cross my palm with silver (line your pockets with good fortune)
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IV. Crown of Violets
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.
Tommy settled into a chair, flipping the shilling up into the air with his thumb and catching it in his hand in one smooth, practised motion. He uncurled his hand to glance at it—heads—and slid the coin back to his thumb. He flipped the shilling again, caught it, glanced at it—heads—and repeated the process several more times, puffing quietly on a fag all the while.
There was a sharp clink of china. "Stop that," Polly said, giving him a gimlet eye from across the table. "If I see that coin in the air one more time, you see if this kettle doesn't join it."
He flipped the shilling one last time, glanced at it—heads—and pocketed it before Polly could make good on her threat.
"Why am I here, Pol?" Tommy asked, tired of waiting for her to speak first.
"Why do you think?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking, isn't it?" He sent over an expectant look, reaching out to flick ash off into the tray.
Polly took a long sip of her tea before she spoke. "Your brothers have been talking," she said, watching him closely. "About a woman."
"Just have them do the usual. Toss a coin, loser gives way," Tommy said, gesturing with the cigarette pinched between his fingers. He frowned a little, eyes veering to the clock on the wall. "Is that it? Because I need to see a man about a horse, and—"
"Not any woman, either. A witch," continued Polly, as if he hadn't said anything. Tommy stilled, his eyes flitting back to his aunt's hard face. In that calm, steady tone that portended a storm about to break, she asked, "Have you been fucking a witch, Tommy?"
He cleared his throat. As carefully as if he were stepping into a minefield, he said, "I haven't been fucking any witches."
"Is that so? Let me rephrase, then," she replied lightly, taking another sip of her tea. "Thomas Shelby, have you been fucking around with a chovhani?"
A muscle jumped in Tommy's jaw; her keen eyes caught it and narrowed. It was the same as a confession, and they both knew it. "Pol…" he began, extending his hand to try to placate her, but she was already beginning her tirade.
"Not just any chovhani, either. Seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, or so I hear."
"Pol, listen—"
"I'd wondered why you were in such a good mood lately, why you looked so well rested. You and Arthur both," Polly said, still sounding dangerously calm. "Was relieved for all of a week, and then I saw the charms Arthur bought from her. Potent stuff, that. Whoever this chovhani is, she's the real deal, and powerful to boot; she's not someone to fuck with. Certainly not someone to get mixed up in your schemes, including all that shit you've got going on with the Inspector, or Kimber, or the Lees." Her voice rose gradually, until she was just short of shouting. "Are you mad? Have you finally lost the whole fucking plot? You can fuck with men, Thomas, you can fuck with guns, but you sure as hell should know better than to fuck with Romany magick—especially true, black-blooded witches. What the hell are you thinking?"
"Polly. I understand your concerns, I do," Tommy said soothingly, after waiting for her to run out of steam. Polly did not look soothed at all; her eyes narrowed at his tone, and she took a deep breath. He plowed on before she could start up again. "I thought of it all meself. I really did. But it's just like you said—Arthur and I, we've been sleeping better, doing better. She's cured my horse, fixed Charlie's rashes, taken some of the jitters right out of Curly. Naomie Young has been good for us. She's a good ally, you've got to see that."
Polly's lips thinned into a tight line. "You piss her off, and she's a worse enemy."
"She won't be an enemy."
"And how do you know that? You tell futures, now? Funny, you've never been interested in learning the arts before," she scoffed, pulling out her cigarette case. Polly slipped a fag between her lips and lit it. Her next words were punctuated with a cloud of gray smoke. "Or are you planning on actually fucking her, then? Let me tell you, that'll just make her madder when you finally do piss her off."
"I'm not planning on fucking anybody," Tommy said tersely. He thought of the tiny sachet currently in the inside pocket of his coat, the sachet that found itself on his pillow every night. Then his mind invariably trailed to the girl who had given it to him.
He indeed had no plans to lay with Naomie. But if her head found itself on that same pillow, black curls spilling wildly over the sides, her face a pale oval in the moonlight, then…
Tommy cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.
"You don't have a choice anymore," said Polly, pointing her cigarette at him. "If she wants you to fuck her, you'd better do it. Hell hath no fury, Thomas. A woman scorned is bad enough, but a witch scorned—she'd make you wish you were in hell."
Scorn her? The only reason Tommy would have for scorning her would be to prove that he still could. His mind flashed back to the sachet again.
How long did it take for a love spell to work? How could he tell if it was working or not? And what if it did work, what if it was working right now? It would be his win, in terms of their wager, but being forced to love someone, being under their control, it put a bad taste in his mouth.
But it was only temporary, he reminded himself. It was only temporary, and Naomie had said she would make sure to get rid of it if it wasn't. Tommy just had to trust her on her word. And, as bizarre as it was, he did.
Distracted by his own thoughts, he said, "You haven't met the girl, Pol—Naomie's not like that. She's harmless."
Polly stared at him for a long moment, the muscles of her jaw bunching up. "Harmless?" she asked, very quietly. Tommy snapped to attention; he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing right up. "A chovhani? Harmless? I'll show you harmless, you daft—" she glanced around wildly for something to whack him with, and, finding nothing better, reached across the table to wail on him with a rolled up newspaper.
"Alright," he said, catching the offending object after patiently enduring a few smacks. "Alright, Pol. It's fair you don't believe me, but I swear it's true. Just meet her, eh? I swear that nothing will happen to you. Just meet her."
"Fine," Polly snapped. She threw the newspaper aside and jabbed a finger at him. "But if it's happening, then it's happening today. And don't you bring her into this bloody house without my say so."
"Not a problem; swing by the Garrison in a few hours," Tommy said agreeably, getting to his feet. His hand slipped casually into his right-hand pocket, thumb automatically finding the shilling he kept there and smoothing over its worn surface. "She'll probably be there by then."
When he had told Polly that Naomie would 'probably' be at the Garrison, what Tommy had really meant was 'absolutely'. In fact, he had a very intimate familiarity with Naomie Young's day to day proceedings—more so than he had ever intended to know.
This was not to say that Tommy was going out of his way to keep tabs on her. He'd had her watched during the first week, of course, but had stopped once an investigation into her background showed her to be exactly who she claimed to be. Locating the current position of the Young clan took a bit of effort, but he knew that it could have been much more difficult without Naomie's helpful divulgations that first night.
According to his report, the Youngs, camped just past the eastern periphery of the Cotswold Hills, were currently missing one of their daughters. To be exact, the youngest granddaughter of Baba Young—distinguished witch and most esteemed wise woman of the clan—had wordlessly vanished into the night around the time that Naomie had sprung onto Small Heath. Remarkably, despite the sudden disappearance of one of their young, unmarried women, a girl that everyone spoke fondly of, nobody seemed all too worried about the entire thing. He knew for a fact that Naomie had not approached the post or telegram offices in her entire time in Small Heath, so this was a somewhat puzzling matter, made even more so by the discovery that Naomie's father was considered something of a wild dog in the familia, known to be both very protective and very handy with a shotgun.
In any case, Naomie's background checked out. She was telling the truth. Somehow, Tommy knew would be the case even before his man had come into his office with the full report. That was probably why, immediately upon learning that Naomie had begun frequenting pubs at night, he'd made a personal visit to every pub in Small Heath and its surrounding areas to warn the owners that if a young woman came in wanting to sell trinkets and medicines to their patrons, they had better fucking not turn her out or allow anything untoward to happen to her, lest they make him unhappy. And when Tommy Shelby became unhappy, things began to burn, and caps began to cut, and it would be an unpleasant experience all around. So they didn't want to make him unhappy, eh? Eh? Good.
That had been a few weeks back. While he was no longer keeping track of Naomie's movements, Tommy didn't discourage news of her from reaching his ears, and never interrupted when anyone brought her up.
And news came indeed, from both expected and unexpected quarters: uncle Charlie's grumblings about how she'd almost trampled him underfoot while on Little Saxon, Jeremiah Jesus's offhand comment that he'd seen her in church on Sundays, the Italians' overtures of reconciliation in informing him about the unknown woman sharing her gelato with his youngest brother at one of their shops every morning. Little bits and pieces that came together in his mind to paint a comprehensive image of what it was that Naomie Young got up to when Tommy couldn't see her.
While she did not have anything resembling a daily schedule, something of a routine had begun to emerge, with certain events punctuating the passage of the day like exclamation marks. The most obvious part of her routine was her evening ride with Little Saxon, which occurred during the few twilit hours before the sky became completely dark. It was the highlight of her day, if Curly was to be believed. And probably Curly's too, based on his enthusiastic exaltations of all the tricks that Naomie could get her otherwise very stubborn horse to do.
There was also the aforementioned visit to the Italian gelateria, where Naomie had a couple of scoops of gelato every morning without fail. Sometimes this treat was shared with Finn, when his youngest brother managed to squirm out from under the Shelby family's watchful eye. Tommy knew he would have to talk to either Finn or Naomie about this eventually, before the boy got either a tooth or a stomach ache and their meetings came to Polly's attention—but that could wait.
And then there was lunchtime. While Naomie seemed to decide which pubs she'd frequent in the evenings mostly on whim, noon always found her at the Garrison. She spent the time when everyone else was having their lunch break sitting out in front of the pub, selling what she could. Then, in the quiet lull that followed, she slipped into the pub to have her lunch and chatter happily with Grace. This was something he did not need gossip to know; even on the days he did not drop by the Garrison, he could see Naomie perched on her stool from the window of his flat on Garrison Lane.
Tommy had spoken to every bar owner about the girl except Harry. There were many reasons for this, and to say that this was not one of them was to lie.
This was how Tommy knew the exact moment that Naomie took her lunch break that afternoon. As the sun crested just over the peaks of buildings, he stood by his window and watched her small figure hop off of her stool and scramble through the doors. Pausing to light a new cigarette, he pulled on his jacket and headed to the pub.
When he entered the Garrison, it was to see Grace compliantly bending her head so that Naomie—bent in half over the bar, her knees braced precariously on a stool—could tuck a ring of braided flowers over her hair. Then, with raised brows, he watched as Naomie dropped a hand down to the counter and leaned in further to land a quick, chaste kiss on Grace's mouth.
"A kiss and a crown of violets; this ache in your brow go silent," Naomie recited cheerily, straightening up but remaining knelt in her seat. "There. Your headache will go away soon."
The surprised look on Grace's face faded, and she touched the flowers behind her ear with an indulgent smile. "Thank you."
Seeing that the women were distracted with each other, Tommy silently stepped up behind Naomie, angling his approach so that Grace couldn't see him coming past Naomie's looming body.
Once he was close enough for the smoke from his cigarette to drift up and brush the back of her shoulders, he asked, "Have you any more of those? I've a bit of head pain meself."
Naomie startled violently and twisted around to look behind her. She had only just managed to lay eyes on him when one of her knees slipped off of the seat. With a sharp yelp of surprise, her entire body began a free fall towards him, right off of the stool.
For a short half-second, Tommy thought about letting her fall just to see the look on her face when she got back up. Except his body was already moving on its own, his arm snaking out to catch Naomie around the middle. She fell completely into the crook of his elbow and he stepped closer to brace her against him, bringing them flush against each other: her thigh against his stomach, her soft chest pressed over his shoulder, his hand spanning the dip of her trim waist.
Tommy spent an interminable moment considering the body he was holding. The pliant, slight weight that could only belong to a woman, the smell of herbs, pleasantly floral, the feathery brush of hair by his cheek, the nervous flutter and stretch of her ribcage under his fingers—if he could have, Tommy might have held this small, warm body to him for hours.
But then he glanced up and realized that Grace was staring at him from over Naomie's shoulder, her face wiped carefully blank. With an indiscernible click of his tongue, Tommy's grip on Naomie tightened and he swept her safely back onto the stool.
"Thanks," said Naomie, once she found herself once more firmly seated. She immediately tried to pull away from him, but his arm refused to budge, stubbornly keeping her pressed close. When she pulled back again, harder this time, Tommy let her slip away without any resistance. Not expecting this, she put too much force into the removal and had to throw out her arms so as not to fall over again. The stool wobbled dangerously under her before it settled.
"You did that on purpose," Naomie accused, her pink flushed face the very picture of aggrievement.
"Did what?" Tommy asked blandly, looking for the world as if he wasn't aware that anything out of the ordinary had happened.
She shot him a stormy-eyed glare. "You're a scoundrel," she informed him, her rosy lips pursed. "One of these days, I'm gonna give you the hiccups for a week and you're gonna regret bullying me so."
He heard Grace's shallow intake of breath, even despite her attempt to suppress it. Indeed, Tommy Shelby didn't usually take well to threats. But…
Hiccups, eh?
Tommy sent Naomie a long, amused look that had her both scowling harder and blushing hotter. At the sight of her indignant, vibrantly red face, a sudden flash of warmth unfurled within him like a blot of ink, heady and lasting. It was an emotion Tommy seldom felt nowadays, and he found it startling in its unfamiliarity.
Perhaps recognizing an alarming shift in the way he was gazing at Naomie, Grace interrupted the heavy moment to say, "What brings you to the Garrison today, Mr Shelby? Do you need anything?"
"Three glasses and a bottle of rum. White," Tommy said, with a clear of his throat. Then, after some thought, "And a bottle of cider, too. Bring it all in there."
Grace, whose eyes had followed his finger to the snug, paused and tilted her head back to glance at him. "Cider, Mr Shelby? What kind?"
"Eh… whatever she likes to drink," he replied, jerking his head at Naomie. "With me, Naomie. We've got some business."
"We have?" she asked, blinking warily at him. "What about my lunch?"
"You can have it after."
"But it'll get cold."
"Then I'll get you something hot. Come, we haven't much time until Polly gets here." Before Naomie could voice another protest, Tommy grasped her small hand and pressed a bill into it. "One pound now, and one more once Polly leaves. And there's extra money if she doesn't hate you by the end of it."
She curled her fingers around the money and pocketed it. Suddenly docile, she shut her mouth with a click and obediently followed him into the snug.
"So… who's Polly?" Naomie asked, when Tommy had brought in all the bottles and snapped all openings shut. She was nestled comfortably on the benches that were usually only occupied by the Peaky Blinders, looking entirely at home against the dark upholstery. It almost seemed to him as if she belonged there.
"The most dangerous woman in Small Heath," said Tommy, settling into his usual seat under the serving window. At Naomie's confused frown, he clarified, "My aunt."
"And what business does your aunt have with me?" Naomie asked, still appearing quite bemused. A thought seemed to occur to her, and she lit up. "Does she want to buy something?"
Tommy pointed to her with his cigarette. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. Don't try to sell her anything; it'll only make her sour."
Naomie's expression became crestfallen, her brows scrunching upwards and her lower lip slipping out. He stared at her plush mouth, struck with the bizarre desire to catch that lip between his teeth. "No selling her anything? Ever?"
"If Pol wants to purchase anything from you, she'll let you know," he said. Tommy dragged his eyes back up to hers. "Unless she does, don't bring the subject up."
"Fine," grumbled Naomie.
"Not a word about our wager."
"I know that even without you telling me."
"And no bringing up your mornings with Finn at the gelateria, either."
That gave Naomie pause. "But why?"
Because Polly would put a stop to it on the spot, and it would break Finn's little heart. It was still the month of Finn's birthday; the boy could be allowed a bit more indulgence.
Tommy said none of this, though, only levelled Naomie with a look until she nodded reluctantly. He reached out to pour out a glass of cider for her, and she took it as the offering it was, bringing it to her mouth for a sip.
"Why does Polly want to talk, anyway?"
Tommy cleared his throat and stubbed out his spent cigarette. "She thinks you're dangerous. Too dangerous to keep around. You're meant to convince her otherwise."
"But I am dangerous," Naomie complained sullenly, her words a mumble around the lip of her glass. She squinted warningly at him, looking very unthreatening and rather more like the sun had gotten into her eyes. "I could make someone stub their toe everyday for a year. Have you ever stubbed your toe for a week straight? That's already hell, you know, let alone a year."
"Just keep that up, eh?" Tommy encouraged, finding that one corner of his mouth had pulled into a half-smirk almost without his notice. He may have sounded mocking but he was actually quite serious. "You'll convince her in no time at all."
With a face full of affront, Naomie opened her mouth—probably to extol the horrors of regular toe stubbing—when the door to the snug cracked open and someone stepped through. Both Naomie and Tommy glanced over to see Polly standing in the doorway, as regal as a queen in her court.
"Hello," she said, her smile knife-edge sharp. Her eyes zeroed in on the girl beside him. "You must be Naomie Young."
Naomie climbed to her feet, looking like she had just encountered something perplexingly delightful. She hurried around the table and grasped Polly hand—which had not been extended—in both of hers.
Polly's brow rose and she sent Naomie's hands a pointed look, which Naomie studiously did not notice. Tommy almost winced. That was… not a promising start.
"I am! And you are—" Naomie bit her lower lip and shook her head, staring down at Polly's palm with great focus. "I'm sorry, I'm getting such a strange impression off of you, almost as if… are you a chovhani too?"
Polly's other brow shot up, and Tommy's with it.
"Not that I am aware of," Polly answered crisply. "Why."
"The feeling is muffled—like most of it is hibernating, really—but I swear you have magick in you, and no small amount; you've no idea how excited I am to meet you, I've actually never met a real witch other than my gran before, and I don't mean ordinary wise women either…"
"Alright, sit down," Polly commanded, inclining her head at the seats. Naomie obediently shut her mouth and sat, blinking up at Polly with her big eyes. "Tommy—get out. Women's business should stay between women."
A distant spark of alarm flickered in him. Tommy had expected to be there during the whole conversation, to shepherd Naomie along when it seemed she was about to say something wrong, and to redirect Polly when she became too thorny. He understood what she wanted, but was reluctant to leave.
"Pol," said Tommy.
"Thomas," said Polly.
The two Shelbys stared at each other. After a long, pregnant pause, Tommy finally grunted and stood up.
"Naomie," he called in a low voice. "Anytime you feel you need to leave, you leave. I'll still give you that pound."
"Alright," Naomie replied cheerily. "But don't forget you promised me a hot meal too."
Tommy nodded and with one last, lingering look, turned to leave the snug.
"Hmm. He's acting as if I was the witch," he heard Polly remark in an ambiguous tone, as he slipped past through the doorway.
"So you're really not? But I think you'd make a great chovhani, if you don't mind me saying; if you like, I can—"
The door slammed shut on his heel, and Tommy immediately headed to the bar. He needed a fucking drink.
Tommy spent the next hour watching the door to the snug out of the corner of his eye, his hands alternately bringing glass and fag to his mouth. He was too distracted to appreciate Grace's subtle attempts to draw him into casual conversation, even though he knew it would help to mellow out his odd mood.
Honest to God—not that he believed in God—Tommy had no fucking idea why he was so restless. It wasn't like he thought the two women would murder each other.
Well. It was hard to tell with Polly. She didn't tend to get on with women who were not blood, and if she thought someone was enough of a threat, it was difficult to predict how far she'd go. And he knew for a fact that she kept an especially vicious hatpin in her hair at all times.
But Tommy also knew that Naomie was not a threat, despite what great power hid inside of that elfin body. She wasn't the sort to throw around black curses at the faintest provocation. And he was confident that one conversation with the girl, disarming as she was, would be enough to convince Polly of the same. He wouldn't have suggested it if he were not confident, which was why it was so strange that he could not fucking settle down.
Tommy blew out a stream of smoke and then turned to face the snug when the door finally opened.
Polly strode brusquely up to him. She looked disgruntled but not murderous, which he took as a good sign. "Fine. I'll allow that she does seem… harmless," she said, coming to a stop in front of him. Her lips were thinned to a white line; it clearly took great effort for her to admit this.
Tommy very considerately kept his smug comments to himself. He must not have controlled his expression nearly so well, because Polly's eyes narrowed at him in a manner he knew to mean she thought he was looking annoyingly self-satisfied. "But that doesn't mean she won't still become a danger later on," she continued, jabbing her cigarette at him. "You may have dismissed the girl out of hand because she's a bit pretty and seems too artless for much, but you don't know how women can be. I'll be keeping a close eye on this one."
Tommy tipped his half-empty glass of rum at her in an irreverent toast. "You do as you like, Pol."
"You're bloody right I will," Polly said, taking the glass from his hand and tossing it back. She shot him a smirk—the same one he knew sometimes slipped onto his own face—and clipped out of the Garrison without another look back.
All tension ran out of him at seeing Polly leave so casually, without any further comment. Tommy poured himself another splash of rum from the bottle and lazily sipped at it as he waited for Naomie. When she did not emerge from the snug even after he'd finished his drink and shared a few quiet glances with Grace from across the bar, he stubbed out his current cigarette and went to see what was taking her so long.
Upon slipping into the snug, he found Naomie sitting cross-legged on the bench, a tight chain of purple flowers unfurling in front of her. The same vibrant flowers were strewn wildly across the table, transforming the worn, varnished wood into a makeshift garden plot. She was humming something under her breath—a low, soothing melody that Tommy could not quite make out the words to, if there were any words at all. Whatever she was doing, it seemed to be something rather important, because Naomie was so focused on her task that she did not even notice his entrance.
Tommy closed the door silently and leaned his shoulder against it. His hooded eyes studied her part by incremental part, from her fine, dark brows, scrunched in concentration, to the stray curls escaping the ribbon she'd pulled her hair up with, to the shift of her skin over the slopes and valleys of her collarbones. As indistinct humming rose and fell like the drift of a gentle tide, he watched her deft fingers weaving in and out between thin green stems.
It wasn't until Naomie was twining the ends of the chain into each other that Tommy realized she had been braiding a crown of flowers.
"Come here, Thomas," she said, finally glancing up at him.
Tommy ambled over to stand in front of her, and she drew her legs up onto the bench and knelt on the cushions. Naomie lifted her flower crown in both hands. "Here, bend your head a bit."
He stared at her for a long moment—head high, back ramrod straight—but then slowly, slowly inclined his head for her. A slight weight settled over his head in a wash of floral perfume, something velvety soft brushing the tops of his ears.
Tommy touched the silken petals curling at his temple. Thomas Shelby, feared gangster, wearing a flower crown. Small Heath would be brought to its knees if anybody saw. "What's this for?"
Naomie put her hands on her waist and appraised him. Her eyes shone with satisfaction, glossy like a silver coin catching the light. "Didn't you say you had a headache? This will help," she told him, turning away to clean up the plot of flowers on the table.
Tommy was aware he had said such a thing. But of course, he'd said it because—
"If I recall, there was another part to this spell."
She froze. "Uh," Naomie said, peeking at him over her shoulder. "It's not—not quite necessary, per say, for the spell to work. I—I mean, if it's a bit of pain. Just—the flowers will be enough. For that."
"But you see," Tommy said, his face as inscrutable as that of a marble statue. He gestured to his temple. "Me head's pounding like the devil. I'd say it's quite necessary."
Naomie stared at him, gnawing furiously on her lower lip. "It really hurts?" she asked, cautiously.
"It really hurts," he said.
She continued to hesitate for several more moments. Tommy said nothing, did nothing, only stood there, looking at her. Waiting.
Finally, Naomie straightened away from the table and turned to face him. Without another chance to second guess herself, as quick as a snake, she brushed her lips against his and then shot away.
"A-kiss-and-a-crown-of-violets-this-ache-in-your-brow-go-silent-alright-good-day!" she said in a rush, all in one breath. She grabbed her bag and scrambled off the benches, about to bolt out of the room.
Tommy grasped her elbow as she dashed past him and pulled her to him. Taken off balance, Naomie stumbled right into his chest.
"You missed," he said, gazing thoughtfully down at her face, which was a delicious pink. It was also scowling up at him in deep indignation. "You should at least make sure the spell is cast properly, eh?"
"I didn't miss!" she sputtered. She tugged at her arm and insisted, "Of course it was cast properly, you—"
All protests halted when Tommy bent his head and slid his mouth against her petal-soft lips. Naomie stilled completely, and he moved his hand from her elbow to the back of her neck, curling his palm around the bare expanse of skin he found there. It laid against her tenderly, neither pressing nor holding her in place.
Naomie stared at him. From so close, he could see the spokes of gold fanning out from her pupils, which were blown so wide that only a thin, smoky ring remained around them. Tommy gazed into those wide-open, gray-gold eyes, and once more did nothing. With all the patience he'd learned in the darkness of the tunnels, he waited for her to react, to move, to pull away. Or else to pull closer.
She did none of those things, but her eyes did flutter shut, dark lashes fanning high on her cheeks. Her lips shifted against his in a tiny, aborted movement.
Everything seemed to go quiet around them. Tommy's world narrowed to a point; Naomie's quick, shallow breaths, the sweet perfume of flowers that seemed to follow her everywhere, the warm, smooth skin of her neck under his fingers. And her lips, of course, her lips, the taste of them—apples and alcohol—the feel of them—swollen and childishly damp and pliant, the way she so rarely was.
His mouth remained painfully gentle as it coaxed hers. And it was painful, indeed, to keep himself from drinking her in, to keep from startling this wild creature away.
When Naomie sighed quietly and her head began to tilt to accommodate him, something within Tommy's chest shuddered, like a bird with shattered wings contemplating flight. It alarmed him; he pulled away immediately, as if burnt.
Tommy cleared his throat and stepped back. As evenly as if nothing had happened, he said, "That should do it. Headache's gone already."
Shuttered eyes shot open and stared at him accusingly.
"You—I—that—" Naomie sputtered. Tommy watched, fascinated, as a red flush—angrier and swifter than usual—stole over her entire face, rushed down her neck to her shoulders, carried all the way down to her wrists. "You're so aggravating!" she burst out, throwing up her hands. She made a wordless noise of frustration and stomped to the door of the snug.
Tommy could not help but to chuckle under his breath as Naomie fumbled with the doorknob, tripped over her dragging satchel, and finally stumbled out of the room. Shooting one last glare at him, she stormed out of the snug and then the pub, the ribbon in her hair fluttering behind her.
Finding his mouth strangely dry, Tommy sat and took a swig from one of the tumblers on the table. At the unexpected taste of something sweet and faintly familiar—and clearly not whiskey—he held the glass up and looked into it properly.
Cider. He'd grabbed Naomie's glass.
Tommy silently toasted the air, then took another sip. The taste of apples and alcohol hit his tongue.
It was good. He hadn't known before that cider tasted this good.
Tommy poured himself another glass and continued drinking.
Later, after all the busywork was done with, after the bustle and the noise and the whirling commotion of the day turned into the mayhem of the evening, Tommy found himself alone in the private snug at the Garrison once again.
Arthur and some of the other boys had gone off to get rowdy at another pub, leaving Tommy to something resembling peace and relative quiet. Evidence of their earlier patronage remained, however, in the form of empty bottles and half-empty glasses, burnt out fags in the tray, still-wet puddles of rum glistening on the wood of the table.
Tommy himself had a full glass of rum in front of him, although it was being ignored for the steady line of cigarettes that found their way to his lips. He was… thinking, for a given value of thought. Nothing to do with guns, or Kimber, or the races, or money, or any of the usual things he thought about, day in and day out. Rather, he was wondering if he needed to go see Lizzie tonight. Wondering what it would mean if he did. Wondering if it meant anything at all.
He reached into his inner pocket for the sachet that had made its home there. Cupping it in his palm, Tommy brought it up and eyed it as he would a loaded gun. When he breathed in, the scent of flowers and herbs drifted into his lungs, carrying all the way down to his darkest corners. It was not a smell he could describe if asked, but he had become intimately familiar with it in the last few weeks. He'd carried this pouch around everyday, had held it often, but the strength of its fragrance had barely faded at all since he'd received it.
Such a little thing. And yet…
The door to the snug cracked open. Tommy glanced up, his hand closing into a fist.
"Oh—Mr Shelby," said Grace, coming to a stop in the doorway. She was clutching an empty tray in one hand, a clean rag slung over her wrist. She was still wearing the flower crown that Naomie had made for her earlier in the day. "I didn't know you were still…"
"You're fine," he said, smoothly slipping the sachet back into the private pocket of his coat. He gestured to the bottles on the table with his other hand, cigarette pinched between two fingers. "Go on."
Grace looked up at him through her long lashes and dipped her head in thanks. She shuffled into the room and Tommy watched as she began to clean up the mess that the Blinder boys had left behind. When she bent over the table to reach for a far glass, his eyes wandered lazily to the round of her ass and then away.
As she straightened back up, Grace knocked against a nearly empty glass with her elbow. It tipped over, and its meagre contents began to drip over the side of the table and onto his leg. Tommy took a drag of his cigarette and surveyed the darkening spot that was developing on the leg of his trousers, his expression unreadable.
"Mr Shelby, I'm—I'm so sorry," said Grace, hurrying to him. Seemingly without thinking, she reached out with her unused rag and pressed it against the wet stain, midway down his thigh. She bent over the spot of rum and swiped at it a few times, as if hoping to mop it up before it got worse. When she turned her head up to glance at him, it brought their faces in close, close enough that he could feel her soft breaths caressing his cheeks.
Grace was looking up at him through her lashes again, magnetic green peering through a delicate lattice of gold. Tommy observed her through hooded eyes, faintly amused by her transparency.
They remained like this for several long moments, just looking at each other, barely any distance between them. He could smell the fragrance of violets every time her exhalations stirred against his lips.
It didn't have to be Lizzie, he supposed.
"I'm sorry, Mr Shelby. I think this will have to be taken to the cleaner's," Grace finally said, her voice a low lilt.
Tommy smirked. Then he kissed her.
It was nothing like his earlier kiss. He found that there was too little gentleness left in him for that, and no patience at all. He must have used up his entire store with Naomie.
This was hot and slick. Open-mouthed. Hungry and demanding. Her hands were braced on his shoulders, and one of his was firm in her hair. This was not Tommy cupping a pearl carefully in his palm; this was him seizing a pile of gold he'd found with both fists.
Just as Tommy was tossing out his burnt-out cigarette and raising an arm to Grace's waist, the door slammed open. He pulled away abruptly and turned to face the intruder. Grace paused for a moment and then tactfully stepped back.
"Tommy," called Lovelock, lingering in the doorway. He glanced curiously at Grace but quickly trained his eyes back on Tommy. "Someone's just given me a note. Said it was important. For your eyes only."
Tommy gestured Lovelock over, and the man faithfully trooped in. Tommy took the paper offered to him, and unfolded it.
It was short and to the point. Someone claimed to have business with him, about some sort of robbery. Wanted to meet. Tomorrow morning, at the Garrison.
"Who gave this to you?" Tommy demanded, folding the note back up before Grace could see its contents. He slipped it into his pocket, next to the sachet.
"Uh, a man. An Irishman."
"Police?"
"No. No, definitely not police. Looked too cagey, and smelled like the bottom of a barrel. Scurried off afterwards. Wasn't sure what it was about, but thought you'd want to know right away."
As far as Tommy was concerned, any mention of a robbery was most definitely referring to the stolen machine guns. The fucking IRA had finally made its move.
"Good man, Lovelock," said Tommy, nodding at the man. "I'll take care of it. You head back, now."
Lovelock nodded at him, and, with a final glance at Grace, wandered out of the snug.
Once the door snapped shut, Grace slowly approached Tommy once more.
"And what did my countrymen want?" she asked idly, her hands reaching out to smooth tentatively over his lapel. "Anything I could help with?"
He looked blankly at her beautiful face, no longer in the mood to carry on. Instead of replying, Tommy grabbed his boxes of cigarettes from the table, slipped them into his trousers, and began to fit his cap back on his head. Taking her cue, Grace retrieved her hands from his shoulders and moved away from him again.
He would say one thing for the woman—she was impressively quick on the uptake. That would be useful when he took her to Cheltenham.
When Tommy got to his feet, he could feel Grace's eyes following him as if fixed. He did not bother to meet her gaze. Head filled with thoughts about the guns and the IRA, Tommy wordlessly strode out of the snug and headed to the shop.
Long after Thomas Shelby left the Garrison, Grace Burgess stood in the private snug, staring at nothing. Slowly, she brought her trembling hands up to her hair and began smoothing it down.
The sense of urgency that had been beating behind her at every step had spurred her into drastic action. Though spilling the rum had been risky, she had felt the need to do something before she lost the chance altogether.
Unfortunately, it hadn't panned out. Perhaps, even if it had, it wouldn't have gotten her any closer to the guns. Tommy Shelby was like a living fortress, and catching his attention was simply too difficult, made no easier by his intense fascination with Naomie Young. There had been the slightest glimmer of a chance before Naomie, but now…
Grace hated to admit it, but it was beginning to look impossible for her to do what the Inspector had been so hesitant to suggest.
Fine. Tommy was not the only Shelby. He may have been their leader, but one of the others had to know something. She'd just have to… switch tracks. The Inspector would have to understand.
And she'd have to somehow remedy the mess she'd made for herself just now. Tommy would become suspicious of her if she set her sights on one of his brothers immediately after throwing herself at him. Or he'd think her a harlot and warn his brothers away. Either way, it would hurt the operation.
As Grace ran her fingers through her hair, her fingers caught on the crown of violets that she had forgotten to take off. She lifted it from her head and considered it.
Indeed, her headache had gone away not long after it had been so carefully tucked into her hair. But the girl who had given it to her—
"If only circumstance hadn't chosen you, Naomie," Grace sighed under her breath. She now realized what the Inspector had meant, that day in the opera.
Naomie, the lively girl who was always trying to cure Grace's headaches.
Naomie, the source of all of Grace's headaches.
Grace slipped the flower crown into her apron and continued to clean up the room.
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Notes—
happy bday bun pt. 4
the bun wants kiss scene. i give bun THREE kiss scene. bun like. excellent.
if it feels like chapters are getting shorter, that's because they are
you can just tell that grace and naomie are gonna be """"good friends""""
i forgot to mention: cross-posted to ao3. feels like a few of you know already though. [please imagine an eye emoji here.]
