"Ms. Harrow," Nucky exclaimed at the sight of her, returning his attention to the task before him almost immediately. "I was surprised to see your brother this morning."

Emma ignored this and shifted her attention to the boxes that dotted the floor. "Going somewhere, Mr. Thompson?"

"I'm lowering my profile. Can't have strange women tracking me down so easily." He opened a desk drawer and began placing knick-knacks in a crate before him. "I trust Mickey Doyle didn't give you much trouble."

"Mr. Doyle is a fool, but he'll have your shipments in order by this evening."

"What makes you so sure?"

"He's not foolish enough to let himself be killed by a girl, is he?"

"With Mickey Doyle, your guess is as good as mine." Nucky smiled and continued placing items in the waiting crate. "I'm impressed, Ms. Harrow. I know a lot of men with half your gumption." He stepped out from behind the large desk and approached her, lowering his voice. "How would you like to work for me full-time?"

"One job and we're already making long-term plans; I'm touched."

Nucky shot her a look and continued. "I need people I can trust on the coast. Sure as hell isn't gonna be Mickey fucking Doyle."

"And what exactly does such a job entail?"

As he filled her in on the details, her mind began to wander to visions of settling down by the sea, spending her sleepless predawn hours commanding respect from Nucky's men. She saw herself clutching a rifle and standing square-footed on the shore, gazing out at the fleets of ships as they emptied their cargo onto the sand. Her heart leapt at the thought, but she knew to play her cards close to the chest. "I'll consider it," she said coldly.

"That's all I ask."

"May I ask one question?"

He was already moving back to the desk. "Shoot," he called behind him.

"What's in the valise?"

He paused, his shoulders tensed, then bent to release a low drawer. When he rose he carried a small case, the same one she had retrieved for him last night; she took a step forward to peer inside.

Two amber-filled bottles were nestled within the folded leather, but it was neither of these that Nucky pulled from its depths. Instead, he clutched a small wooden box in his slender hands, its lid intricately carved into a delicate rose.

"A jewelry box?" she asked.

"A music box. From my wife's hometown." He lifted the lid, unleashing the plucked notes of a lilting melody.

"It's lovely."

"If only that were enough." His basset hound eyes reflected a world of hidden heartache.

"Mr. Thompson, I don't mean to pry, but—" She approached the desk, choosing her words carefully. "—'tis a rare woman who's affection can be purchased."

His voice was quiet, menacing, unaccustomed to her candor. "You don't know me, and you don't know my wife," he breathed.

"That may well be, but I know women. And I know that men are wont to underestimate us." She backed away from him, her chin aloft. "I'll consider your offer, Mr. Thompson."

"You do that." Not a trace of warmth lined his tone as she left the room.

The ringing of the bell may not have awoken her, but thankfully she wasn't asleep. Some knot of misplaced dread had settled into her stomach hours before, and she was curled up in an old armchair, a steaming cup of tea beside her and a forgettable book in hand. The bell startled her, not least of all for of the hour.

"Who is it?" she called unsteadily, the words trembling into the night as she pulled open the front door. "Who's there?"

"Me," came the low growl of the only person to whom she had given any thought these past several nights. The sound of his voice put her instinctively at ease, but something about his tone propelled her towards him with concern.

He stood several steps back—for once it was she who towered above him. He clutched Tommy to his chest, the tiny boy motionless in pajamas and blanket-cocoon. His face was nestled into Richard's neck; Richard looked determinedly at the ground.

She reached for the light and he stopped her. "Don't. Turn on the light." A car rumbled slowly behind him, and he seemed to shrink further into the shadows.

"Why?" she asked, suspiciously. Still, he looked away, hugging Tommy's limp body close. "What happened? Richard—are you all right?"

"Neither of us. Has been hurt."

Some comfort that was. "What does that mean?"

A light came on behind her, illuminating his face: his skin was splattered with blood, stretching in tendrils over the edges of his mask. She backed away before she could stop herself, horrified by his barbaric warpaint.

"It's not our blood," was all he could say.

She could feel her father standing behind her in the doorway, but her focus remain locked on the man before her. "Then who's is it?"

"Take the boy," Paul said curtly. She swung her head around to look at him, silently begging him not to interfere, though glad for the diversion all the same. She stepped towards Richard, who rose dutifully to meet her. As he passed Tommy into her arms, their eyes met. His was the eye she knew so well, the deep chameleon grey that she saw when she closed her own, that soothed her when life and her father made all hope seem lost. His was not the eye of a killer.

"Upstairs. Fred's room," Paul commanded.

"I need to know what's going on," she pleaded.

"Just take him up." He was stern, but sweetly so, as if he were shielding her from some harsh reality, like when she was a girl. "Julia, please."

Still she waited for Richard to intervene, to insist on telling her the truth, here and now. She studied his bloodstained face, turned away from her once more, but he didn't say a word.

"Turn off that lamp," Paul whispered as she carried Tommy past him. She couldn't bring herself to look back before she did as she was told.

He was drawn to her without a conscious thought, a siren calling him ashore. She sat on the sand, knees tucked to her chin and eyes fixed on the greying waves. "You sure picked a good place to disappear," Emma said dreamily, without looking up.

Richard took a seat beside her, folding his limbs awkwardly with eyes trained on the billowing clouds pooling on the horizon. "Looks. Like rain," he said softly, propping a long arm over his knee.

"We should get the chickens back into the coop."

He smiled, memories of rain-soaked afternoons spent sketching his lovely sister as she sat restlessly by the window lulling him into easy, nostalgic comfort.

"Nucky offered me a job," she said, her eyes still on the waves.

"I thought. He already had."

"This one's permanent."

He swallowed laboredly, the clicking of his throat masked by the roar of the waves. "What about. The farm?"

She laughed, dropping her gaze to her lap. "I'd be lying to myself if I said it was going swimmingly back home. I should have given up on it years ago, when Ma and Pa died, but then I never was one to run away from my problems."

"You shouldn't. Trust him."

"You're the one who works for him." She looked at him, finally, her eyes a more mesmerizing blue-grey than the deepest ocean.

"Just because. I won't kill him. Doesn't mean that. I trust him."

Emma sighed, the weight of the world in her lungs, and took his hand. The air was quickly cooling around them, the tourists gathering their blankets and heading back to the boardwalk under a chorus of shrieking gulls. For one blissful moment, the Harrow twins simply stared out at the water, the sister who loved him relentlessly and the brother willing himself to feel that way for her again. Every moment with her brought the feeling inching closer, yet still it was just beyond his reach.

"Julia's waiting," she said finally, tucking her legs beneath her to raise her weary bones from the sand; she kept a hold on his hand to steady herself. "Will you come for dinner this time?"

"I. Don't think—"

"Please, Richard. You don't have to marry her, but don't you think you owe her an explanation?"

He considered this, weighing the possible outcomes in his mind, then nodded once with a grunt and let her help him to his feet.

"I ain't waiting any longer," Paul grumbled as he tucked into his cooling meal.

"Dad—"

"Nobody's making me wait to eat dinner in my own fucking house." He shoveled a large bite into his mouth, ignoring his daughter's exasperated sigh.

Julia looked at Tommy, his large eyes staring up at her expectantly, and gave him a small nod. He had just taken his first bite when the front door swung open.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Emma called, making her way towards the dining room and shaking a light spray of misty rain from her coat.

"I'm sorry Fatty Arbuckle couldn't wait—" Julia's words caught in her throat as she looked up to see Richard, hat in hand, standing at the threshold. "Richard," she said, a tad overzealously.

Emma cleared her throat. "Why don't Paul and I keep an eye on Tommy for a little while? That okay with you, pal?" She took a seat beside the boy, who swallowed an oversized bite and stared up at his former caretaker.

"I wanna go with Richard," Tommy whined.

"I'll. Come back," Richard promised, but remained steadfast in the doorway, waiting for her. In a nerve-wracked daze, Julia set her napkin down and rose from the table to lead Richard to the porch.

The fading light diffused their features as they stood, mere inches from each other but a world apart. Her resolve told her to wait for him to speak, but she knew that would leave them here all night. "It's good to see you," she muttered, hoping her words conveyed any of the complex emotions behind them.

"I. Owe you. An apology."

"For what?" she stuttered, though she knew full well to what he was referring.

"That night."

"You really don't have to."

"No. You deserve. To know the truth."

He was looking at her now, his eye insistently trained on hers. His pain was visible in white knuckles and quivering lips, and the pit in her stomach deepened as she waited for his confession.

"I've killed," he began, slowly, carefully. "A lot. Of people."

"During the war," she urged.

"And. After." He dropped his eye to his feet, drawing a nervous circle on the paint-chipped beams of the porch with his toe.

She swallowed the lump of foreboding in her throat and asked, "How many is a lot?"

His throat clicked before the words came out. "Seventy. Eight."

Julia felt her knees weaken and groped in the dark for the doorframe to steady herself. "Jesus," she breathed.

"I came. To say goodbye," he continued. "You deserve. A good man. Better. Than me."

"Richard—"

"I only wanted. To tell you. The truth." He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Don't leave," she said, reaching out to him. "You told Tommy you wouldn't. Listen," she pulled him close, holding both of his hands in her own, "I'll need some time to…wrap my head around all of this. But it doesn't change anything."

"It should."

"Now you're telling me how to think too?" They both smiled at this, but the smiles quickly faded as the reality of the situation sunk in once more.

"I have to. Leave town. For a while."

"That's probably a good idea."

"I can. Take Tommy."

"No, that's no life for him. Not because you're a mur—Jesus, what's wrong with me? I just meant—"

"I know. What you meant."

"I just think," she insisted, "that Tommy needs a stable home for a while. We have room for him here, we can make it work until your ready."

He looked up at her, not grasping her meaning.

"To come home."

He nodded, pulling away. "You shouldn't. Wait for me."

"I won't make any promises I can't keep." She smiled before lifting herself on tip-toes to kiss him with all of the tenderness she could offer him. He brushed her cheek with a gentle hand, always so surprised by her willingness to be so close to him, then laced both arms around her and held her as close as their bodies would allow. She had never felt safer.

When they returned to the table, the conversation ceased. "You joining us, your highness?" Paul ribbed.

"No. Thank you. I should go."

Tommy threw his fork down and jumped from his seat, ignoring the grown-ups protestations. He ran to Richard, throwing his arms around his leg, and cried, "Don't go, Richard!"

The masked man knelt down to his eye-level, patting his shoulder affectionately. "You need to. Be strong now. I have to. Go away for awhile."

"Are you gonna look for my mother?"

Richard grunted, neither confirming nor denying the boy's assertion. He simply pulled the boy in for a hug, two chubby little arms wrapped tight around his neck.

Julia stood to take Tommy's hand as Richard freed himself, tears in his eye. "Keep your nose clean," she called as he reached the door.

It was midmorning when the two women entered the hospital, striding purposefully down the long corridor. "Are you sure about this?" the taller of the two asked in hushed tones. "She's not exactly all there."

"If Tommy is gonna be my responsibility, then it's only right someone let her know."

Gillian was seated upright in bed when they approached, her face made up primly and her hair set. She looked up with a practiced smile. "May I help you?" she asked, chin lifted as if she were perched on a throne.

"Mrs. Darmody?" Emma began, but Julia stepped forward.

"My name is Julia Sagorsky."

A flash of recognition crossed the woman's face. "Julia. My caretaker's charity girl."

"Excuse me?" Emma stepped forward, incensed, but Julia pulled her back.

"I want my son back," Gillian continued, eyes narrowed threateningly.

"He's not your son."

"He belongs with me."

"In a hospital?" Julia laughed at the thought.

"Don't you dare," the madame warned.

"I don't know what you're inferring—"

"I'm his mother!" There was a fire in Gillian's eyes that made her guests recoil.

Julia stepped as close as she dared, her voice low. "You're his grandma, and you're in no position to care for him right now. I can provide a safe home for him until you're well enough to take him back."

"You little—"

"Watch it, Mrs. Darmody." Emma rose to her full, imposing height. A nurse looked up from a nearby bed, eyeing them dubiously.

"I think we're done here," Gillian said, the honey gone from her voice.

"Mrs. Darmody," Julia pleaded. "I just wanted you to know that he's safe."

"Get out," she whispered, turning away. The nurse took a threatening step forward.

"Let's go," Emma muttered, steering Julia away.

"I brought you here to get him back for me!" Gillian yelled after them. "You little farm bitch! You can't do this! I want my son back!"

The nurse brought a syringe to her, and soon her screams had dulled into euphoria once more.