found it hard to believe that anyone had tamed Tommy. Judging by the fact that he was still waving guns around brothels, she was right to reserve doubt.
"It's curious, Inspector," said the Shelby man. "I thought you came here to clean up the city, not sleep with its whores."
Hualing's scabs burned. Everyone knew of Thomas Shelby's affair with the prostitute down in Garrison Court. The brothel would be nothing without the men who financed it; they were guiltier than she or Fenfang. "You are a funny man, Mr. Shelby," C said. Inspector. He was a cop, then—Hualing ached to laugh at the irony. It was only Fenfang's nails in her arm that stopped her. "I bet you're here to ask why I have yet to leave town."
"Why wouldn't you? You have what you came here for."
"Ah, yes. The guns." The Inspector massaged his jaw with his thumb. "I have a meeting with Winston Churchill at midday. No doubt he wants to congratulate me on locating them. You still don't realize how we found them, do you?"
"I have my guesses."
"Guns?" Fenfang whispered, so close that her breath on Hualing's ear made her shiver. Hualing seized her arm in an unforgivingly tight grip that she knew would bruise if she didn't let go soon. She put her finger over her lips one more time. If the girl didn't quiet, they'd be in trouble with the two most powerful men in the city.
Eavesdropping was formally outlawed, but they heard so many things without even trying. Men who complained as they undressed about work, their wives, their kids, money, the weather. Fenfang just liked to know the full story. But Hualing had bigger plans for herself, and they didn't include wasted opportunities.
"That barmaid of yours is not a very good spy, Inspector. You didn't find those guns. She did. She was the one who struck a deal with my wife, and my wife was the one to deliver. What have you really done, eh? Besides sit in your office smoking and fuck the girls they keep here." He cleared his throat. "You got lucky."
The Inspector laughed, tugging the lapels of his jacket and straightening his blazer. "There is something I've learned in my time here."
"What's that?"
"You and I are opposites, but also just the same." Hualing froze in her place. "Like an image in a mirror. We hate people."
"Speak for yourself," Tommy disagreed. "I'm a married man now."
"We both know that marriage is a sham. Your wife hates you more than she hates me. Why else would she serve as an informant for so long?" He hid himself behind the curtain, and Hualing tried to push Fenfang over to get a better angle to watch from. "She plans to leave you, you know. She's been selling me information from the start. Didn't want witness protection when I offered, but is rather attracted to the idea of a life in New York."
Hualing strained to remember who Tommy Shelby had married—his brother had wed a Lee girl, but his own wedding had been a small affair. Not even any dancing. "Before the day is over," the Inspector promised, crossing the room and back into the narrow frame of the curtain, "your heart will be broken. Just the same as mine." He gathered his coat. "Men like us, Mr. Shelby, will always be alone. What love we get, we will have to pay for."
"There are no men like me," Tommy replied. And then the door opened once more, and the Inspector was gone.
Fenfang turned to Hualing, as if to ask for the rest of the story. But Hualing only shrugged, and peered back outside. Where Tommy Shelby was staring right at her. "Come out," he ordered.
"Shite," she cursed. Hualing stood before stepping forward; if she had to succumb to humiliation, she would negotiate what dignity she could. "Yes, Mr. Shelby."
"You were the one, weren't you?" he asked. "The one Campbell saw."
Hualing nodded, shrinking into herself the way men liked her to. It made lying easier. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hear. I was coming back for my shoes."
"You're alright, eh? He's a bad man. I've already told Mr. Zheng not to let him back here."
"I am," Hualing said. "He said something, though—Mr. Shelby. I didn't understand. But now I do."
He straightened. Hualing could smell the musk of his cologne. "What's that?"
She pushed her shoulders back the slightest bit. "Will you owe me a favor if I tell you?"
"I'm not in the business of owing favors. I tend to collect."
"You'll want to know."
Tommy narrowed his eyes; were Hualing more naive, she would've believed that she'd impressed him. "One favor. It may not be from me, though—but my family will back it."
Hualing smiled. "Alright. He said, 'Today is a very special day. You know that? I'm celebrating.' And I asked, what are you celebrating, sir? And he said, 'Today is the day I kill Beatrice Price.' And I didn't know who that was, so I asked what she had done, and he told me that she had stolen guns and kept them hidden. Those were the guns you were talking about earlier, right?"
"He said Beatrice Price."
"Yes."
Tommy turned without another word, and marched heavily down the stairs. Fenfang approached from behind. "What did you say to him?"
Hualing turned. "I gave him a warning. Got a favor in return."
"What will you ask for?" said Fenfang.
"I don't know yet," Hualing replied. "I just know it's good to have a man that powerful in your pocket."
When Trixie heard the crying in the house, she assumed that it was Finn throwing a fit over a scraped knee. But Ada was the one who opened the door. As soon as she met the girl's wide eyes, Trixie almost spun on her heel, desperate to escape the confrontation. Hello, Ada. It's been a while since I've seen you. I killed a man, you know! And fucked your brother. Repeatedly.
"Beatrice," she sniffed, clearly making a great effort to appear unaffected.
Trixie's mouth fell open. "Don't Beatrice me," she snarled, before she could help it. "What are you doing here?"
Ada stood taller. "I wanted you to meet Karl."
"Karl?"
"My son."
It wasn't Finn crying at all. It was a baby. "Oh, my God," Trixie said, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around Ada without giving thought to the possibility that she might shove her away. "Of course you named him Karl."
Ada let out a sudden sob and returned the embrace, holding onto Trixie for dear life as they shifted out of the doorway. "I've missed you," she confessed. "God—I've been so tired, with the baby, and no word from Freddie but I don't think he's been hanged yet, and I just—it's lonely. And he cries, my God."
As if out of spite, the wailing suddenly stopped; Trixie pulled back. "Who's with him now?"
Ada rolled her eyes. "Polly. She's unfairly good with him."
"She has experience from raising everybody in this house."
"Maybe," Ada conceded. "It's still irritating."
"Maybe you just need to sleep," Trixie disagreed. "Is your brother home?"
"You mean your husband?"
"That's not—" she stopped. Ada gave her a look as if to say, Exactly. "Is he?"
"Not yet," Ada replied. The disdain was apparent in her voice.
Trixie shrugged. "Alright. Can I meet my nephew, then?"
Ada nodded. In the living room, Polly was cradling a fat baby in her arms, and he waved his round arms around greedily, seizing onto her hair. Polly looked up at the two of them, and back down at Karl, and asked, "Would you like to meet your Aunt, hm? Auntie Trixie?"
Karl babbled mindlessly, and Polly passed him over to Trixie. He was heavier than she had expected, and he sat still for all of five seconds in her arms before resuming his wailing. Trixie tried fruitlessly to bounce him, but that only seemed to ire him further, and she was prepared to admit defeat after less than a minute of holding him.
"Put your elbow under his neck," Polly instructed. "They've got weak necks. You need to support them properly."
Trixie shifted, and Karl ceased crying for a moment, though she suspected that was more out of the shock of being jolted suddenly and not any particular fondness for her. Her suspicions were confirmed when, moments later, Tommy burst through the door and set him off again. "Alright," Trixie said, handing him back off to Polly. "Here you go. All yours."
"Where were you this morning?" Tommy demanded, completely ignoring the baby in her arms, or his long-lost sister at her side.
Trixie stepped back. "Er—Church? Why?"
"We'll talk about this later," he said. Trixie scowled. Why bring it up if not to talk about it? "Everyone in the shop, now. John should be along soon with Esme."
As Tommy brushed past them, Trixie noticed Ada's jaw slip open. Surely she had her regrets now about returning to the Shelby home. "He's got a lot on his plate, you know," she said. "Today in particular. But he's been in better spirits these days than he was before."
"Is that his reaction to putting my husband behind bars?" Ada asked.
"You have to know by now that it doesn't end there."
Ada pursed her lips. "Polly mentioned something about today. But she said it was risky."
"All Shelby business is risky. It's how we got where we are." Trixie put a hand on Ada's shoulder, and guided her towards the betting shop. Inside, she hovered by the back, some kind of physical barrier between Ada and Karl and the rest of the family. Tommy assumed a position at the front, climbing the steps to the chalkboards and turning to face the group.
"Right," he started. "I've brought you all here today to update you on announcements pertaining to this family, this business, and this city." He found her in the crowd—except, he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at Ada. "The first is the matter of the personal. As I'm sure many of you have noticed, we welcome a new member of the family to this meeting today. Ada, if you would introduce your son?"
It took her a moment to begin moving, but Ada eventually stepped out from behind Trixie, a now quiet Karl asleep in her arms. "This is Karl Thorne," she said. "Named after Karl Marx."
Polly stepped behind Trixie and rested her hands on her shoulders, giving an affectionate squeeze. Trixie covered Polly's hand with her own, unable to keep from smiling. Even after everything, Ada's baby had been healthy, and if she was here, that had to mean something; Tommy would make sure that Karl was safe.
"Karl fucking Marx," Arthur whooped. "You're lucky it wasn't a girl, or Trixie would've had you name her Arthurina."
Ada turned to look at her. "What?"
"Don't worry about it," Trixie hurried to reply.
"What we do today," said Tommy, "we do to keep our family safe. Look at Karl. Look at him. He's a Thorne in name, but a Shelby by blood, and we are protecting him. Which brings me to my next announcement." He waited for Arthur and John to settle as Karl was handed off to Finn. "This is the day that we replace Billy Kimber. This is the day we become respectable. The day we join the official National Association of Race Course Bookmakers. We've all known this day has been coming, I just haven't told anyone the date. But before we can claim victory, we must do the dirty work." Tommy gestured to her. "Beatrice and I have spent hours ordering things to keep things running smoothly, so stick to the plan. Now is not the day for showing off. In fact—" He stopped. "Beatrice, would you like to explain?"
Trixie cleared her throat. She had neve been nervous in front of the Shelbys, never been nervous counting the money at this very table, but she suddenly felt dizzy at the prospect of sharing equal credit in a move so momentous. Nevertheless, she passed through the parted crowd and joined Tommy at the head of the room. "Today we go to the races," she said. Her voice came out so delicately compared to Tommy's, and she cleared her throat. "The Worcester Tracks," she amended, louder this time. "We'll get there at two, an hour after the track opens. Kimber is expecting us—he thinks we're going there to help him fight the Lee brothers. But thanks to John and Esme, the Lees are now family. You'll take Kimber's boys out but leave the bookies. It should be fast."
Scudboat raised a hand. "And, uh, what about Kimber himself?"
Tommy smiled. "I'll deal with Kimber. Any other questions?" When no interjections came, Tommy said, "Alright, then. My final piece of news. You may have heard rumors that Beatrice would be leaving Birmingham after today and ending her career with the Peaky Blinders. Those rumors were false. She will be staying here with us, serving as company treasurer of the all new Shelby Company Limited."
Trixie felt her cheeks heat up at being put on the spot. But she refused to let them see it. Instead, she tilted her chin up and scanned the room—John and Arthur and the other boys regarded her with various degrees of fondness and respect; Polly, though, looked horrified.
"Alright, at your places, boys," said Tommy. "We're going to the races."
It wasn't until the other men had cleared that Polly spoke, but when she did, it was unforgiving. "You liar," she snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at Tommy. "You promised you would keep her safe. Promised."
"Polly," he started, but she cut him off with a slap across the face.
"You promised."
"Promised what?" Trixie asked.
"She asked to stay," Tommy swore. "I can't stop her from having ambitions, Poll."
"You can stop God from lifting the sun in the sky, Tommy, if you try hard enough! Enough with the bloody lying!"
"Hey!" Trixie snapped. Both heads turned to her. "Promised what?"
Tommy glared at his aunt, before turning to face her. "Our deal. The countryside."
"Yes..." said Trixie slowly.
He pointed at Polly. "She asked me to do that. Said you ought to get out before you got killed. I didn't have an opinion either way."
"You don't have an opinion either way?" Trixie repeated. She felt as if her chest was collapsing, kicked in.
His face twisted, clearly exasperated. "I have an opinion now. I've already told you. You are an asset to this business."
"She's a person, Tommy!" Polly cried. "She's a girl. Younger than Ada. Barely twenty-three. And you are damning her to a life at your whims before she hardly knows any better."
"I—" Trixie objected. "I'm making my own choices." But even as she said it, she struggled to believe it. She was choosing to stay because she cared for Tommy. He was keeping her around because he wanted a spy. "I asked Tommy to stay," she said anyway, because it was too pathetic to admit to her own misunderstandings. "Alright, Polly? I know you care about me, I know you're watching out for me, but I know what I'm doing."
Polly's hands fell to her sides, beat. "My girl," she said. "You are smart, and cunning, and you have survived a great many things. But this is beyond all that. If you stay, he will get you killed."
She gulped. "I have nothing else," she admitted. "You are my family, you are all I have left."
"Tommy?" All three turned to the door, slid open, where Scudboat peaked through. "There's a message for you. You'll want to hear it."
"Excuse me," he muttered, following Scudboat back into the living room.
Left alone, Trixie suddenly felt as if she and Polly were underwater, giving up on life at the surface, if only because the sea-beasts were demons they knew. She was shaking, she realized—furious at the choice being taken from her, furious at Tommy for refusing to admit it, furious that he was willing to let her go as a favor to someone else. Just once, Trixie wanted to be chosen and kept, held and cherished. Just once. "You think he loves you," Polly said, when the door slammed shut.
"No," Trixie denied. She knew he didn't.
"You do. Or you want him to. But the love he will give you—the love he is capable of giving you—will not be warm, Trixie. It will not feel like home. If you want that, you will take that house in the countryside, because Tommy's heart is cold, and he will latch onto anything that makes him feel alive when he gets bored with the sad, slow death that he's been playing out since he came back home. You couldn't have expected anything different. You're too smart for that."
Trixie's mouth flattened into a line. Damn strategy, and damn choice. All she could feel—all she could remember having ever felt—was spite, and rage, and hunger. "I like the cold," she snapped. "I can make a home out of it."
Polly's eyes shone. It was the wrong answer. "It is selfish of you, Beatrice, to make me watch this happen. Haven't I seen enough of my children die?"
She turned then and left, and the sadness and the grief pushed through the anger and washed over Trixie in waves. She dug her nails into her palms, the pain the only thing keeping her from collapsing into sobs.
A/N: hello first chapter of episode 6! i'm very very excited by the quick pace of this episode, and i hope you're all ready for everything that's to come :) we've got three chapters to go before the epilogue, and they're certainly very exciting for me (and hopefully you as well).
in other news, i wanted to say thank you so much for the kind words on the most recent chapter! i especially want to thank RachelLynnexx, Figurativeldying, gissyfernndez, eyesalwaysseeking, DimensionTraveller, Idcam, EleanorJames, Aqua, Kitkat, Zuzan, Guest, Yen, Cx, We Remain, lisa, , Kate, Ohmicrofilm, dee, Panihi, wantertogondor, scars from the sun, Anna.B, sailoryoongi, Nulip2001, and minstorai!
I haven't done acknowledgments for the last few chapters and I wanted to try and catch up with those, sincerely sorry if I missed anybody! but please feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter as well :) what did you think of hualing and fenfang? did you expect polly to be behind the deal? did you enjoy the scene with luca? i will see you all very soon!
Chapter 30 / Wake the Dead
Grace stood from the barstool and shrugged her coat over her shoulders. "You weren't the only one with secrets, Beatrice. I still have one that I keep close to my heart."
Trixie scoffed. "And what's that?" she drawled.
"You'll find out," Grace promised, a menacing sort of gleam in her eye. "Soon enough."
