After The Storm

She stepped inside, quiet but composed. Thomas was seated behind the desk, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, smoke curling upward like incense in a chapel. He glanced at her—once, briefly—then returned to whatever paper lay before him, the muscles in his jaw shifting only slightly.

She crossed the room and set the ledgers down with care, aligning the edges like it mattered.

“The books,” she said softly. “Organized. Balanced. As promised.”

He didn’t look up. 

Her fingers hovered near the edge of the desk, brushing the wood as if tracing a thought. For a moment, she hesitated—then spoke, her voice light, careful.

“You know, I was expecting—”

She stopped herself. His gaze lifted—pale blue, precise, merciless in its stillness. It silenced her more thoroughly than any shout. She shifted as she changed her mind, spine straightening.

“Your sister came today. Looking for you.”

No reaction. Not even a blink. He reached for the newspaper beside him and snapped it open, the sound sharp as a blade.

“So I heard.”

“She was scared,” Nevenka continued, her voice soft but steeled, her words measured, but probing. “Afraid you and Freddie would kill each other.”

Still, he read—eyes skimming the page, jaw set. She watched the tension in his posture. The deliberate calm of a man who’d trained every nerve in his body not to react.

“Freddie Thorne, isn’t it?” she added, eyes narrowing. “The one the police are searching for. The Communist? He’s the one married to your sister.”

Thomas exhaled slowly through his nose. Not annoyed, but not engaged either.

“That’s family business, Nevenka.”

His voice was flat, but her name on his tongue carried something else—a warning.

She straightened, undeterred.

“Are you sympathetic to their cause?” she asked, her accent thickening slightly—sympathetic landing harder, sharper, almost bitten off. 

At that, he finally looked up. Cool amusement ghosted across his features.

“I have no sympathies of any description,” he said, voice low, dry. “And you’ve got a habit of listening at doors.”

She smiled—small, but unrepentant.

“Is that why you want me at Cheltenham?” Her tone shifted—dry, wry, edged with something daring. “To listen at more doors?”

His mouth twitched. A soundless chuckle, barely more than breath.

“I don’t need a woman to be my eyes and ears,” he turned back to the newspaper, the slow crinkle of the page slicing the silence like a dare. “Especially one I don’t trust.”

She didn’t blink. “Then why bring me?”

He said nothing more. Her fingers flexed against her skirt, jaw tightening, then loosening. She exhaled not quite a sigh, brittle with frustration. He wasn’t going to tell her. Not yet.

“You should buy a nice dress,” he said, still thumbing through the newspaper.

She paused. Eyes narrowed faintly, chin lifting by degrees in a quiet act of defiance.

“I want ten pounds.”

That earned her a glance. A long one. His eyes lifted from the page with the unhurried precision of a man deciding whether to be amused. A corner of his mouth twitched, but didn’t quite commit to a smile.

“Ten?” he echoed, flat.

She tilted her head, the barest trace of a smile tugging at her mouth.

“You said to dress nicely. I can be… quite impressive, if I want to.”

His gaze lingered. Somewhere between disbelief and amusement, something flickered behind his eyes—interest, maybe. Or admiration disguised as irritation. He leaned back, reaching into his coat with exaggerated slowness.

“You’d better be arriving dressed like bloody royalty,” he muttered, watching her with that half-scowl that masked his amusement.

He pulled out his wallet, thumbed through the notes, and laid them out—one, two, three—until ten crisp pounds sat on the desk like a wager.

She stepped forward, unbothered by the weight of his stare. Slid the money off the desk with elegant fingers, folding it once and tucking it into her sleeve. She turned to go.

“Wear something red,” he called after her.

She paused at the door, half-turned, a gleam in her eye.

“I don’t wear red.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“Political sentimentalism?”

She offered a faint smile.

“Something like that.”

Then she was gone, and for a moment, all that remained was the whisper of her steps and the curl of smoke between them.