Breakfast the next morning was a tense affair. Julia could barely look at the girl sitting opposite her father, in her Richard's chair. Last night's accusations rang in her ears, emotions laid bare on the same kitchen floor on which she had first felt the tingle of a connection between herself and the man who had been so dismissive of them all just hours previously. The anger burned in her chest, a massive hydra writhing within her, threatening to lash out at unsuspecting passers by—in this case, Emma.

"Where did you go last night?" She leaned over her guest's glass, tilting the pitcher mechanically and letting milk stream out over the porcelain spout.

"The boardwalk," Emma sighed, holding the glass steady.

"Did Richard join you?"

"I think you know the answer to that." The iciness of her words matched Julia's own, and the host's fumbled the pitcher in her hands, sloshing milk up the sides of the glass and over Emma's fingers. They both pulled away quickly.

"Ladies, ladies," Paul admonished, taking a seat as Tommy skipped to his. "Easy, now."

Julia took a deep breath and immediately began scooping up spilt milk with her apron. "I'm sorry, Emma," she said, "I just—"

"It's okay." Emma steadied Julia's hand and let her napkin take over the tidying up. Julia hurried into the kitchen to dispose of the soiled cloth around her waste. When she returned, the others had begun digging into their breakfasts.

"So," Paul began, a strip of bacon waving in his hand, "Did you have a nice family reunion last night? Sounded like a helluva time."

"Dad—"

"I apologise," Emma interrupted, "for last night, Paul. I got carried away. We shouldn't have imposed upon you with our family quarrels like that."

"Hey, we all got our troubles. But just remember," he leaned in, his voice lowering, "he seen things over there that you know nothin' about."

"With all due respect, sir," Emma said, her steely grey eyes meeting his, "there are things I've seen that you know nothing about, either." Paul opened his mouth to speak and Emma raised a quieting hand. "Please do not think that I am not grateful for the sacrifices that men like you have made for me and for this country, but I won't stand by and watch Richard wallow in his martyrdom, no matter how justified you might think that to be. Now, if you'll excuse me—" She pushed her chair back with a skid and stood from the table, walking breathlessly from the room.

Julia's eyes met her father's.

"What?" Paul said, stuffing the bacon into his mouth.

"Did you have to do that?"

"A man can't speak my mind in his own house?"

"I just can't believe this is the same man who told me not to butt in last night."

"I said to let them get reacquainted." He scooped a large bite of eggs onto his fork. "They had their chance, and now it's my turn."

"Well," Julia began, shaking her father's boorishness from her mind as she was so often forced to do, "What do you suppose will happen now?"

"You mean, do I think Harrow's gonna come back?" He chewed his bite and swallowed, his eyes unfocused as he considered. "I don't know. But I'll tell you one thing: there's a lot about them twins that we don't know. Just think about it." He returned to his plate, leaving Julia to stare at hers and do exactly as he had instructed.

"You...want to work for me?"

Emma lifted her chin defiantly, squaring her shoulders in a model of self confidence.

He snorted skeptically. "Forgive me for thinking you might not be the best man for the job."

Subtle, he wasn't. "Mr. Thompson, I apologize if this comes off as crude, but you shoot with your finger, not your penis."

She could tell he was scandalized by her comment, which was exactly where she wanted him. "Be that as it may," he intoned through clenched teeth, charging past her impropriety, "didn't you threaten to kill me yesterday?"

"Your point?"

"My point is, why the fuck would I trust you?"

A dozen comebacks raced through her head, but she calmly said, "Who said anything about trust? This is business."

He stepped towards her, his thin frame towering over her as she looked up from her chair. "Why do you think I would even consider hiring you? What can you do for me?"

She stood. "May I borrow your pistol?"

He gave her a look of supreme reticence.

"I promise not to shoot you," she said, throwing her hand up in facetious oath.

Finally, he pulled a shiny gun from his holster and held it out to her. The handle was mother-of-pearl, the barrels gleaming. She took it in hand and weighed it ever so briefly before whipping her arm straight and sending three rapid shots tearing through the air towards a bust on the far side of the room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Nucky cried, hurrying to the statue and examining it closely. He quieted at the sight of the small black hole through the creamy marble just under the bust's left eye, so close together that they could have been a single shot.

"Still don't think you can put me to good use?" she said, only the slightest hint of mocking in her voice.

"Give me my gun back." She handed it too him, reluctant to relinquish such a beautiful piece of machinery. "Okay, I'll give you a shot—no pun intended. What are your terms?"

"IThe first is that you pay me a proper wage, enough for room and board, starting immediately."

"I think I can arrange that. What's else?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You let my brother go."

Nucky guffawed. "What makes you think it's up to me?"

"It may not be, but he'll never leave willingly as long as he feels that he has a purpose here. Right now, I have reason to believe that you are that purpose. Let him go."

Nucky took a challenging step towards her, his eyes darkening as his true nature began to break through his long-cultivated veneer of civility. "I want to be clear, Ms. Harrow. Your brother is valuable to me. If this backfires—"

"It won't." The coolness in her voice disturbed her, but she didn't dare let that show. Not when Nucky was playing right into her hands.

Dusk had fallen on the boardwalk when Emma emerged from the Ritz's gilded doors. The figure that stepped out of the shadows gave her a fright until the mask came into view. "What are you doing here?" she uttered, infuriated.

"I. Followed you."

"You had no right to do that." She pushed past him and stalked off down the boardwalk. He hurried after her.

"It's. No different. From you. Coming here. To find me."

Her step faltered as she realized he had a point, but she quickly resumed her pace. "Does this mean you're ready to talk?"

"I told you. Last night."

"Last night didn't count. We were both talking out of our asses." She stopped and turned towards him. "Will you come to the Sagorsky's for dinner tonight?"

"I can't. Do that."

"But you can stand in her yard all night? Whatever you say." She turned away and continued stalking down the boardwalk, her brother struggling to catch up.

"We can go. To my place."

She stopped in her tracks, head cocked ever so slightly as she considered his proposal. "All right," she said, facing him. "Lead the way."

They neared a large, shabby wooden house on the far end of the boardwalk. A sign out front read "O'Brien's" in faded Victorian lettering. "It's. Not much," he said, aware of how clearly the residence reflected on his current state.

"I didn't say a word."

As soon as they stepped inside, they could hear the clinks and clangs of supper being prepared in the kitchen. Richard twisted his hat in his hands and led the way towards the delectable smells wafting from the their left.

A small, plump woman with a shock of grey-streaked red hair knotted at the nape of her neck busied herself over the stove, tasting this and tossing seasoning into that.

Richard cleared his throat. "Hello. Mrs. O'Brien," he said.

"Good evening, Mr. Harrow," she said cheerily. Her eyes fell on Emma. "And who is this vision of loveliness?"

"This is. My sister. Emma."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. O'Brien." Emma extended her hand to the little Irishwoman, who took it eagerly.

"Charmed, dearie. Will you both be staying for dinner?"

"No—" Richard started, but Emma interrupted him.

"Actually, my brother and I have some catching up to do. Would it be a terrible bother for us to take some plates up to his room?"

"Well," she said, considering the request, "I normally don't allow my boys to have female guests in their rooms, but Mr. Harrow has never been a bother, and you are his sister…I suppose we can make an exception. Just this once!" She retrieved two plates from a high cabinet, straining on her tiptoes to reach, and began loading them with savory treats. She hummed a jaunty tune throughout, and Emma and Richard stole an amused glance at each other as she worked.

Finally, she thrust a plate into each of their hands. "And there's plenty more where that came from," she said, shooing them out of the kitchen to leave her to her work.

His room was modest, its limited expanse lit easily by a single dim lamp. She wondered how he fit his long limbs on the tiny bed.

"You can. Have the chair."

She took a seat, placing her plate on her lap. He sat on the bed, his plate beside him. Though she tucked into her meal hungrily, he merely looked on bashfully.

"Aren't you gonna eat?" she asked through a mouthful of food. He looked away, his cheek flushing scarlet. "Oh come now, Richard. Don't tell me you're embarrassed to eat in front of me."

"It will. Put you off. Your meal."

"You know I've seen worse. Eat."

His throat clicked as he relented, and he raised his hands to his ears to peel the mask from his face.

"I prefer you without the mask, you know," she said, as if confiding a deep secret. "I've never liked that thing."

"It's better. Than the alternative."

"We can agree to disagree on that."

He smirked and took a bite. As he chewed, his hand flew up to his withered left cheek to block the food's escape from the gaping hole where the left side of his mouth should have been. The ordeal half broke her heart, but she was quickly overwhelmed by a swell of love for her dear, broken brother.

"What you said last night," she said slowly. "About not being able to…to love me back. Did you mean that?"

Silence.

"Richard?"

"I don't know." He looked at the floor, head hung in shame.

She placed her plate on the desk and tentatively stood, moving his plate to the nightstand and taking a seat beside him. She noticed a spot of drool on his lip and dabbed it away with her handkerchief. "Do you remember that day," she began with a giggle, slipping her hand into his, "when I dared you that you couldn't ride Bessie like a pony, and you climbed on top of her to prove me wrong—"

"And then. You spooked her. And we went flying. Around the yard." They broke into fits of laughter.

"And then you steered her towards me...and she came chasing after me!"

"It wasn't. On purpose!"

"Like hell, it wasn't!" She pushed his shoulder playfully, and he pushed her back until she fell back on the mattress, chest heaving in a stream of guffaws; he landed beside her with a bounce. Soon, the laughter died down, and they were left side by side, staring up at the same grey spot on the ceiling as their breathing calmed. "Do you miss it?" she asked.

"Every. Day."

"But you won't come back."

"It's. Not that simple."

She turned towards him, the undamaged half of his face all that she could see. She leaned in and pressed a tender kiss on his cheek, holding her face to his as she willed an ocean of conflicting emotions into his consciousness while her thumb brushed the scarred cheek just beyond her field of vision. He turned his face towards hers and stared into her eyes, the part of him that struck terror into the hearts of so many inescapable in their closeness. But Emma did not pull away; she leaned in and kissed his lips, eyes shut tight to the reality bearing down upon them.

After a moment too long, as he began to feel the familiar stirrings of desire blossoming deep within him, he pushed her away. "I can't," he growled softly. He kissed her forehead sweetly, rubbing her silky cheeks with his fingertips.

She bit her lip and sat up. "I have to go. I don't want keep the Sagroskys waiting." She stood and began to gather her things, then paused. "May I borrow your coat? Just for tonight. It was getting a bit chilly earlier, and I have quite a walk ahead of me."

"Let me. Drive you."

"No," she said quickly, opening the closet so that the door blocked her from view. "I'd prefer to be alone for a while." She pulled his coat from behind the door and clutched it to her chest. "I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

He nodded, and she was gone.

The night was indeed unseasonably cool, but not nearly cool enough warrant a midwestern farm girl to needing a winter coat. Richard had waited until he had spied her emerging from his boarding house, then scrambled after her. He followed his sister several paces behind, keeping his eye trained on her every movement. She was nervous; that much he could tell from the way her shoulders hunched instinctively together, but her gait was strong and self-assured. She held one hand awkwardly against her side, giving her steps an odd, unbalanced rhythm. He narrowed his eyes and followed on.

Her pace didn't slow until she was well away from the boardwalk, approaching a derelict old house with lights blazing from the basement. She paused, then began circling the perimeter, her eyes scanning the house's facade methodically. He crept after her, ducking into the shadows lest she catch him lurking behind her.

Suddenly, she looked up, her eyes following the crunch of a broken twig. He threw himself against a tree under whose merciful cover he had been hiding, shutting his eye and sucking in his breath. Finally, feeling that she had looked away, he stole a peek around the trunk; Emma had disappeared. He stepped out from behind the tree, whipping his head around in pursuit of his lost target.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

The speaker had the nasally voice of a pubescent teenager. Richard threw his arms up instinctively in surrender, his mind racing through each possible escape route and ever aware that his position was amusingly familiar. He turned slowly, enough not to startle his captor but to see the muzzle of the man's gun pointed between his eyes. "Hey," the man said, his face awash with recognition, "I know you! You're that half-faced freak who killed Rosetti and his guys! Holy shit, am I gonna be the big man in town when I shoot your sorry ass—"

"Let him go." Emma had appeared behind his assailant, Richard's own rifle clutched high in her arms. She stood stock-still, calm and defiant, her voice steady, commanding. The effect was nothing short of spectacular.

The man merely laughed. "What's this?" he asked. "You got your girlfriend protecting you?"

"I'll give you five seconds to drop your weapon and hand him over to me."

The man continued to guffaw, his gun never leaving Richard's face.

"Five..."

He rolled his eyes. "We really gonna do this, princess?"

"Four..."

"Come on, sweet cheeks—"

"Three..."

He turned, his gun still pointed at her brother. "How's about you and me go somewhere private and—"

"Two…"

"Hey—"

"One."

BANG.