cross my palm with silver (line my pockets with good fortune)
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III. Stud to Water
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It was several more days before Naomie finally figured out what Thomas Shelby did for a living.
It was a Thursday, and she was at the Garrison Pub with a sandwich and a glass of cider. Ever since the night she met Arthur Shelby, she had been going around from pub to pub to sell her wares; drunken veterans of war had been an untapped market demographic for her, but the incident with Arthur made her realize that it was a surprisingly profitable one. And no one could ever claim that Naomie Young was one to miss out on a profit.
The Garrison had been her afternoon haunt for this past week. Although Harry did not like her to sell directly inside the establishment, he allowed her to set up a tiny stall right outside the building, near the doors. This meant she had to conduct all her business outdoors, whatever the weather. Despite that, among all the pubs where she made her rounds, the Garrison was her favourite. This was not least because of the good company to be found there.
"And do you know what he said, then?" Naomie said, leaning conspiratorially over the bar. Her eyes were twinkling with a careless glee.
"What did he say?" asked Grace, the Garrison's pretty barmaid, also bending forward with her elbows on the counter. The pub was mostly empty at the moment, since the labourers were all on shift, which meant the both of them were on their respective lunch breaks. Grace had in front of her a chicken salad, which she was currently neglecting out of interest for Naomie's story.
"He leaps up, shrieks just like a little girl and goes, 'WHAT? But I've already drunk it!'" Naomie exclaimed, her voice shaking from holding in her giggles. "I thought I was gonna piss myself!"
"No!" Grace gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Behind her fingers, the corners of her lips peeked through with an incredulous grin. "Surely he would have been able to tell?"
"Not in the least! You should have seen his face. He thought it was milk!" Naomie cried, her palm smacking against the counter. "He put it in his tea!"
As Grace's shoulders shook with lively mirth, her chuckles smothered under her fair hand, Naomie threw back her head and let loose a laugh right from her belly. It was loud, all reckless abandon, and must have attracted the attention of everyone in the room, but Naomie couldn't bring herself to care.
All of a sudden, Grace became very quiet and very still. She turned towards the door of the pub, her earlier humour fading slowly from her face.
"Mr Shelby," she called, in a carefully pleasant tone. Ears perking at the name, Naomie turned too.
It was just as she had thought: there, right by the doors of the Garrison, stood Mr Thomas Shelby himself, staring directly at them. As usual, she couldn't read a single emotion from his face. She hadn't seen him for a few days, but it did not surprise her to see him now; after all, Grace had told her that the other Shelby brothers were already gathered in their snug.
Still giddy with lingering hilarity, Naomie sent Thomas a happy, dimpled beam in greeting. He gazed into her eyes for an agonizingly long moment and then, without a word or even a nod, shifted on his heel and walked right into the snug.
Naomie's face dropped into a scowl. "I swear he does that just because he knows it'll make me mad," she fumed, twisting on the stool to face Grace again. She was startled to see that the barmaid had pulled back a little, away from the counter and away from Naomie.
"I… wasn't aware you were acquainted with Mr Shelby," Grace said, quietly. Naomie could see the bond that had been quickly forming between them—still fresh and frail—beginning to shrivel thin.
The hell. She was in the process of making a new friend, a very lovely one, and Thomas Shelby wasn't going to ruin that for her. Something needed to be done, and quick.
"See! There's that reaction again!" Naomie complained, jabbing her half glass of cider at Grace with a disgruntled look. "There's no way in hell I'm gonna believe he's only a bookmaker when everyone acts like that when they so much as hear that name. Why won't someone just tell me, already?"
"Tell you what?" said Grace carefully, watching her with a calm face but cautious eyes.
"What the hell he does. Everyone's taking their pants off for me because of him, and it takes the fun out of everything. If I want someone's pants, I'll charm them out of it myself," Naomie ranted, gesturing wildly at the snug with her sloshing glass. She snatched up her sandwich in her other hand and gnawed at it angrily. "I haven't known him for a week, and I haven't seen him for half of those days, but because he was decent to me a couple of times, that suddenly means that all I am anymore is 'Mr Shelby's acquaintance'. Well, what does that even bloody mean? The hell has he done to make everyone bow down like dogs?"
In fact, Naomie had several guesses, ranging from loan shark to politician, but it was difficult to pinpoint an exact answer. The problem lay in the fact that everyone certainly seemed to be afraid of Thomas, but they also didn't really seem to hate him. Usually, those two things went together.
Grace's eyes flickered to the closed window of the snug, as if wary that the occupants could hear them, and then back to Naomie. "You truly don't know who Mr Shelby is? What he does?" she asked, her voice a low murmur. Seeing Naomie's sullen nod, she slowly closed the distance between them again.
Leaning in, Grace said, "When I came to find employment here, Mr Fenton warned me—someone should warn you, too. The Shelby family, they control all of Small Heath with threats, bribery, and violence. And Thomas Shelby sits right at their head." Alright, she expected as much, but that still didn't explain if Thomas was a politician or a businessman or what. At Naomie's unsatisfied face, Grace clarified, "The Shelbys run the Peaky Blinders. They're a gang."
"Oh," said Naomie, realization dawning on her. "Oh, that makes tons of sense. A gangster. Yes, I should have known. After all, his face already gives the feeling that it's in complete violation of the law. It's just so… you know what I mean, right?"
She glanced at Grace, and smiled to see her expression, which was a picture to behold. The woman looked as if she'd been thrown completely for a loop, her mouth parted and her lashes fluttering.
Suddenly, beyond the beer taps, there was a small, muffled snicker. Naomie turned her head and froze. At some point during the conversation, the window to the snug had opened up.
From the opening, Thomas stared out at her, his face a study in stoicism but his eyes gleaming wickedly. In a tone that was as casual as anything, he drawled, "I can't say I do. What is it you mean, exactly?"
Naomie felt her lips tingle and redden with the beginnings of a flush. It was one thing to call Thomas handsome to his face as a light-hearted joke; it was a whole other matter to be caught sincerely saying so to another person.
"She means you're criminally good-looking, Tommy, that's what she means," an unseen man wheezed out.
This statement had the snug bursting with an eruption of chortles. The flush spread to Naomie's cheeks and down to her neck. Her face was so hot you might have been able to fry an egg on it.
Thomas cocked a brow and, in a voice more ingenuous than it had any right to be, asked, "Is that so, Naomie?"
She glowered at him, teeth working furiously on her lower lip, and an arch smirk finally slipped onto his mouth. "Not in the least," Naomie huffed, even though it was, in fact, exactly what she had meant. Thomas met her glare with an expression that clearly made it known how completely unbothered—and indeed, amused—he was by her indignation. It was such a roguish look that it filled her with the overwhelming desire to throw something at that unfairly attractive face.
When Naomie tore her eyes from his and grumpily returned to her sandwich, he also glanced away, looking over his shoulder at the other inhabitants of the snug. "Alright lads, settle down," he said. "You heard the lady, eh? She says it's not so." There was another round of snickering that Thomas paid no mind to, rather gesturing towards Grace, who had been hovering unsurely behind the bar. "A bottle of whiskey, please. Irish."
"Yes, Mr Shelby," said Grace, hastily bringing it to him. He took it and slid a few shillings over. She began to say, "It's on the house—" when she glanced down and paused. Grace looked up at Thomas inquiringly.
"The extra's for whatever she's drinking," he said, nodding towards Naomie, who blinked owlishly back at him. As he pulled closed the shutters to the window, Thomas quirked a slight grin at her nonplussed face, his eyes just barely crinkling at the corners. Then, with a snap of shutting wood, he disappeared from sight just as suddenly as he had appeared.
A slight awkwardness settled between the two women in the pub. Grace hovered in place, her hands on her apron, while Naomie blinked first at the shutters and then at her.
They stared at each other.
Naomie had no idea why they were staring at each other, nor what Grace's expression was supposed to mean. She also had no intention of allowing Thomas to ruin her budding friendship with a beautiful woman, and was very impatient to get back the good mood they'd been sharing earlier. This all meant, of course, that Naomie was going to deal with the strange new strain between herself and Grace the same way she dealt with all the annoying boys who had followed her around asking for a kiss: she was going to pretend it didn't exist until it went away.
"Well come on," Naomie said, nodding to the plate across from hers on the counter. "If you're not going to eat it, I'm going to assume that means I can. I haven't had chicken in a while, so there's not going to be any left, either." When Grace still seemed to hesitate, Naomie reached over with her fork and jabbed up a liberal amount of chicken and lettuce.
That did the trick. A little smile flickered across Grace's lips, and she finally moved back to her original place behind the counter.
"I've never seen Mr Shelby make such a face before," Grace said quietly, picking up her fork and batting Naomie's away. It retreated, but not without its spoils.
"That's your good fortune," Naomie grumbled, bringing the fork to her mouth. "I've only seen him make it when he's satisfied with how vexed I am. It's like he's made a sport out of riling me up."
"Still, he treats you quite well."
"I suppose so. Perhaps he thinks I'll curse him if I get too pissed off," Naomie said. There was also the matter of their arrangement; Thomas had indeed said that he'd take care of her while she was in Small Heath. She thought that mostly just extended to her accommodations, which he had already dealt with, but maybe he also thought it necessary to pay for a few of her drinks here and there.
"Perhaps," Grace replied noncommittally. It was clear she didn't particularly think Thomas's motives were any such thing. But, well, Grace was the modern, practical type of woman who maintained a healthy skepticism of all things supernatural. She didn't quite believe Naomie's claim of being a witch, or if she did, she didn't understand the implications of it.
That was alright. Grace wasn't Romany, not like Naomie and Thomas were. She didn't have to understand.
The two women finished the rest of their meals in companionable silence. By the time the Shelbys emerged from their snug, Naomie had already left for another pub, eager to sell some more charms.
Early evening found Naomie in Charlie Strong's yard, tending to her little brother in the stables. Prala was in good health now, both curse and infection expunged from his body, but all the inactivity was getting to him. He was restless, pawing the ground and tossing his head to and fro, and even Naomie could not soothe him anymore.
"Shush, little brother," she said, running her hand over Prala's muzzle. He snorted and huffed at her. "Shush, now. Be good. I'll ask Thomas to let you go for a run tomorrow, so just hang in there for another day, alright?"
"That won't be necessary," said a man's thrumming voice, from right behind Naomie. Another arm reached past hers to rub under Prala's jaw.
Naomie twisted over her shoulder to see Thomas standing right at her back, far closer than she'd expected. Thinking that she was in his way, she moved aside to give him room. His arm falling to his side, Thomas stepped to fill the gap so that he was looming right at her shoulder.
"Tonight is fine," he said, seeming to read the question from her face before she could speak it.
Naomie perked up. With an eager smile, she peered up at him and asked, "Can I take him, then?"
Thomas traced his eyes over her hopeful face contemplatively. She watched the steady rise and fall of his feathery lashes, waited for a reply. He held his silence so closely, and so unwaveringly, that Naomie became convinced that he wouldn't agree. She began to wilt.
Finally, he said, "Alright."
She brightened again.
They got Prala strapped up with a saddle blanket and a halter—Thomas had reached for a bridle first, but Naomie insisted—and lead him out of the stables onto gravel. Naomie pulled over a stool to help herself up.
The moment the stool was in position, Thomas put a foot onto it, leaving no space for her. She stared at him.
"What—" are you doing, Naomie wanted to say, but the words hadn't left her mouth when Thomas reached for her and folded his hands around her waist. His thumbs brushed over the base of her ribs through the thin cotton of her shirt. His palms were two hot suns on either side of her, sinking liquid warmth under her prickled skin. His fingers stretched across her back, measuring out the space in the dip of her spine like the steps of a ladder.
Thomas held onto her for what seemed to be an agonizingly long moment, even though it must have been barely any time at all. Naomie had been drawn into the labyrinth of his gaze again, as if by quicksand, and couldn't find her way out. Time seemed to drag.
Then, all of a sudden, all at once, it sped up. The grip on her waist tightened, sending her heart leaping into her throat. Naomie found herself being lifted and swung up onto Prala in a single stroke of movement. She settled onto her little brother's back as naturally as if she had been born to be there.
"Oh," Naomie said, as the reins were pressed into her lax hands. She meant to add, Thanks, but before she get the words out, Thomas pushed up from the stool and easily swung a leg over Prala's back, sliding into place behind her. He reached around, grasped the reins just above where she was already holding them, and clicked his tongue. Prala immediately began moving.
Naomie was confused. No, she was bewildered. Her head swarmed with questions and objections, but the solid heat at her back and against her sides scrambled them before they could reach her mouth. She probably wouldn't get to finish her sentence anyway—again—so she instead managed an economical and concise, "Huh?"
Thomas's answering chuckle couldn't be heard, but Naomie could feel it stir her hair and rumble soundlessly across her back.
Her tongue became unstuck at this. "I thought you said I could take him?" she protested.
"You are."
"Well, what'd you get on for?"
"Couldn't be sure you'd resist the temptation to run off with Little Saxon once you were already on him."
Naomie's rising sense of indignity faltered.
Yeah, alright. That wasn't actually impossible. After so long apart from Prala, it would have been difficult to ignore her gypsy blood once the wind got in her hair and little brother's legs were pounding the dirt underneath her. She hadn't planned on it, but the chances of it happening weren't none.
"Wait," she said, brows crinkling. "Little Saxon? You renamed Prala."
Thomas hummed in agreement, and she could almost feel it before she heard it. "Romany doesn't stick to the English tongue. If I'm gonna race him at the tracks, he needs a name that a gadze could remember, and put money on."
Naomie could feel a disgruntled pout developing on her mouth, but she understood what he meant. It was hard to remember names if you couldn't pronounce them. "Why Saxon?"
"The Saxons' symbol is a white dragon," Thomas explained absently, maneuvering little brother onto a route only he knew. Naomie didn't get it, but that might have been the point. She could all but see that thin, private smile that Thomas allowed himself whenever he referenced something he knew she wouldn't understand.
Soon, they ended up on a stretch of field somewhere, with a low carpet of weeds and grass underfoot and a rickety fence bordering all around. Thomas directed them next to the gate and swung himself off of Prala's back. Naomie, who had gotten used to having him there, shivered at the sudden loss of warmth along her back and sides. The evening chill crawled up the back of her neck and over the bare skin of her collarbones, prickling gooseflesh as it went. Naomie almost asked him to get back on.
"Go on," Thomas said, moving next to a post. He pulled out his cigarettes, lit one up. Smoke curled off of his lips in soft waves. "I thought you wanted to ride."
She did. With a deep breath, Naomie turned away from Thomas, who was standing so solid and straight-backed that he may as well be another post. She directed Prala to face the field, pressed herself against his back. With the reins tight in her hands, she squeezed her heels into his sides.
They were off like a shot.
The wind whipped through her hair, snatched at her skirt. Little brother's legs flew forward, ate up ground hungrily. They hurtled to the end of the field, turned as one, raced back. There was no telling where the human ended and the powerful beast under her began. They galloped, leapt, pranced across the flat field. She could no longer tell if the thunder in her chest was her heartbeat or the thud of Prala's hooves.
A gasping laugh tore out from Naomie's lungs, unheard amidst the wind in her ears. She grinned with all her teeth.
There was a reason she had insisted against a bridle with a bit. Little brother did not like bits, and Naomie did not need them. They could read each other instinctually, without clicks or whips or metal bars or other human contrivances. Perhaps it was the magic in her, but it had always been this way.
They rode. The sky became a purple bruise, the light of the sun a bloody thumbprint of gold on the horizon.
After a while of romping around in the darkening field, Naomie began to eye the fence wistfully. It was high, but it wasn't too high to jump.
Imagine how it would feel to ride on endlessly into the distance, just on and on without interruption. How good it would be. It would really… But there wasn't much time before night truly fell.
She sighed and ruefully gave up on the idea.
Thomas was indecently clever. A fence certainly couldn't keep Naomie from running off with Prala, of course. Even Thomas's steady presence by the gate, eyes trailing after her everywhere, wouldn't give her pause. But the winding road they'd taken meant she didn't know where they were. She wasn't even certain which direction Birmingham was. Without money or supplies, Naomie couldn't survive out in the wilderness with little brother in tow, and in a town even less. If, by luck, she managed to head straight into the heart of Birmingham, by the time she got any of her things, it would be too dark to take little brother anywhere without risking injury to him. And staying anywhere in Birmingham was as good as throwing herself right into Thomas's lap.
It was just as well. Imagine if Thomas tracked her down to the Young campsite? Somebody might get shot. It didn't even matter who it was; either way, it would escalate into a family grudge and a war and become a huge mess. Her mother would throw a fit.
At last, Naomie turned Prala back around to the gate post where Thomas had been watching the both of them. She found him leaning languidly against the wooden post, arms draped back over a bar. He was still smoking, had been smoking the entire time; she could see a collection of spent cigarettes and matchsticks by his foot.
"Let's go," Naomie called breathlessly, bringing Prala up next to him. "Before it gets too dark for little brother to see where he's stepping."
"Alright," Thomas said, stubbing out his latest cigarette. With a hand on the fence and the other on Prala's back, he swung himself up without much fuss. They set off.
They rode along the road back to Birmingham in comfortable silence. Naomie could feel Thomas's chest brush against her with the tempo of his breaths, deep and easy and lethargic. The placid, steady pace slowed her pulse, which was still beating rapidly from the thrill of flying without wings.
"Thank you," said Naomie, when she could see Birmingham rising at the end of the road in a cloud of smog and smokestacks. It was getting quite cold—she'd had to stop herself from leaning back and melting against Thomas's warm chest several times. He was so loose-limbed and his manner so leisurely, now, that it was difficult for her not to relax into him. It was like all the tension in his body had ebbed away while she wasn't looking.
"For what?"
"You took time out of your busy schedule to let me do this. You didn't have to; I wouldn't have gotten mad and cursed you, or anything."
"I know," Thomas agreed, his voice a hot thrum in her ear. "That's why I wanted to."
Naomie had no clue what that was supposed to mean. She went quiet for a moment, and then said, "I mean it though. Thank you. I had a lot of fun. I missed it, riding with little brother like that…" She paused, another thought having come to mind.
Naomie bit her lower lip. All in a rush, she said, "Can I take him out for rides like this every night? I really won't run off with him, so you don't have to keep tabs on me all the time, either. Can I?" When Thomas didn't reply right away, she insisted, "I really won't. I'll swear it."
Naomie braced herself for a stern refusal, but dated to hope for assent. Please, please, please…
Neither came. Instead, Thomas said, "Do you like singing?"
"What?" she bleated, caught completely wrong-footed. Her brain, which had been so focused on the matter at hand, had difficulty changing tracks. "Singing?"
"Singing. Do you like it?" repeated Thomas, crisply articulating his words.
Naomie's lashes fluttered in bafflement. "Well, I mean, yeah… Yes, I like singing. I like it a lot. But—why do you ask?"
"I'm thinking of allowing singing on Saturdays," he said idly. "At the Garrison."
"Oh," said Naomie. She was beginning to feel a bit stupid; she couldn't follow this conversation at all. Why was he suddenly talking about the Garrison now? Was she missing something? "That would be nice, I think. I certainly wouldn't object," she added politely, when Thomas didn't say anything further. It would be a good opportunity for profit too, with all the people who were sure to gather.
Thomas hummed noncommittally, and she felt the vibrations run across her shoulders. "If I let you take Saxon out every night, what will you give me in return?" he said, suddenly switching topics again.
Naomie brightened. Now they'd returned to territory she was familiar with, and she could finally follow along. "Well, what do you want?"
Thomas contemplated this. "Of your charms and potions," he began slowly, carefully. "Have you anything that could make a man susceptible to suggestion?"
"No," she replied, shaking her head. "Remember, I can't do anything that can control a person's free will. That's black magick."
"What about planting false memories?"
"That's beyond what I'm capable of, if it's possible at all."
"Then what do you have?"
Naomie began to list out the many charms, amulets, and potions that she either had on her or would be able to make promptly. Halfway through her list, Thomas stopped her with a pensive hum. He dipped his head to speak into her ear, his jaw brushing the stray hairs by her temple.
"Tell me more about that one."
As they rode into the bounds of Birmingham City, Naomie told him everything there was to know about the item that had caught Thomas's interest. By the time they reached Small Heath, Thomas had given his assent, and once they dismounted in Charlie's Yard, they shook on their new agreement with a spit and a handshake.
Late Saturday afternoon found Naomie standing outside the Garrison, peddling her wares. It was gray and smoky out, as it always was, but not as smoky as it was back inside. The pub was packed, filled with happy, drunken people and the smell of their bodies, their liquor, their cigarettes. Loud, off-key singing spilled out every time anyone used the doors.
Thomas Shelby had informed the bartender that singing was now to be allowed on Saturdays—only Saturdays, mind—and everyone had dropped by to commemorate the occasion. Naomie had also been part of the crowd at some point, but the discordant roar of voices had begun to make her head hurt. Besides, she had work to do.
Just as Naomie crossed one leg over the other to adjust her weight on the stool, she saw a motorcar coming down the road towards the pub. It looked expensive—more expensive than the Shelbys', and much roomier too. It looked astoundingly out of place amongst the ungovernable grime of Small Heath.
The fancy motorcar drove in closer to the pub than was polite, close enough that she could almost smell its exhaust over the smog. Shining headlights blinded her, left dark spots speckling her vision. When Naomie blinked her eyes clear, it was to see that four men had gotten out of the car and were now striding towards her.
The two men at the front looked rather thuggish, all stiff-backed and thick in their heavy black coats, with guns already out in their hands. Behind them was a somewhat reedy looking gentleman with a sharp, clever face and glasses. She'd bet her left foot that he did something with numbers. The last man was as broad-shouldered as the first two, but far better dressed than any of the others. The boss, probably. He had an arrogant manner about him, as if he was someone important and he knew it.
Naomie observed the last man for a moment longer, fascinated. His face was fixed into a very peculiar expression: like he'd got bored just being born and hadn't been impressed by anything he'd seen since. He had a curious appearance that deserved a bit of study, or at least she thought so. She scrutinized him, wondering what it would take to make a man go through life with such an expression.
Their eyes met; she had been too obvious.
Naomie looked away. The man didn't.
As the group passed by her, and the rest of the men prepared to enter through the doors, the last one came to a stop right in front of her. He examined Naomie up and down, openly taking stock of her appearance, and then gave her a blunt, bold stare.
"How much, then?" he demanded. The rest of the men immediately stopped in place. They showed no response to the interruption except to patiently wait for it to finish.
Naomie blinked up at the man talking to her, squinted her eyes in confusion. "How much for what?"
"How much for your fucking services," he enunciated slowly, angling her with an expression that suggested he couldn't believe she was actually making him say it.
"Services…?" she repeated, looking at him blankly. Completely befuddled, Naomie cast around for clues as to what the hell this guy was going on about.
Her eyes landed on the other side of the Garrison's doorframe, where a pair of prostitutes and their pimp usually loitered, although they were all inside now.
"Oh," Naomie said, realization dawning on her. She looked back at the man, who was looking increasingly as if he thought she must be braindead. "No, that—that's not what I'm selling. But," she continued very graciously, "I do know a few very competent ladies who would be able to help you, if you would like their addresses."
He ignored her perfunctory offer with an equally perfunctory sneer. "Suppose you are a bit bright-eyed to be a prostitute; I'd just figured you were new to it," the man said. Despite now knowing that she was not, in fact, a prostitute, the way he looked at her became no less appraising or less prurient. "Well, what the fuck are you, then?"
Naomie knew almost without thought that telling such a man that she was a witch would turn this encounter into an incredible chore. He'd scoff and insinuate and make all sorts of nasty comments, and it would be exceedingly annoying all around. Well, she had an answer for men like him, too.
"I'm an herbal woman. Pubs get a lot of traffic, so it's a good place to find new customers, and to be found by old ones," Naomie told him, feeling no small pride at her own cleverness. The man's eyes narrowed, and she immediately saw an opportunity for a pitch. "Speaking of, sir, if you decide to contact those ladies after all, I have a tonic you'll certainly be interested in. It's a prescription invented by my family that'll deepen your… enjoyment beyond any natural means."
"Oh?" the man drawled, raising his eyebrows at her very skeptically. Still, he was listening to her instead of going in, which meant he must have some level of interest.
Naomie looked him right in the eye and nodded just once, with great confidence. She lowered her voice, tilted her head closer as if sharing something private. "Without even mentioning all the heightened sensations, merely its effect on your stamina will stun you. You'll have more endurance than a horse: you could go round after round after round without tiring. One woman won't be enough—but lock yourself in a room with three or four, and you'll have yourself the best fucking night of your life." She paused to gauge his reaction so far. When she found him watching her with some interest, Naomie smiled charmingly and leaned back again.
"It'll be a world of ecstasy like you've never known. Just imagine: unending rapture running throughout your entire body, for hours on end. Then, when you're finally done with it all, those women will all leave the next day knowing they'll never find another man who could do to them what you just did. And the best part?" she paused for effect, her eyes lidded and compelling. Naomie hushed her voice again, pitched her tone lower, and lightly bit her lower lip, as if excited to tell this secret to him. "You'll wake up after all that and not remember anything at all. Only overwhelming bliss."
"Why the fuck would that be the best part?" the man demanded, snapping out of the trance he had begun to fall into. A bad-tempered scowl came across his face. His lip rose, and he seemed about ready to dismiss her as a fraud. Indeed, most people didn't take well to the suggestion of taking a medicine that would make them lose their memory, especially a good one.
"Why?" Naomie made a face of surprise at him, her mouth relaxing into a small, round part. Like she couldn't fathom why he was asking. "Because it means that the next time you take the tonic, you'll enjoy it just as much as the first time. Because it means you'll never, ever get inured to the experience of knocking on the doors to paradise. Because you can have the best night of your life again, and again, and again, and every time it will be just as fresh, as powerful, as the first time." She sent him a knowing look. "After all, you strike me as a man who abhors being bored. And with this, you'll never get bored, no matter how many times you take it."
The man stared intensely at her, no longer frowning. His eyes burnt dark over the natural sneer of his mouth. He looked hungrily enthralled by the picture Naomie had painted for him.
She had to subtly pinch her leg to keep herself from beaming. Oh, she was good.
"Ah, Mr Kimber," cut in the numbers gentleman, seeing that his boss was about do something probably ill-advised. "If I may, perhaps it might be wiser to conduct our current business first, and save more pleasant pursuits for after."
Kimber's eyes slid to look at the other man, and for a moment Naomie was convinced he would ignore him. But even though she had pegged Kimber as an unreasonable sort of man, he answered with a surprisingly sensible, "Yeah, alright."
"But you," he continued, turning to Naomie. "Had better still be here when I'm out. You know who I am, yeah?"
"Of course, Mr Kimber," said Naomie, dimpling. "It's truly my good fortune to have you express interest in my medicines. I won't move a single step until you've returned."
She had, in fact, not a single bloody clue who he was supposed to be. But the skinny gentleman had helpfully provided a name, and she was a dab hand at the glibness necessary to any salesperson.
"Good girl," said Kimber, looking satisfied with himself. He turned away, and the group finally entered the Garrison.
From her position outside the pub, Naomie soon heard the muffled report of a gun being fired. It took no time at all for people to start fleeing; what must have been the entire population of Garrison Lane dispersed out into the streets, either tensely silent or whispering lowly about a Billy Kimber. It seemed Mr Kimber was as important as he thought he was.
Thomas was not among the crowd of escapees, not that Naomie expected him to be. For someone that well-off and well-known to come to a place like this, of course it would be for Thomas Shelby.
Perhaps she should be a bit concerned for him, even if only out of consideration of her current housing situation.
But, well... she wasn't. Naomie had seen Thomas near the bar earlier, and there hadn't been even the slightest shadow of death on his face or in the lines of his palms. He'd be fine.
As expected, Kimber and company exited the Garrison without so much as another shot being fired. As the doors swung shut behind them, Kimber sent his men away and stopped by Naomie, giving her an expectant look.
"So? How much?"
Naomie smiled a little to herself, amused that they had come full circle. This time, though, she had an answer for him.
"Twelve pound, one shilling."
Kimber narrowed his eyes at her but pulled out the money nonetheless. Naomie counted it quickly—catching the shilling when he flipped it over to her—and pressed her lips together to hold in a happy grin. She loved making sales to wealthy men because she could call any price she wanted, and they could still afford it. Twelve pounds wasn't something any factory worker could shell over for something like a pleasure tonic. Most of her transactions with the populace of Small Heath were contained to within a pound or less.
Naomie extracted a corked medicine bottle from her satchel and handed it over, along with a quick rundown of all relevant instructions and warnings. As she spoke, Kimber flipped the glass bottle around in his hand and inspected the liquid inside.
"This better fucking work."
"I assure you it will, Mr Kimber."
"Know from personal experience, do you?" he said, with a suggestive leer.
"Oh, not at all," Naomie replied airily. She clasped her hands as if in prayer, and looked up to the heavens with a face as wide-eyed and virtuous-looking as humanly possible. "Our Heavenly Lord's discerning eye and the barbed chastity belt my father has installed on my person prevents me from becoming personally familiar with such sinful matters."
That did the trick; Kimber gave her a repulsed look and hurried away, clearly very put off. As he got into his motorcar, he shot her one last glance, his upper lip curled back in disgust.
Unable to hold it in any longer, Naomie pressed a hand over her mouth and rushed into the Garrison. The doors had barely closed behind her when a snicker shivered free from her throat, followed by several more, each louder than the least.
Then Kimber's deeply affronted face flashed in her mind, and her suppressed snickering finally erupted into uncontrolled peals of laughter. Naomie clutched her belly and doubled over, her entire body shaking with mirth.
"Bloody hell. Who the fuck is that?" someone said, sounding bewildered. "She's completely gone around the bend."
Another voice, louder and angrier, called out, "Oi, you. No one's allowed in the Garrison right now. Get the fuck outta here."
Realizing that she had an audience—one with potential for hostility, at that—Naomie reined in her giggles as best she could. She wiped the tears from the corner of her eyes, pushed her hair out of her face, and straightened up to see a trio of men with blue eyes all staring at her, nonplussed.
"Hello, Misters Shelby," Naomie greeted, still grinning a little. "Sorry to interrupt."
"If it isn't Tommy's little witch," said Arthur, belligerence vanishing into the wind.
"So that's her, is it?" said the man beside him, presumably another Shelby she hadn't met. The man looked her up and down appraisingly, his eyebrows high on his forehead. If he had any opinions on what he saw, he didn't have the chance to say them; just then, Thomas rose to his feet, the beginnings of a frown forming between his brows.
"Naomie," he said in a hard voice, stalking towards her. He sounded stern in a way that she wasn't used to. "Were you out there the entire time?"
"Yeah, I've been right outside the doors since I left earlier," Naomie told him. She startled when Thomas grabbed her arm as soon as he was in reach. He began to drag her back out of the doors of the pub, not being particularly gentle about it. She stumbled after him. "What are you…?"
Thomas pulled her into the secluded corner where the Garrison met the building next to it, and then turned to loom over her, his body blocking off their interaction from the rest of the street. He was so close she could count the faint freckles across his cheeks.
"While you were out here, you must have seen all the people leaving," he prompted quietly, pointing at the stool where Naomie was usually perched. His tone was deceptively mild, but he might have been carved of marble for how cold and stony he looked.
"Yes…"
"When you saw everyone leaving, did it not occur to you that you should also leave?" said Thomas, his voice so low and calm that he couldn't be anything but pissed off.
"I just thought they got spooked by the gunshot."
"So you heard a gun being fired," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "And you thought it was a good fucking idea to stand around next to the place it was shot, eh?"
"Well, Mr Kimber told me not to move before he returned, so I…" Naomie trailed off, seeing the thunderous expression on Thomas's face.
"You fucking talked to him?"
She threw her hands up, exasperated at what she felt to be a deeply unfair scolding. "I was only sitting there! He talked to me first!"
Thomas's lips thinned, but he didn't address her snippy reply. "What did Kimber want?"
"He wanted to buy something from me."
Stormy blue eyes narrowed at her. "What?"
"Well, first he thought I was a prostitute so it was my company," Naomie paused when she thought she saw a muscle jump in his jaw again, but when he didn't show any other reaction, she dismissed it as a trick of the light and continued, "But I told him that I was actually an herbal woman, and he ended up buying a tonic that would turn him into a real stud. In the bedroom, I mean."
"And did he also tell you to fuck him? To help him test the tonic, of course," Thomas said bitingly, his face too still and blank for the harshness of his words.
What was he trying to say? Naomie's brows crinkled into a little frown as she tried to figure out what was going through his head. "Maybe he would have, but I made sure to put him right off that idea."
Thomas carefully scrutinized her face, his eyes flitting between both of hers. Naomie met his gaze boldly, also doing her best to read something from him. What the hell was going on? Why was he mad? She hadn't done anything wrong, and she didn't appreciate him treating her as if she had.
"Just tell me Kimber won't want me to take you to the races, Naomie," he finally sighed, the acerbity slowly seeping out of him.
Naomie blinked, thrown by what seemed to her to be a complete non sequitur. She opened her mouth and then closed it.
"Tell me."
"There's no way Kimber will want you to take me to the races," she repeated dutifully. When Thomas began to frown at her again, she rolled her eyes and said, emphatically, "I'm serious, Thomas. I told him my father put a barbed chastity belt on me. He bolted so quick you'd think I was a leper."
Thomas considered this for a moment, his thumb running over his lower lip. Then he gave her a brisk nod, apparently satisfied with her answer.
Naomie didn't nod back, only gave him a searching look.
An awkward hush fell between them. They stared at each other, Naomie quietly waiting for an explanation and Thomas pretending he couldn't tell.
Unsurprisingly, Naomie lost her patience first. "What were you so angry for?" she said.
"Wasn't angry," said Thomas, even though he had obviously been angry. He cocked a brow as if she were being ridiculous, and she shot him a cutting look that made clear what she thought of that.
"Tell me. It's only fair."
Instead of replying, Thomas only stared at her for another long minute and then turned to walk off. Naomie was having none of it, though; she jumped forward to clutch at his arm, stopping him in place.
He glanced down at where her hands were crinkling his sleeve, and He glanced down at where her hands were crinkling his sleeve, and then back to her face, openly frowning at her.
"Tell me," Naomie insisted, her mouth pursed. "Just so you know, I'm prepared to be very annoying about it."
"You're already bloody—" Thomas began, through gritted teeth, but then he stopped himself. At the sight of her looking expectantly up at him, he sighed and ran his palm over his jaw. She could see the stern lines of his face soften with a glimmer of something.
"Come on," he said, starting to walk again. Naomie trailed after him, still clinging to his sleeve. As they strolled down the street, Thomas went through the whole process of taking out a cigarette, running it over his bottom lip, and then lighting it. Once he could no longer delay with the cigarette anymore, he bent his head towards her and spoke in a quiet voice.
"This stays between you and me." He waited for her nod to continue. "I plan to make a deal with Kimber. When I do, I'll need someone to… ease the process."
"You need a woman to distract him."
"That's right. But not you."
"What? Why not?" Naomie said, bristling. It was absurd for her to be offended over this, but she was, nonetheless. "I'm ace at distracting people!"
"I'm sure you are," Thomas said, almost indulgently. "But Kimber is a cad and a bastard, and you aren't just any woman. Something goes wrong, I can't bloody well expect you not to react drastically."
"You think he'll overstep his bounds and I'll curse him for it."
"Anything happens to him, that's my fucking license up in smoke," he said, by way of agreement. "Only, if he decides he wants you and I bring him another woman… chances are, that deal won't go quite so well for me."
"Not a problem; it's impossible for him to want me, now," Naomie said. Then she realized that, if not her, then that meant Thomas was going to deliver another woman right into Kimber's dirty hands. A woman who wouldn't have Naomie's natural advantages. "Who, then?"
Thomas looked away and pressed his lips tightly around his cigarette. He took a deep drag and breathed the smoke out through his nose. It was a series of gestures that she now knew to mean 'none of your fucking business'.
"Whoever it is, he'll want time alone with her… You have a plan though, right? To stop things getting too far. You must have a plan."
He continued to pointedly not look at her, icy eyes remaining fixed ahead.
Disbelief washed over Naomie. "My God, Thomas. You don't have a plan at all," she breathed, incredulous. "You're just going to let Kimber have his way so you can have your fucking license."
Thomas gave her a sharp glance at this. "Don't make the mistake of thinking this has anything to do with you," he said lowly. "I've only told you this bloody much so you don't somehow get in the way, like you almost did, just fucking now."
Naomie stopped in place, and, with her hands still on his sleeve, Thomas was pulled to a stop as well. He turned just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.
"You're a bastard, Thomas," she told him, her voice hard. She glared at him, and Thomas looked back stonily, his jaw tight. They stared at each other in tense silence until Naomie closed her eyes and took a slow, calming breath. "But I don't believe you're that much of a bastard."
He glanced away. "Clearly haven't given it enough time, eh?"
"I've given it long enough," said Naomie, recalling what he'd said the first night they'd met. Her chin jutted out stubbornly. "Long enough to know that even though you're as ambitious as the devil himself, no amount of benefit would have you gladly send an unsuspecting woman into the arms of a lecher."
Thomas reached up to the half-gone cigarette being crushed between his lips and threw it down onto the street. He ground the glowing tip under his heel with more force than necessary. "Have you a better idea?"
"In fact, I do." When Thomas scoffed, Naomie scowled at him and snapped, "Just hear me out." She tugged at his arm until he slowly lowered his head towards her.
Naomie leaned in close until her mouth was next to his ear, and then, in a low whisper, began to sketch out the details of the idea slowly taking root in her mind. When she pulled away, Thomas looked at her and gave her a single, curt nod. They resumed walking, and finished the rest of their stroll in strained silence. It broke only when they arrived in Charlie Strong's yard.
"Oh," said Naomie, her lashes fluttering at the familiar surroundings. She hadn't realized that this was where they had been heading. "Do you have some business with Charlie?"
"Isn't it about time for your evening hack?"
"It is," Naomie replied, surprised that he knew. Thomas inclined his head in the direction of the stables. With one last glance at him, she let go of his arm—with a soft startle when she realized she'd been holding onto it the whole time—to make her way over.
"Naomie," Thomas called suddenly. Naomie stopped in place and turned over her shoulder to see him looking gravely at her. He stood there for a long moment, his lips pressed together into a thin line. Then, after a pause so long as to be uncomfortable, he turned on his heel and strode off, without a word.
"That's an awful way to apologize," she called after him.
"Wasn't apologizing," he drawled back, not bothering to turn his head.
"Well you should have been!"
Thomas ignored her and continued to walk away, soon rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.
"God help whoever marries that man," Naomie muttered under her breath. With an exasperated eye roll, she went off to the stables to go for her daily ride.
.
.
.
.
Notes—
Tommy: DID YA PUT YOUR NAME IN DA GOBLET OF FIYA, NAOMIE
Naomie (has done nothing wrong, ever): I am shocked and appalled
happy birthday bun! pt. 3
(this is unedited, so lemme know if u spot any errors)
