cross my palm with silver (line our pockets with good fortune)
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VI. Evil Eye
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As Tommy strode away from Mr Zhang's shop, he slowly released a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
Things were progressing as planned. He'd been—not worried, exactly, but… wary, perhaps, that Naomie had made a better impression than she knew. God knew he wouldn't have been surprised.
However, he was satisfied to find that his concerns had been unfounded: Kimber was acting exactly the way Tommy wanted him to, almost as if he were reading off of a prepared script.
In all honesty, when considering the neat little plan that had been offered to him days ago, it wouldn't particularly matter which of the two women were sent to distract Kimber — in fact, maybe Naomie would even be the wiser choice, being as it was her idea. And it wasn't as if Tommy couldn't turn around this very instant and spin a few pretty lines to convince Kimber, the sod, to change his mind. But…
But nothing. It would be Grace. In any case, he'd already paid her the money, and Tommy wasn't in the habit of wasting a good five or six pounds for nothing.
Having finished his business, Tommy swiftly cut his way through the Chinese Quarter, which was filled as usual with the bustle and noise of a busy market. Amidst the maze of vibrant cloths and elaborate screens, busy shoppers flitted from stall to stall like schools of restless fish, sent into a frenzy by the smell of smoke, spices and tea, and by the din of hawkers broadcasting wares in their native language.
Tommy did not generally visit the Chinese Quarter very often, mostly due to his personal aversion towards being caught in dim, enclosed passageways for long stretches of time, but also because he didn't want to step on any of the Chinese gangs' toes. If he ever had business here, he was in and then out without pause for anything else.
Only, for the first time in a very long while, he found his feet slowing in front of a stall.
"Silk?" he asked, reaching out to touch the slip of yellow that had caught his eye.
"Ah—yes, Mr Shelby," said the timid-faced vendor, immediately scampering forward. "From—from China."
Tommy slid a finger over the vibrant stream of flowers running along the length of pale silk, embroidered with painstaking and intricate detail. "Your handiwork?"
"No, Mr Shelby. It was done by my grandmother. She is an embroidery master."
"How much?"
When she told him the price, Tommy glanced at her with a raised brow.
The vendor immediately shrank back, but still opened her mouth to defend herself. "That is… my grandmother does each stitch by hand… but now her age is advanced, she cannot embroider as quickly as before, so each piece takes at least a week to complete… and they are all original designs, all one of a kind…" She glanced up nervously as if to check if she had made him angry, and closed her mouth in a fluster when she realized Tommy was no longer paying her mind.
Sliding a hand into his pocket, he said, "Show me that one as well."
"Ah—yes, Mr Shelby…"
Naomie stared at the man standing in front of her, eyeing her appraisingly.
They stood in an alleyway near the Garrison, which was where she had been heading. It was nearing lunchtime. There were very few people passing by the mouth of the alley, and the two of them were standing too far in for anyone to see them, unless they were specifically looking. The man had yet to speak, but Naomie had the burgeoning feeling that she would not like him at all.
It may have had something to do with the way he was looking at her: like he was about to walk down a road that he knew was strewn with cow pies.
She glanced around.
Should she just go? It didn't look like he was wanting to buy anything. She probably wouldn't like whatever he had to say, anyway.
Just as Naomie began to take a step away, the man watching her finally spoke.
"Miss Young."
She paused, considering.
Then she took another step towards the main street, away from the strange man. Then another. And another. And then…
"If I've heard correctly, Thomas Shelby has quite the interest in you."
Naomie stopped completely.
"Says who?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. Hidden under her skirt, she idly rubbed her fingers against each other once, then twice.
"Tongues have been wagging in all manner of dark and dirty corners," said the man, Irish brogue thick on his tongue. "Anyone paying the least bit of mind would hear of it."
Naomie cocked her head and turned a little more. "It looks like you're paying quite a lot of mind to Thomas, though, if you're even coming to find me."
"As an agent of the crown, it is my job to pay mind to men like Mr Shelby." He tilted his head at her. "And associates."
Naomie huffed in amusement. "Me, an associate? Hardly."
"Yes, I suppose associate is an unsuitable term for your relations with Mr Shelby."
There was a hollow pause as the implications of the words sank in. Above them, the rustle of feathers heralded the arrival of a couple of birds, come to roost on the edge of the nearby building.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Naomie bit out. When she swung to face the man, the darkness of the alley slid across her skin to cast her face in shadows. Her eyes peered out through the dim light, black as pitch and glimmering inexplicably.
She took a step forward. Over her head, one of the birds let out a throaty call.
The man shifted his weight. His expression flickered.
Then he stilled, as if coming back to himself. A frown overtook his weathered face and he stepped forward as well, suddenly far more aggressive than before.
"It means, Miss Young," he said witheringly, "That you cannot escape the all-seeing eye of the law. It would be best to distance yourself from Mr Shelby, in future. You may be but a lass, but if you insist on associating yourself with him, I will not hesitate to condemn you for any of your indiscretions, as harshly as I deem necessary—and do not, for a moment, believe that Thomas Shelby will be able to protect you from me."
"Protect me?" Naomie repeated, quiet. She laughed to herself, and the sound echoed against the narrow walls of the empty alleyway. "I can't think of anything I ever needed less."
"Then I advise you to think harder. I know what wickedness your kind is capable of. Degeneracy runs in your blood, and it's just a matter of time—"
"Naomie?" called a voice.
Quick footsteps approached them from the entrance of the alley. The man looked at the new arrival and fell silent, the vitriol draining out of him like blood.
A hand clutched Naomie's shoulder. She glanced at it, and then at the person now by her side. As Naomie moved her head, light kissed the side of her cheek and spilled back over her face.
"Grace," she greeted.
"It's time for lunch," said Grace, her voice low. She looked as if she was conscientiously trying to suppress her agitation; she did not glance in the man's direction even once. "We should go."
"Alright, in a bit." Naomie patted Grace's hand. Turning her attention back to the man, she said, scornfully, "Sir, you've been quite rude and haven't even introduced yourself. You know my name; it's only right that you should tell me yours."
He stared at Naomie, eyes flickering to Grace for a moment, before twisting his lips into something that was neither a frown nor a smile. "I've been remiss in my manners," said the man, irony heavy in his voice. He touched the rim of his hat to her. "Inspector Chester Campbell."
"Well, Inspector Campbell. I expect we shall be seeing each other in the near future." Naomie turned to Grace and said, "Let's go."
Grace's mouth was tight but her hand gentle, as it slid down Naomie's arm to hold her wrist. They began to make their way to the entrance of the alleyway, Grace tugging her along and Naomie following yieldingly.
Just before they stepped out, Naomie suddenly slowed. "Oh, and Inspector?"
Before he could reply, she turned over her shoulder and gave him a dark, sidelong look. As Naomie passed through the threshold between the dim alley and the bright main road, a silvery gleam flashed in her eyes, not unlike the reflection of light on steel.
"You could not fathom what wickedness my kind is capable of." Her smile was a thin line that held the vaguest impression of teeth.
Campbell's face stilled for a second, before it fell to a sneer. Satisfied, Naomie finally allowed Grace to hurry the both of them away to the Garrison.
Behind them, the alley erupted with the discordant cawing of a pair of crows, their beady black eyes peering through the darkness at Inspector Campbell.
Grace pulled her into the Garrison with more urgency than Naomie thought was warranted, as if she thought slowing for a moment would invite that man to snatch Naomie away. The doors swung shut on their heels as Grace bustled them through.
The only people in the pub at this time were a few drunks slumped over in the corner and Harry, doing numbers in the backroom. The door to the snug was tightly shut.
Grace dragged Naomie behind the bar with an urgent tug. Naomie was prepared for a dressing down or maybe some fussing, but all Grace did was stare at her.
"What is it?" she asked, feeling Grace's eyes flitting from the top of her head all the way down to her feet, eyes lingering for a moment on the fading bruise on her cheek.
"That man didn't do anything to you, right?" Grace asked quietly, reaching out to turn her around. "He didn't lay a hand on you?"
Naomie shuffled good-naturedly, even helpfully pulling forward her ponytail to present her unmarred back. "He didn't. He was just unpleasant. And so rude!"
"Unpleasant?" Grace asked. Naomie could feel her cool hand lingering low on the back of her shoulders, fingers brushing against her bare skin as they tugged at the neckline of her blouse and then smoothed it flat.
"Can you imagine? He came to find me just to call me a bunch of tasteless names and make a few cheap threats," Naomie huffed. "Some people really have nothing to do."
Grace's fingers paused. "He threatened you?" she said, alarmed and not bothering to hide it. "What did he say?"
"Some nonsense about arresting me if I don't bugger off," Naomie scoffed. She swung back around to face Grace, who looked deeply unhappy at the news. "What's wrong, Gracie?"
"Naomie, you mustn't dismiss this so easily," Grace said sternly, reaching out to squeeze Naomie's hand. "A man like that can't be bought or charmed. I don't want you to…"
"Gracie, I'll be fine," Naomie interjected, utterly confident. "Someone like that couldn't hope to get the better of me."
"Just…" Grace peered into Naomie's eyes and solemnly said, "You worry me so, Naomie. I wish that you would learn some sense of—of caution. You can't loiter around in dark alleyways speaking to strange men all the time; sooner or later, something will happen. Next time you see suspicious men approach you that way, especially someone like the man today, won't you turn and leave? For me. Please."
Only the sting of her half-healed cut kept Naomie from biting her lip. Grace was being so sincere, and of course Naomie didn't want her to worry or be unhappy at all, but it was a bit difficult to promise her something like this. After all, this was how Naomie did business with almost a third of her clientele—the third that usually paid the best, too. If she avoided meeting people in alleyways, how would she turn a profit in future…
She was saved from replying by the sudden appearance of a certain Thomas Shelby. He stood at the corner where the bar met the wall of the snug, cigarette dangling from his lips and cap pulled low over his brow. His eyes slid between the two women before settling onto Naomie.
"What suspicious men?" he asked, tone deliberately even.
Naomie glanced at him and sent Grace a pointed look, telling her, "But Gracie, he's pretty much the most suspicious man in all of Small Heath, and you never say anything about him approaching me all the time."
Grace became quiet, eyes trained to the floor. Her expression was shadowed with discomfort, lips pursed in the manner of someone who was holding back a lot of words that she couldn't say.
Thinking that Grace wasn't satisfied with her answer, Naomie pondered for a moment and added, "It'll be okay. There shouldn't be anyone around here who's worse to meet in an alley than Thomas, and look how well I handled that. Right, Thomas?"
Thomas made a low noise in his throat that could have been either amusement or agreement. Putting his cigarette out on a nearby ashtray, he said, "If all men were like me, I'm sure Miss Burgess would be worrying about something very different right now."
Naomie shot Thomas a questioning look, but he only extended a hand towards her and said, "Come here."
After another glance at Grace, Naomie trotted over.
As soon as she was close enough, Thomas reached out and lightly swept her hair away from her injured cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Feeling his warm fingers brush against her jaw, she dutifully let him tilt her face up so that he could take a good look at the faint yellow of her healing bruise.
"Does it still hurt?" he asked, studying the injury on her cheek.
Naomie blinked at him. "It's doing fine. The bruising just looks bad, it doesn't hurt that much."
"And the cut?"
"It'll go away in a week, I think," she said. Then she sent him a tiny smile. "But a scar would make me look fierce, don't you think?"
She thought the joke might lighten up Thomas's mood, but instead it made his face darken. "If it scars," he said mildly, his thumb trailing under the arc of her wound. "I'm going to find the fucking bastard who did this."
Naomie frowned. "I already said—"
"I remember what you said. I just need to not kill him, wasn't it?"
She opened her mouth, then closed it. That was technically what she had said, but there was a sneaking sense in her gut that it wouldn't be particularly good for Thomas to do anything else to the man, either.
But even if she told him so, Naomie had the feeling that he wouldn't listen—not this time. She pressed her lips together and then solidly met his eyes.
"It won't scar," she told him, firm.
Thomas looked back at her. His thumb brushed away a stray hair and stilled on the apple of her cheek.
"He should hope so," he said, his voice low.
Naomie's skin prickled under the almost physical weight of his gaze, and she was suddenly filled with the urge to start fidgeting. Seemingly of their own volition, her fingers began to nervously twist into the fabric of her dress.
Naomie yanked her eyes away and put her hands behind her back. "That reminds me!" she said, scrambling for a new topic. That — what had they been talking about the other day? "You… you still haven't gotten me that hot meal."
Thomas dropped his hands too, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette tin. "Yeah?" He placed a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and mumbled, "I've got some time now."
It was indeed time for her lunch, and she was hungry, but… "Now?" Naomie glanced at Grace, who had her head lowered as she wiped down a part of the counter that already looked pretty clean.
"I'm sure Miss Burgess can survive a day without you, eh?" Thomas said, raising his brows. When Naomie continued to look hesitant, he added, "Got some things to talk to you about, too. About Saxon."
That immediately got her attention. "About little brother?"
Thomas hummed in agreement and paused to light the end of his cigarette. "You coming?" he prompted, flicking the dead match into the ashtray. After a moment of thought, Naomie nodded.
As if he had already known what her answer would be, Thomas immediately started for the entrance of the Garrison. Naomie lagged behind him, trying to catch Grace's eye once more; this time, she was successful. "Gracie, I'll see you later?" she asked, almost seeking permission.
Grace smiled at her. "Yes. Have a good meal, Naomie."
Naomie beamed back, before clutching the strap of her satchel and hurrying after Thomas.
It wasn't very long before Naomie was sat across from Thomas, at a table that could barely hold both their plates and not much else.
The restaurant they were at now was not too long of a walk out of Small Heath, but the atmosphere was noticeably different—not exactly posh, but with a certain air of well-kept cleanliness and order that could not be found in Small Heath.
That they were in a better part of the city was obvious from the way the floors shone from a recent mopping, or the way the table had no sticky residue from previous spills or stains, or maybe even the way her chair did not wobble on any of its legs. But the most telling part, she thought, was that the wood of the furniture did not have any deep gouges or dents; what few scratches there were, someone had clearly exerted some effort to buff and polish to obscurity. No one in Small Heath would have bothered, not when it'd be banged up again by the end of the day.
The tables, too, were so small and dainty that Thomas's knee kept brushing against hers under it; and with no other space in which to fit, his legs had ended up bracketing either side of her chair, one of them stretched out in such a manner that she knew she would surely trip over it if she ever got up to use the toilet.
Feeling his knee brush hers again, Naomie neatly tucked her ankles under her seat and forced her attention back to their conversation, which had somehow wandered onto the topic of her siblings.
More specifically, of her childhood spent happily terrorizing them.
"So you put a frog in her bed."
"So of course I put a frog in her bed," Naomie said hotly. "What else was I supposed to do? Let her get away with it?"
"Oh no," said Thomas. His tone was grave, but the glimmer of his eyes betrayed his amusement. "Never that."
"Of course not," Naomie replied, satisfied. She fiddled a little with her tea spoon as she peered curiously up at him. "And you?"
Thomas looked at her. "Me?"
"You have four siblings. You can't tell me you've never fought with them—you must have some stories."
"Stories, eh?" he said, pensively touching his mouth. "Well, I can't say I ever found a frog in my bed."
"Then you must have been the one putting frogs in their beds," Naomie said, with a tone of certainty. "Just like me."
Thomas flashed her a brief little grin that seemed to her almost surprised. "You've caught me; I was exactly that sort of lad." Under the table, his knee touched hers once more, a purposeful little nudge. "Wasn't just once or twice, either. He'll swear up and down he isn't, but Arthur's still terrified of 'em."
"I knew it, on account of how clever I am," she said, grinning back. Naomie happily popped another shrimp into her mouth. "Speaking of cleverness, this shrimp was a really good idea. Eldest brother bragged lots about having had lobster once, but shrimp should taste basically the same, right? Lobster is just bigger shrimp anyway."
"Never had lobster, Naomie?" Thomas asked, his face a study in neutrality.
"Well, you know, we've only ever made camp inland," she said, then trailed off, feeling almost embarrassed.
He glanced down at her plate with an expression she couldn't quite read. "That so."
Naomie nibbled a bit on the prongs of her fork and then, remembering something, asked, "But what did you want to say about Little Brother?"
"Right." Thomas looked back up at her. "By now you must be aware that I'm planning to race your little brother at Cheltenham tomorrow."
Naomie nodded. She'd be a fool to not have noticed the horse trailer currently sitting in Charlie Strong's yard, or the new fittings and equipment that had been joining Little Brother in his stables the past few weeks.
"Well, I've just received word that the jockey who was supposed to race him has been struck with pneumonia," he said, sounding shockingly unbothered by the news.
Naomie frowned a bit, concerned for both Thomas and the jockey. But noticing Thomas's expectant look, she nodded to show that she was following — although in truth, she wasn't exactly sure where he was going with this.
Satisfied, he continued, "We have a back-up, of course, but he isn't as good as the first one. Certainly, he could benefit from some… improvement. So I have a proposition for you."
Thomas's eyes locked onto hers.
"Would you like to go to the races tomorrow, Miss Young?"
Feeling a small tug at his sleeve, Thomas glanced down to see Naomie peeking up at him from under long, dark lashes.
"You've decided?" he asked.
She nodded, a smile immediately coming to her mouth, and pointed at the glass display case. "I want that one."
Tommy returned to staring down the Italian man behind the counter. "She wants that one."
On the way back to Garrison Lane, they had stopped at an ice cream parlor—or rather a gelato parlor, though he didn't personally see the difference—to follow up their hearty lunch with dessert. While Tommy himself did not feel very strongly about sweet foods, Naomie had insisted that all good meals needed to be finished with a proper dessert, and he found himself willing enough to go with her.
What was not so agreeable was the shopkeep, who was both overly familiar and gutless. Though Tommy had never met him before, it was obvious by the way the shopkeep had greeted Naomie with far too much enthusiasm and then immediately went quiet as soon as Tommy looked at him.
Plus, and this was perhaps his worst sin, he was a wop. Prodigious flirts, all of them. Tommy couldn't stand a womanizer.
"Two scoops?" asked the shopkeep, carefully not meeting Tommy's eyes. Upon Naomie's chirp of agreement, the man quickly scooped up two dollops into a cone and began to hand it to her.
Tommy reached out, casually plucking the treat out of the shopkeep's hand and dropping a couple of coins in its place.
"Thanks," he said, more pointed than the razor in his cap. The shopkeep closed his hands around the coins and quietly bobbed his head in thanks.
Tommy turned towards Naomie, reaching thoughtlessly for the curve at the small of her back. "Shall we go, Miss Young?"
With a curious tilt of her head, Naomie allowed him to usher her out of the store.
As the door closed on their heels, Tommy stoically pretended not to notice the small hand straining to take the iced treat from him. Casually moving the cone farther from Naomie's grasping fingers, he glanced around for a place to sit. His eyes settled on a bench just across the street, currently occupied by a couple with tidy clothes.
"Thomas," Naomie reminded, tugging at his sleeve, "The gelato?"
"Mm," Tommy said, staring the couple down until they began to shift uncomfortably.
The man looked at him, at first frowning, and then startled. He began to hurriedly pat his partner on the arm until she, too, looked up.
In one coordinated movement, the pair gathered up their skirts and cane and got up from the bench. The man escorted the woman away, doffing his hat to Tommy as they left. Tommy nodded back, idly thwarting another of Naomie's attempts to snatch her ice cream away as he scanned the street to make sure everyone else had got the message to clear off.
Finally annoyed, Naomie huffed, "Thomas, give me my gelato. It's melting!"
"You mean my gelato?" he said blank-facedly, just to see if her cheeks would go rosy like they sometimes did when he was infuriating.
They did. Her eyes widened too, incensed. Tommy could feel the corners of his mouth turn up.
Before she could curse him to trip over his laces or act on her probable desire to smack him, he promptly handed the treat over and brought her to the newly vacated bench. They sat, and Naomie immediately began tending to the softening cream.
As he pulled out his carton of cigarettes, Tommy glanced at her darting pink tongue and then away.
"I don't know where you learned to flirt," said Naomie, busily licking the parts of her gelato that looked closest to dripping, "But I know for a fact that women don't like to be separated from their sweets."
Tommy found himself smiling. "And you're certain I'm flirting with you?"
"Hmph," said Naomie, not deigning to answer that.
She took a few, tiny bites out of her cone and continued, "But I'm telling you, back at home, men who got between a woman and her treats always ended up learning better. Last year, one of my sisters punched a man in the face for hiding her pie, and broke his nose." Naomie paused thoughtfully then, taking another lick. "But she did take him as her lover a few months later, so maybe that's not a good example…"
As interesting as this anecdote was, it reminded Tommy of something he'd been meaning to ask. It was a bit late in coming, but better to find out now, rather than being sprung a nasty surprise later down the road. Though he also supposed that it wasn't as if the answer would change anything, in the end.
Tommy looked away from Naomie to light a cigarette. His tone was offhanded when he drawled, "I don't suppose you have a lover yourself, hidden away back at home?"
Naomie stared blankly at him, slowly digesting the question.
Then she began to laugh.
Hard. Quite a bit more than the question warranted, in fact.
Tommy waited for her to finish, bemused.
"Sure," Naomie said, once she'd caught her breath. She grinned at him like his question was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. "I have ten!"
That was a resounding no if he'd ever heard one.
"Ten?" Tommy asked, leaning back into the bench with an indulgent look. "Why not eleven?"
"Eleven isn't a good luck number," she informed him, in a tone like he should have already known that. "It should really be seven, but some of them said they'd die if they couldn't marry me, so I didn't have the heart to reject any more…"
Tommy smirked around his cigarette. "Did you use magic on them, too?" he asked, in a low, dragging tone that made her sit up straight, eyes bright.
"No!" said Naomie hotly, clearly getting into it. "And I already said that love magic doesn't work. You never listen to me."
He stared at her with a brow raised, not saying anything.
"You… What kind of face is that! You don't believe me?"
"No, no," said Tommy, schooling his face into something deliberately bland. It wasn't very convincing, judging by her scowl. "I believe you. Really, I do."
"You don't," Naomie sniffed. She turned determinedly back to her gelato. It was well on its way to melting, now. "I'll show you. By the end of this week, I'll have ten men professing their love for me. Without any magic involved!"
Tommy let out a huff of amusement that sent smoke rising around their faces.
"Alright," he said, looking at her slowly reddening ear. The smile playing around his mouth felt both familiar and not. "I'm looking forward to it."
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Notes—
This chapter in summary:
Grace: for your own safety, please stop talking to suspicious men in shady alleys
Naomie: no can do. gotta get dat ¢a$h ¢a$h, baby
—
Naomie: (says something obviously nonsense)
Tommy: lmao
Naomie: how dare you not believe my nonsense
—
Who said this was abandoned? how very dare you,, let's fight,,, (slinks away)
The very last scene was from my bun and I fooling around with Tommy and Naomie while chatting. actually three-quarters of the dialogue in that scene was written by her!
There was a gap of over half a year between the rest of the chapter and the last section, so I can't actually be sure Tommy is in character in the last part. getting back into the saddle after several months of not writing feels so strange... lemme know if there are any errors!
I was able to finally finish this chapter by singlemindedly focusing on all the love and support I received from you guys. I can't believe a couple of you actually sent me kofis for this story. Like what? Let's immediately get married? I adore you?
