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Chapter 9: Smiles

On the drive back, Mary feels like half of her hair has at this point come out of the bun that was holding it. It stuck to her face, her neck, and it felt like ants crawling on her skin. Finally, she could not take it anymore and started ripping out all the pins holding it together, and chucking them on the floor. Bit by bit, the little space between her and the driver was filled by long pieces of chocolate brown.

Tommy glances at her occasionally, cigarette in mouth, trying not to deprive the road of his most needed attention. “When was the last time you cut that?” He can’t help but wonder.

Mary hisses, trying to detangle the mess on her head. “Never.” She specifies. “I never cut it. My mother did. When I was little and still lived with her, it got tangled, a lot. And she always cut it really short so it wouldn’t.”

She chuckles, but there is no humor in it. “Kids at school used to tease me, would joke that I looked like a boy wearing skirts.”

She sighs, taking the last pin out. “And then I went to boarding school, and I was responsible for my own hair, and I never wanted to cut it, so I never did.”

Silence fills the car for a bit. Thomas continues smoking. Mary keeps running her hands through her hair, looking for knots.

“Did you like it?”

She looks at him, a question in her gaze, so he speaks again. “Did you like boarding school? Was that fun?”

She’s still confused. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Mary thinks about all the lunches spent alone. Thinks about Mrs. Braum hitting her wrist with a very thin, very painful wooden ruler. She thinks about all the times the girls there called her names, called her a bastard, called her poor. How they threw lunch food at her and it would get stuck in her hair.

“I mean… I wouldn’t call it fun. It was…interesting. I like learning.”

Now that she looks at him Thomas pretends to be extremely interested in the road.

“What didn’t you like about it?” ”Why the sudden interest in boarding schools?”

Tommy couldn’t give less of a shit about boarding schools.

“Wanted to go to one myself. Went to war instead.”

Mary looked at him wryly. Of course he went to war. All the men his age went. She’s just never been put in front of the fact like this. Now that she thinks about it, it seems weird. Thomas seems too good for war, in her eyes. He seems above it all.

“Did you win any medals?” She said it like a joke.

“Two.” He cracked the window and tossed the little left of his cigarette. “Threw them in the canal the day I got back.”

Mary wanted to ask why, but had a wiser thought. She could never understand why.

They haven’t had breakfast. Mary always has a big breakfast, so her stomach decided the best course of action today was to announce its discomfort aloud. On the third rumbling Mary wants to jump out of the car from shame. Thomas only smiles.

“We should be near Oxford. We’ll stop and eat.”

She pouts, head in her hand, leaning on the door. “I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I am.” 

Thomas usualy has cigarettes for breakfast.

Mary finds that Oxford is way less busy than London, or Birmingham for that matter. It’s quiet, almost. She’s surrounded by people on the street, but there’s no rush. No nerves. It’s tranquil.

Tommy leads her to a restaurant. She enters and realizes she’s only seen places like these in pictures. 

Tommy takes her coat, and helps her with her chair. Mary looks at his hands as they brush her shoulders and remembers how he beat a man into the floor. A waiter comes and hands him one menu. Only one. Mary looks confused.

“Here.” Thomas hands it to her. One look at it and Mary wishes he didn’t. There is no fish and chips, and the prices look made up. Like a child wrote numbers around the page, just because they looked pretty. The waiter comes back and Mary feels like she hasn’t done her homework and is about to be called to the front.

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

“We’re still thinking. Come back later.”

He leaves again. Mary looks frightened at Thomas. He smiles gently, cigarette in hand. He reaches for the menu, which she gives up hesitatingly. He scans it for a minute, and she hides her cold hands under her tights.

“Do you like crab?”

“Yes.” She’s never had it.

He calls for the waiter.

“A Bisque for the lady, with a glass of Pouilly-Fumé. I’ll have the Mutton with Mint Sauce, and whiskey, Irish.”

“Certainly, sir. Anything for dessert?”

“We’ll think about it.” He hands the menu back.

Mary didn’t catch the word crab anywhere in their order. So when she’s brought a bowl of orange soup, she asks:

“Where’s the crab?”

Thomas starts cutting his ‘Mutton’ and the table shakes slightly.

“It’s crab soup.”

“Why would you get me soup?”

“Did you not want soup?”

“Not necessarily..”

“It’s cold out, and you’re not dressed for winter. Soup is good for colds.” Tommy remembers how he told Lizzie to buy her a coat. She was still wearing the same coat. The table shakes harder.

The soup turns out to be delicious. And paired with the slightly sweet and smoky taste of the wine, Mary thinks this would be her death row meal.

“How’s this wine called again?”

Thomas smiles. She likes it. They don’t talk much while they eat. Soft music plays in the background.

When they exit, Tommy dresses Mary again, and frowns. He takes a gloved hand of hers and tugs her along, in the opposite direction of the car. Mary frowns when they enter a department store.

“Do you need something?”

“Yeah, to buy you a fucking coat already.”

She smiles. They enter a store, and are immediately greeted by a nice woman with round glasses. Thomas speaks to her while Mary looks around. The store looks expensive. She’s pulled out of her thoughts by the sweet lady, ushering her into a fitting room.

She is brought a few coats to try, each one with gloves and a scarf. The lady brings her some weird hats also. She finds out they’re French, and they’re called berets. Mary looks at herself in the mirror and smiles. If only the girls from school could see her now.

The lady brings her another hanger. Mary recognizes the dress as the one she was inspecting earlier.

“Oh sorry, this isn’t for me I think.” she tries.

“No, it is, madam. Your husband told me to bring it.”

She pales. Husband?! She doesn’t have a ring. He has no ring either. What on earth made her think he’s her husband? Before she has the chance to gather her thoughts and correct the woman, she leaves. Leaving her alone with the dress.

Mary looks at it and it looks at her. She won’t get it. She won’t. It’s too expensive. She hasn’t the heart to ask this of him.

She still tries it on.

Exiting the fitting room without the perfect-fitting dress feels painful.

She holds out the coat to the clerk to pack it. Thomas stands by the shoe stand. He notices her exit.

“Come here.” he picks up a pair of heels.

Mary sits down, taking off her shoes, ready to follow instructions, as always.

Thomas bends down and puts on the shoes for her. That, she wasn’t ready for. He checks her foot, presses on the end to find her toes, and Mary can’t seem to come to her senses.

“Do you like them?”

She snaps. “No.” They’re so beautiful.

“They’re genuine leather.”

Mary bites her lip and looks at him under her lashes. He found her weakness. He smiles, takes them off and goes to find the clerk.

The shocked girl comes to find him after gathering her thoughts. The lady with round glasses is packing their things.

“Did the red dress not fit?” he looks at her skeptically. His blue eyes bore into her and she realizes even if she lies, he’ll read her mind. ”No.”

There’s a long pause. He turns to the clerk.

“Pack the red dress, also.”

“Tommy!” Tommy. Not sir. Not Mister Shelby. Tommy.

Said Tommy is currently preening under Mary’s gaze. She tries to personify sternness, but she has to bite the smile off her lips. Why can’t she stop smiling today.

They exit the store with more bags than Mary expected.

“I can’t accept all this. I’ll pay you back.” She says as she gets in the car. “At least half.” ”Consider it a Christmas present.” He lights a cigarette, and smiles. “Or rather, presents.”

Mary pouts for what seems the hundredth time today.

They arrive in Birmingham around four pm. Thomas pulls up to her street, and gets out to open the door for her, again.

She looks at him as she exits, holding his hand. He hands her the bags from the backseat, and murmurs a quiet and amused:

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” She repeats, like a parrot. He’s ready to leave when she calls again.

“Tommy.” She’s looking at him like she wants to kiss him. He throws out the half-smoked cigarette. Just in case.

“Thank you.” She whispers. She takes a step closer, puts a hand on his shoulder, raises on her tip-toes, and plants a kiss on his cheek.

She runs inside after that. Tommy walks back to the car smiling like a boy.

Inside, Mary pushes against the door, cheeks red from a mix of cold and deep shame for what she’s just done. She sets the bags down gently, and starts undressing. She doesn’t notice her mother looking at her from the kitchen table.

“Just in time for Christmas, huh?” she slurs.

Mary startles while removing her scarf. Lizzie notices the new coat, the flushed cheeks, the undone hair.

“Mummy!” She walks to her excitedly. “I got you something.”

The girl hands her mother a red gift box. Through the plastic top you can see a red beret, with matching gloves and a scarf.

Lizzie puts it down and takes another long sip of her drink.

“How was London.” she asks, with a wary smile.

Mary looks down. “Uneventful.”

“Uneventful.” Lizzie repeats. She looks down and nods slowly. “Then why the overtime?”

There’s a pause, Mary looks around the kitchen. There’s no Christmas dinner to be seen.

“Bad weather.” she tries. “We stayed at a hotel.”

“Separate rooms?”

Mary looks at her mother with wide eyes.

“Obviously…”

Lizzie frowns.

“You would tell me if you fucked him, right?” Her speech is slurred.

Mary feels her eyes start to water.

“Mummy…” her voice is shaking. She looks at her mother’s uncaring face and can’t stop the tears from coming out. And then come the sobs. Lizzie seems to gather herself at the sight.

“There, there.” she rounds the table, cigarette in hand, and hugs Mary tightly. “I’m sorry. Mummy’s sorry yeah?” She holds her face. “Mummy’s just drunk. I’m sorry.”

Mary goes back to sobbing in her mother’s chest.

“You wouldn’t do that to me.” Lizzie whispers. “I know you wouldn’t. Shh, shh.”

Mary’s sadness is interrupted by confusion.

‘Do that to me’ ?

Chapter 8: London...

They stop on a terraced street lined with brick houses. Mary notes the lamplights are off, which means it’s past midnight.

“Where are we?” she asks, as Thomas unlocks the door to a very nice-looking house.

“We’re gonna sleep here tonight.” He shuts the door behind her and takes her coat. “I’ll drive us back tomorrow.”

“Can I call my mum? I didn’t even tell her I was coming to London.”

“I had someone speak to her earlier today.” He narrowly avoids telling Mary that he did not, in fact, tell Lizzie they’d be staying overnight.

The lights come on, and Mary takes in the absolute beauty of the falt. Dark wood floors. Persian rugs everywhere—even in the corridor. The wallpaper is beige with delicate pink florals. She stays rooted in place, drinking it all in, until Tommy speaks again.

“You must be tired.” He leans against the wall, watching her. His eyes drift to the mess of her bun, the little rivers of hair clinging to her neck, and he feels the sudden urge to trace them with his tongue. She’d squirm so prettily. “Upstairs is all yours. Pick a room, take a bath, relax.”

She turns just her head toward him. “Where will you sleep?”

He looks at her for a moment before opening the room next to the entry. From the dim light, Mary can make out a bed and a table. “Guest bedroom,” he clarifies.

Mary has the passing thought that he chose to sleep near the entrance, like a guard dog. Was it for her? She hasn’t the heart to ask. With a nod, she goes upstairs, Tommy’s eyes following her like a hawk.

Once she’s out of sight, and the only proof of her presence is the sound of running water, he heads to the living room, where the bar cart calls his name.

Upstairs, Mary feels her slip is far too dirty for sheets this fine. She hadn’t expected to be touching the whitest cotton in Britain this morning, when she put it on as usual under her dress. Her underwear was neatly packeged in a plastic bag she found in the bathroom, for the prospect of wearing them for more than twenty four hours makes her skin tingle. In a bad way. Not in the way it tingles whenever Tommy speaks to her. Or looks at her. Or gives her money, freely, without question.

He’s given her exactly two hundred and seventy-three pounds up until now.

The thought makes her flush. She tosses in bed, restless, feverish. Outside, a snowstorm rages, yet she feels trapped in summer heat. She needs to cool down.

Mary tiptoes downstairs, sliding her hands along the walls in the dark, searching for the kitchen. She finds a countertop and feels for a light switch.

“Can’t sleep?”

She gasps, spinning around. Thomas’s heavy gaze meets hers, his eyes dark in the low light. In truth, his pupils eclipse his irises. Only then does Mary realize she’s standing before him in her thin, almost transparent slip. She burns from head to toe.

Thomas thinks he deserves another medal from the King—for here she is, the girl who’s tortured him for half a year, nearly bare before him. Her nipples are hard—from the cold, he forces himself to believe—and he wants to do so much. So much. But instead, he turns and walks away. No man in history has ever exerted such restraint.

In his abscence, Mary sobers up, and finds the light. Turns it on, only to see Tommy come back with a robe for her. Silk. She wonders were he got it. Who sleeps here, whose robe is this. Jealousy is eating at her.

“It’s Ada’s,” he explains as he drapes it over her shoulders, much to his dismay. “This is her house. She stays here when she’s not in America.”

Mary says nothing, unsettled. She can’t picture a woman like Ada Shelby willingly lending one of her expensive robes to a little bastard girl. She changes the subject.

“Yes. I couldn’t sleep,” she admits, looking around. “I thought I’d get some water.”

“Water won’t help here,” Thomas says, walking away. This time, Mary follows him.

In the living room, she notices the leather sofa. Genuine, she notes. She sits down and doesn’t notice her hand feeling the material, pleased. 

Thomas pours a finger of gin, drowning it in tonic. Mary accepts the glass, smiling faintly at the absurd ratio.

“This isn’t my first drink,” He must think her a child after the cigarette.

“Good.” He pours himself whiskey. “It isn’t mine either.”

The slur of his voice tells her this isn’t his first tonight.

They drink in silence. Mary sits with her back straight, knees pressed together, bare feet shuffling over the wooden floor. She only dares to look at her half-empty glass. Thomas, on the other hand, sits in the farthest chair, and can't comprehend, in his inhibited state, why he would ever look away from her.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “What happened today? Who were those men?”

Tommy finaly feels shame, looks down at his feet while she looks at him. The tables turn. He sucks in a deep breath, preparing himself.

“The italian mafia.” He fiddles with his tumbler. “Or what’s left of it here, in england. Want me dead. Wanted to plant a bomb in my car. You just happened to be ... in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

Mary processes. “So if I’d gotten in the car, I’d be dead.”

His silence is answer enough. She drains her glass in one gulp and goes to pour another.

“Who was—” her voice cracks—“who was that man, the one I ... bit?”

“An associate.” Tommy’s gaze shifts to the window. Even in the dark, snow glows outside. “One of his men saw what happened. He knew I’d care if my secretary was kidnapped. So he took you in instead.”

She nods solemnly. They fall back into silence.

Thomas stands from the chair, and walks to the window, facing it fully now.

“I expect a resignation letter from you on Monday.”

Mary’s heart sinks.

“What? Why?” Panic tightens her voice.

“You were kidnapped, Mary. I’ve put you through hell these past months—the murder, and now this. Why in hell would you want to work for me?”

Tears brim in her eyes. “Please, Mr. Shelby. Don’t fire me. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll never be late again—”

“You’ve only been late once in seven months,” he says, baffled.

“I’ll buy better clothes. I’ll look more presentable—”

“Mary—”

“I’ll cut my hair!”

“Mary!”

“Anything!” She’s sobbing now, burying her face in her hands. Thomas puts his glass aside, moves to the sofa, and wraps an arm around her shaking shoulders. She collapses against him, crying into his chest while his chin rests lightly on her head.

This is the strangest girl in all of  fucking Britain, Tommy thinks. Almost died, didn't shead a tear, but breaks down at the thought of losing a job.

Her sobs slowly subside. When she calms, Thomas whispers:

“I’m not firing you, Mary.”

She looks up at him with wide,teary ,black eyes, and he swears she wants to devour his soul. He finds he would let her.

She cries again—this time in relief—and falls asleep on his shoulder.

Chapter 7: London.

The meeting was uneventful for Thomas Shelby, but not so much for his secretary. He learned nothing new at the gathering, other than the fact that his informants needed a raise for a job well done. Mary, on the other hand, acquired the shocking knowledge that she needed a new wardrobe. All through the meeting, she only pretended to scribble notes in her notebook. Instead, she was watching, observing, and memorizing in detail the outfits of the other secretaries present.

By the end of that meeting, Mary had a list of new things she needed to buy if she were ever to come to such a meeting again and didn’t want to make a fool of herself—or of her boss.

Exiting the building, lady luck seemed to strike, because Tommy turned and said, “I have other business to attend to.” He rolled a cigarette between his lips. “Wilhelm here will take care of you while I’m away, yeah? You tell him where you want to go, and he’ll take you.”

Mary thought about it for a moment. She reasoned with herself that her wedding would not be happening in the near future.

“Can I borrow ten pounds off you, sir?” He looked surprised and amused, both at once. “I’ll pay you back as soon as we get back.”

He reached for his wallet with a puff of smoke. He held out the folded banknote, which she took gratefully.

“You go on Regent Street. It has the most stores.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She watched him stop a cab and get in, and with a last glance her way, he drove off. She turned to the car, with a waiting Wilhelm inside, and got in.

“Regent Street, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Only then did she notice the American accent.

Mary looked at the money still clutched tightly in her hand and paled. Instead of a ten-pound note, she was holding a hundred. Crisp and clean.

On Regent Street, Mary entered the first department store with a gasp. Never in her life had she seen a store with other stores inside. She was shocked to find a shoe shop right next to a furniture store, and then a tea shop beside that. She thought she would like to live here.

She looked around, bewildered, not sure where to go first. A dress in a window display caught her eye. It was just modest enough, not prudish. The shop looked cheap enough from the outside. Upon entry, she realized it wasn’t.

“Hello.” The cashier spared her a glance, but not a response. “I would like to try on the dress on display. The blue one?” she explained.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to purchase it first. Then you are free to try it on.”

Mary was confused at first, but then realized: this lady thought she was poor. Poor and dirty, and not worth the time of a clerk who didn’t believe she could afford even a hat from this store.

Her anger got the better of her. She slammed the hundred on the counter.

“Will you have change?” She didn’t even know how expensive the dress was.

Mary walked out of the department store with a dress, a new blouse, and new shoes. Genuine leather. She really liked genuine leather. She had eighty-two pounds left, but thought back to her jar at home, and how empty it would feel with almost twenty pounds less than she had before. She decided it was enough shopping for today, and went out to search for Wilhelm. She saw him, and the car, and three Italian men conversing with Wilhelm in hushed voices. She stood across the street, bags in hand, confused, and noticed them slip somthing in the driver's pocket.

Something wasn’t right.

One of the men noticed her staring, and she looked at Wilhelm for support. All she got was a glance—and then he left. As in, left her, with three strangers near the only car she had. Her instincts screamed at her to go find Tommy, but how?

The Italians began to cross the street towards her. Mary started to walk, all while looking around for something, anything. She heard steps behind her as she tried to stop a cab. At a corner she reached a dead end, and her heart sank. She turned, and didn’t have time to scream before a hand clamped over her mouth with a cloth. She thinks about her new, expensive, genuine leather shoes, now lying on the dirty pavement, and then it was dark.

Mary slipped in and out of consciousness, depending on her surroundings. She felt a car moving beneath her. She felt it stop abruptly, and she opened her eyes to see men fighting outside it. She felt herself being dragged out of the car, only to end up back in. She heard screaming. And she heard gunshots.

She woke up on the floor of a room, with a pillow near her. The room smelled of alcohol. It had a wet corner and no windows. She scrambled around for her possessions, but she had none. Well, shit. Mary realized the most likely course of her life now would be working at a brothel until the end of her days. So much for trying not to become like her mother all her life.

She heard the door open, and a bearded man came in. She lunged at him without thinking.

“Here ya go, frien—AGH!” she bit his hand and tasted copper. She clawed at him as he tried to take her by the jaw. “Are you fucking mental!”

“Mary!” she heard his voice.

From behind the door entered a disheveled Thomas, out of breath and trembling.

“Oh…” Mary felt strange. She had accepted her fate, but it seemed it had changed again—because of Thomas fucking Shelby.

“Now, Tommy, if I get rabies from this, I’ll be very mad, yeah? Extremely mad,” said the man with a very thick accent. Now Mary felt a little bad.

“I’m sorry.” She looked down, ashamed of her actions, however justified they had been. She heard Tommy come closer; he patted her head while she was still sitting on the pillow.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Up now. Come on.” She stood like a dog on command. She began to tremble, the whole of the day crashing down on her now, emotions alight, reacting to his soft voice. Why was he so fucking soft with her? She wished he wouldn’t be. Just once.

He checked her over with searching eyes and timid hands. Satisfied, he covered her in his coat and pushed her gently at the small of her back—a sign to go. As they walked down the corridor, the man yelled behind them:

“Ya owe me now, Tom. Ya owe me big time.”

Thomas raised a hand in a gesture that could mean a lot of things, but Mary thought it meant agreement today.

They exited the building, and she looked at the sky, and the stars, and the moon, and she shivered—not from the cold.

The car was silent as he drove. She looked at the floor. Unbeknownst to Mary, whose mind was an empty canvas, Thomas was in a heated battle with his own, searching for things to say—or not to say. Finally, he began.

“I won’t ask if you’re okay, Mary. Because I know you aren’t.” She looked at him. For the first time in forever, he wasn’t smoking. “All I can say is that I am sorry.”

Mary looked at him and wanted to smile. He was worried for her. He is worried. She smiled, tried to hide it with a bite on her lip.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. He looked at her quizzically. “Lost your ‘ten pounds’.”

She couldn’t hide her smile anymore. Tommy only puffed out in disbelief.

Chapter 6: London?

Two days before Christmas Mary comes to work as usual, five minutes before Tommy arrives. It’s snowing out, and her hands have frozen to the point that she thinks her fingers are purely fictional. 'There’s always a fire in his office'… she thinks, weighs the options, and decides she’ll do better in life without a job than without fingers.

Ten minutes later, she’s sitting on the floor of the office right by the fire when she hears him enter the building.

“Mary!” His voice sounds out in the almost empty office, making her stomach drop. Can he see through walls?

She hurries, stands, and runs in the direction of the voice. As she exits the door, her downturned, shameful head collides with something hard, and her nose is invaded with the smell of coal.

“Here you are.” He’s holding her by her shoulders now. “Come on. We’re going to London.”

“London?!” she squeals.

“Never been?”

“No—I… Why—” She can’t seem to form a word as he brings her coat. He tuts. It’s the same coat as before.

“Meeting at noon. We’ll get there on time if we hurry.” He grabs her bag for her and drags her along until they get to a car. He opens the back door. Only then does a stunned Mary see that the driver’s seat, usually assigned to her boss, is occupied by an unknown man. Which could only mean that she and Tommy will be in the back, alone, with a partition separating them from the man in front.

Mary fears for the hundredth time that he will read her mind, and find out about the shameful thoughts she buried in its depths.

As he climbs in after Mary, Thomas takes the partition down. Thank God.

“Be fast. Wilhelm, this is Mary. Mary, our driver, Wilhelm.”

“Pleasure, madam.” He tips his hat.

Mary manages to squeak out a curt, “Hello.”

Thomas raises the partition and lights a cigarette. Well, fuck.

Fourteen cigarettes in, and we haven’t even passed Warwick yet. When he lights another, I can’t help myself.

“You smoke like a chimney.” I want to swallow my words the moment they come out.

Shamefully, I turn and notice the uncharacteristic smirk on Tommy’s face as he looks out the window on his end. His legs are spread, and his knee almost reaches mine. I scoot closer to my window and press my knees together.

“Bad habit.” He inhales. “Can’t stop now.” He exhales.

I think for a bit.

“When did you start?”

He puffs out a laugh with smoke and scratches his brow with his thumb. “Around twelve, I think.”

“Twelve years ago?”

He hums in disagreement. “Been smoking since I was twelve.”

I laugh in disbelief. He looks at me with a matching smile.

“Who on earth gave twelve-year-old Thomas Shelby cigarettes?”

“Oh, he was very terrifying, you see. No one would dare disobey him.”

I smile wider. “I actually believe that.”

He looks different when he smiles, I note. Younger, maybe. Free. I turn to the window, to escape his gaze, if only for a moment. Before turning back.

“Can I have one?” I ask, but I can’t look at him. I look at the discarded lighter sitting on the seat between us. I hear him ruffling through his pocket for the case. I pick up the lighter, getting ready. He extends the case to me, and I pick the middle one, ruining the neatly organized arrangement. I put it between my lips and I feel silly. I reach to open the lighter, only to be stopped by his hand cupping mine.

I look up and he looks back at me with those ice-blue eyes, and suddenly I’m outside, in the blazing snowstorm, freezing to death.

He pries my fingers open, takes the lighter, and cups the flame before me.

Not looking away, I lean in, and seemingly light the cigarette, but nothing happens. I pull away, and suck in, but smoke never comes. I hear Thomas chuckle.

“Have you never smoked before?” My face lights up. I drop the cigarette on the floor out of spite, and turn away, pouting. I hear his chuckles continue.

Around half an hour later, the awkward silence between us is broken by his still-amused voice.

“You need to inhale to light it.”

He’s not even looking at me. I don’t feel like responding.

With a sigh, he takes out a cigarette and lights it, only to then turn it towards me.

I try to stay mad, but the prospect of an indirect kiss with Thomas Shelby is much too appealing, and so I cave.

“Inhale,” he instructs when it touches my mouth. “When you feel the smoke in your mouth, breathe it into your lungs, and then exhale.”

I do as told, feeling warmth in my mouth at the beginning. On the second step I fail miserably, because the awful taste kicks in, along with the burning, suffocating sensation in my throat. Tommy sees my eyes water before I feel it, and takes the cigarette before I start coughing uncontrollably.

Distracted, I don’t feel his hand gently soothing the back of my neck. When I do look up, with teary eyes and a wounded pride, I see him smirk around the same cigarette, and I want to punch it out of his mouth.

Upon arrival Mary realizes London doesn’t differ from central Birmingham much—only, central Birmingham is only in the center, in London it’s everywhere. There are so many stores, Mary thinks there’s not enough money in the world to go to all of them. Then she looks at her employer, and realizes he does have all the money in the world.

They arrive at a luxurious-looking building, and Tommy enters without an ounce of doubt, while Mary couldn’t feel more out of place.

“We get there, you don’t speak, eh? You sit next to me, and you take notes.”

“Why would I take notes? You remember everything anyway.”

They enter a lift; Mary is shocked to find that it not only lifts, but it also plays music.

“There are respectable people there. They all have secretaries, and they all take notes,” Thomas explains. “If I don’t bring one, they’ll think I don’t care.”

He leans in to whisper. “Which I don’t. But they’ll get upset if they know that.”

Mary smiles to herself.

Chapter 5: Daddy

Mary, as usual, is buried in paper and books at her desk. Most days are uneventful, and with the approaching cold of winter in her back, she sleeps on her feet. Like a ghost, she’s never really there. But things keep happening around her, without her permission.

“Oh Betty you have got to tell me where you got that dress.”

“My Daddy’s got it for me. Last week we went to London, and I saw it and I just loved it. It’s very expensive you see, so I hesitated at first, but Daddy said to get it and not think about the money.”

“Ugh..I’m so jealous. My dad never buys me nice things when I ask. I mean, he’s only got one daughter. I don’t see the problem really in spending a couple pounds for your only daughter.”

“God tells us to be grateful for what we have, Missy. There are people less fortunate than us.”

Mary pretends not to see Betty’s bright blue eyes on her. Missy snickers, and leans over her desk, where a tea-sipping Betty joins her.

“Did you know she doesn’t even know who her father is? The whore never did manage to narrow it down.”

Betty tuts in disapproval. They both glance at her and start whispering again. This time they do muster up the decency to talk low enough that Mary doesn’t hear.

It doesn’t help much. Mary feels her eyes start to heat when she hears them laugh.

She stands up with a loud scrape of her chair on the wooden floor. She’s done that so much there are scrapes beneath her seat, and she fears one day Mr. Shelby will make her pay for renovations. She knocks on his office, waits for the usual “Come in.”, and opens the door. She doesn’t come too close to him. She still thinks he can read minds.

“I don’t feel well, sir. May I leave early today please?”

Thomas looks at her, concerned. “Did you catch a cold?”

Brilliant. “Yes, sir.” Mary smiles to herself.

He stands up. “Sit down.” Her smile dies.

Well shit. He’s gonna read her mind now, and there’s nowhere she can run. He walks up to her, looks her over again with searching eyes, then reaches out. Mary flinches. He stills ,keeps looking at her.

She tries to put up a fight, but loses instantly. As she looks down, his hand resumes the course until its back is pressed against the side of her neck. It’s cold, but it feels nice against the heat of her skin. She’s keenly aware that he can feel her pulse, but thankfully the hand leaves, only to return with a press on her forehead.

“No fever.” he continues observing her with intent. Mary feels like falling underground then and there. “Have you been coughing?”

She gulps and presses her lips. “Yes.”

He takes her chin between his fingers and lifts her head. Panic in her eyes, she meets his calm ones.

“Open.” he taps her cheek. “Tongue out.”

'There’s no going back now' Mary tells herself and she hesitantly opens her mouth. Her tongue touches her chin in an uncomfortable way, and she closes her eyes, ready to be caught. The other shoe doesn’t drop though, and Thomas releases her face after a solid minute of inspection. Her tongue is still out as she hears him go away, and when she opens her eyes, she sees he’s already dressed.

“Come on. I’ll drive you home.” Never one to turn down a free ride, Mary springs up, goes to her desk, and packs in a hurry. As she finishes, she sees Tommy with her coat, holding it out for her.

She lets him dress her, and for a second, feels like she has a dad.

Mary observes closely the interior of the car. The seats are leather. She likes leather.

“No wonder you got sick. That coat is thinner than my suit.”

“Your suit is expensive, Mr. Shelby”

“You make enough money to buy yourself a proper coat, Mary.” he takes a drag. “I should know, I pay you.”

She looks down. “I’m saving up.”

“For what.” His words are slurred on account of the cigarette dangling from his lips. He smokes like a chimney.

Thomas keeps his eyes on the busy town road, so he cannot see the red on Mary’s cheeks, or the fear and embarrassment he’s always managing to read in her eyes.

“For my wedding.”

His stomach drops. “You’re getting married?”

“I hope so.” Mary finds that she sounds just as embarrassed as she feels.

There’s nothing but silence for minutes, until the loud sound of the honk is used to spook people out of the way of the fast-moving car. “Fucking imbeciles.” The growl of Tommy’s voice makes Mary breathe funny. “Who’s the lucky fella.” his hands tighten on the wheel.

“Oh I don’t have a boyfriend.” she corrects him fast, only now understanding how she might have confused him with her choice of words. Tommy looks at the road, but she can see his face change from what she thought to be neutrality, to surprise.

“You’re saving up for your wedding, but you’ve got no groom?”

Mary feels like a child. “You see, sir. I have no dowry. And it’s pretty hard for…a girl..like me.. to marry. I thought I should start saving up.”

“A girl like you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that mean?”

‘Is he toying with me?’ she asks herself. “I’m a bastard Mr. Shelby.” she musters up the courage to say, just as they pull up to her street. The car stops, and she continues while she gathers her bag from the floor. “And add on to that my... lack of class, accompanied by mediocre looks, and my chances get dangerously low.” she goes to open her door.

“Stop.” sounds out in the car louder than intended. She freezes on command like a dog. Turns only to see Tommy’s back as he descends the car, rounds it, and opens her door, offering his hand as she exits. Once down, Mary looks at him bewildered, only to find him looking back, straight into her eyes.

“You’re the prettiest girl in england Mary.”

Mary swears she has no heart in that moment, because instead of being happy, overjoyed, that her handsome boss, who was center of one too many late-night fantasies of hers, called her pretty, she feels nothing. She feels numb and cold, and all she wants is to go inside and warm up next to the fire and continue fantasizing about him, without him there.

Thomas, unaware of the crisis going on inside Mary’s head at the moment, comes closer, leans in, and points a finger right at her face as if he were scolding his child. “And you better start acting like it.”

They were intrerupted by a dressed-up Lizzie Stark exiting her flat, all the while rummaging through her purse. The pair look at her and separate quickly.

Thomas notes that Lizzie’s wearing a fur coat. Mink, if he had to guess. Tailored. Expensive. And her daughter walks around in a spring coat in December.

“Tommy!” she smiles. “I was just going out, you're welcome to join. We're going to a new restaurant down on-”

“I have to go back to work. I was just dropping Mary off.”

Lizzie notices her child. “Oh! You’re early, no?”

‘Gotta see this through’ thought Mary as she lied again. “I’m sick.”

“Right.” Thomas takes his leave, only to yell out before getting in the running car. “And Lizzie, get the girl a proper fucking coat, yeah?”

Left in the dust from the running car, Mary sees her mother approach and touch her coat. “Normal fucking coat.” she shakes her head dismissively. "And since when does the Boss leave work to choffeur around the secretary huh?"

“I’m going to bed.” Mary has the great mind to actually fake a cough for the first time since the act has begun.

Chapter 4: Bad habit

At quarter to six o’clock every morning except Sunday, Mary exits the door of her mother’s flat and goes to work. Today, at five fifty, she’s still home, turning before the mirror for what seems like the hundredth time.

"You're gonna be late." Lizzie Stark enters her kitchen, dressed in a robe. Mary glances at it, thinking it's silk. It's far too shiny.

"Is that rouge?" the mother asks. Sure enough, the girl's lips are painted an uncharacteristic shade of ruby red. It looks slightly out of place, not quite suiting her clothes—like a mismatched puzzle piece. "Yes. I bought it yesterday." Mary examines herself in the mirror again. "All the girls at the company wear rouge." She gets only a hum in response. The girl puts on her shoes while the owner of the house shuffles around the kitchen.

"I thought you were saving money."

Mary looks down at her feet as she adjusts the bag. "It's just rouge..." she mumbles. Lizzie takes one look at her and sighs. The rouge does look out of place. Maybe it's not her shade. She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, baby." She hugs her daughter tightly. "It's beautiful. I didn't mean to upset you, yeah?" They part, and the older woman takes her face in her hands, caressing her cheekbone with a thumb.

“Have a great day, okay?”

Mary smiles hesitantly, and leaves for work.

“You’re late.” Is the first thing I hear as I enter the office.

“Sorry, Mr. Shelby” I shuffle around, hang my coat and hat, I open my bag and start arranging things. I can’t help but feel his eyes on me. I try to ignore it, to no avail. When he chuckles, I feel it is the last drop.

“What.” I sound angrier than I wanted to. The simmering insecurity I tried to contain all the way from home is seriously aggravated by his reaction. He shakes his head, and I want to punch the smile off his face. He looks at me like you would look at a child saying they will only eat ice cream their entire lives.

He licks his lips before speaking. “You’ve bitten all your lipstick off.” He says softly.

My stomach drops. I cover my mouth and run to the lavatory. Surely, all that remains from my perfect morning makeup is a thin line contouring my lips. The rest is smudged and eaten. I feel like crying as I try to wipe off the remains. I return to the office with clean lips and red eyes. If my boss notices, he doesn’t say anything.

The end of October comes with changes. On the nights I do sleep, I wake up before the sun, and work until after sunrise, in a closed office. Daylight has become an unfamiliar concept that I have since forgotten. It’s six pm, already dark out, when I hear a familiar set of French heels clanking on the wooden floors of the corridor.

“Good evening, Miss Gray.” Mary’s voice echoes across the office. The walls are way too thin here.

“Good indeed. Is Tommy in?” I hear the girl’s chair scrape the floor as she stands up. “Yes, he said not to disturb him but I’m sure he won’t mind you co—“ she doesn’t finish.

“Oh aren’t you easy to look at.” I can hear the grin in Polly’s voice. I stand up, ready to save the poor girl from the tedious, and very uncomfortable, conversation about appearances. Before I reach the door I manage to overhear a little more. “You just finished your moon days didn’t you.”

“H-How’d you know?”

“Us women, we become prettier after menses. It’s a sign for men, ya see. That the oven is ready for the buns.”

If there is a reply, I don’t hear it, because my ears are suddenly ringing and I stop right by the door, because the prospect of Mary, sweet little Mary, making children turns my brain to smoke.

Imagine her, round and full, so full Tommy, so full of you—

Fuck.

The door opens in my face. I see a smiling Polly and a very flushed Mary before me.

“Ya little eavesdropper.” My aunt greets me with a smack on the back of the head. I am still looking at Mary’s very red cheeks. And between those cheeks was her mouth, full lips, allways bitten, all red and raw—

“I was opening the door for you, Pol. You raised me to be a gentleman after all.” I turn away and close the door, because I need to.

“Aye I did. And look how you turned out.”

As I sit, I hear Polly start talking about Boston, but my head is nowhere near Boston right now, and it’s not here either. It’s somewhere far, far away, in a land where everything I want—I need—is coming true.

“Tommy.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah, yeah, we need more men in Boston.” I say dismissively.

The Cheshire grin on Polly’s face tells me the conversation, or rather—the monologue—hasn’t touched on Boston for a long time. I frown.

“Oh fuck off.”

Polly comes out the office laughing like she’s been in a meeting with Charlie Chaplin, and not Thomas Shelby.

Chapter 3: Pony

Thomas doesn’t see Mary, courtsy of his blurring vision from a lack of oxigen going to his head. All he knows is that the man chocking him is turned around and distracted.

Instinct kicks in, and at the given opportunity he slams his head against the unsuspecting opponent. A crack is heard clearly in the almost silent office, and blood springs out from the man’s nose, covering him and Thomas, who is now on the floor taking deep breaths, which he was deprived of earlyer. He gathers himself just in time to move as the attacker lunges for him, only to then slam him against the wall, face first. He grabs his hair and keeps hitting.

A man can live without an arm, or a leg, but he can’t live without his head, and Thomas learned that a long time ago. So that’s where he hits first when the intruder falls to the floor, unconscious. He’s no threat now, passed out and vulnerable, but humans are animals and at the moment Tommy feels the animal instinct to keep going. To keep hitting and punching and punching, until his hands don’t have any skin to show except for one covered in blood and gore. When he feels brains on his knuckles, he has the mind to turn.

And turning, he sees a shocked Mary, not taking her wide black eyes from him for a second.

‘Fuck’

"Mary," his voice is far more gentle than his hands. I still can't look away. I hear rustling, and then his bloody bloody hand is on my white blouse. I push him off.

"No!" I scream and look at the big handprint he left on my fucking white blouse. He straightens.

"Mary," he tries again, reaching out for me.

"Stop!" I scream at him now.

"It's okay sweetheart—"

"Don't!" For every step I take, he takes two. I feel hunted.

"You need to calm down."

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm not gonna hurt you, Mary!" he finally matches my shouting with his own.

"You've ruined my blouse!"

He finally stops reaching for me. I breathe twice before going back to his office. I step over the body on the floor, keeping my shoes off the brain bits—God knows that won't clean off—and take out the napkins stored with the cups for guests. I start wiping at the red stain; it doesn't help much. I click my tongue and look at Tommy standing in the doorway, hands at his sides, looking lost.

"Aren't you gonna... make a call, or something?" I gesture at the mess lying between us on the office floor.

Thomas licks his lips before speaking. "Right." He still stands in the doorway as I rub at the stain. I've finally stopped shaking. The adrenaline leaves my body little by little, and I feel drowsy. He moves only after I stop rubbing and look at him expectantly.

Sucking in a breath, he goes to the telephone and makes a call. I sit down on one of his chairs and look down again at what used to be the face of a man. A little more and there would have been a hole in the floor.

I raise my eyes toward the culprit, observing the bloody hand holding the phone. My eyes trail up to the flexing muscles hidden by the shirt. I try to gauge how big his biceps are from afar. My heart starts beating a little faster, and I feel a rush of blood to two regions of my body: my face and somewhere lower.

We sit in silence for a while, until a man, whom I recognize as Arthur, comes in followed by what I imagine is the cleaning crew.

"Fooking 'ell Tommy," he takes off his hat, takes a look at me, and turns to his brother angrily, "You hadn't the brains to escort the lady out from… the crime scene?"

Tommy has been looking at me since the phone call. Not a glance in another direction. I feared he was reading my mind, so I took to counting. Finally, his eyes leave and I can breathe again.

"Alright then." He stands. "You blokes take care of that. Mary—" I look up from the floor. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

I don't respond. Just stand up and go after him, not before picking my bag off the floor.

In the car, the silence suffocates any ounce of comfort I might have felt. Thomas hasn't asked for my address yet, but he's on the right road so I don't imagine he needs to. He's been to my mother's house. I try not to think about that too much.

"Have you ever killed someone, Mary?" His question confuses me.

"Of course not." My voice comes out a little offended.

"Have you ever been witness to murder before today, then?"

I can't help but chuckle. "I've spent most of my life surrounded by priests and nuns. What do you think?"

His brows raise.

"No, sir." I remember my manners. We pull up to the house. I go to open my door only to be stopped by the man beside me. "Sit down."

He reaches in his left coat pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He takes puffs to light it, then sinks the car in darkness again by closing his lighter. He then reaches in his right coat pocket and takes out his wallet. He pulls out a ten-pound bill.

"For the blouse." I look at the money, then at him, then at the money again.

"I bought this blouse for ten shillings, sir."

"Then get another blouse for ten shillings, and then a pony." he says as he gets out of the car, rounding the front and opening the door for me. He raises his hand in invitation, but he doesn't look at me anymore. He looks only at the wet Birmingham road.

My hand touches his for the first time. I wait for something as I descend. I wait to feel something so intensely, I don't notice the full body shudder Tommy has as we part.

Chapter two: Innocent

 First week at the office Tommy finally understands what Lizzie meant by ‘not a la mode’.

 The day of the interview, Mary wore her church clothes. Modest and neat. Her hair had been done up in a bun at the back of her head and her cheeks were painted with a light pink rouge.

 But clothes get dirty, and hair gets messy, and so on Wednesday morning when Mary came in dressed like she had no roof over her head, Tommy finally understood.

 “You should braid your hair.” he said, seeing the dark curtain cover half of the reception desk as she bent over some papers.

 “Uhh.. I don’t know how to braid it, so I usually don’t.”

 “Who did your hair for the interview?”

 “My mother, sir.”

 “And she can’t do it again?”

 “She’s not in town, sir.” She got nothing but a thoughtful hum in return.

 As her boss disappears through the office doors, Mary thinks about cutting her hair then and there, clean off, she just has to find scissors, or maybe a knife.

 “Here.” her search for sharp objects was interrupted by a loud bang on her desk. She sprung up in her seat as if caught and looked at the one pound bill now in front of her.

 “There’s a salon not that far. You go there, tell them Thomas Shelby sent you, and ask them to be quick, I need you here in half an hour”

 “ I don't belive they'll be able to cut that much hair that fast, sir”

 “Now who said anything about cutting, Mary.” said Tommy, lighting another cigarette. Mary notes again that he smokes like a chimney. His lungs probably get more smoke than air. “No, you don’t cut it. You tell the women at the salon to braid it nicely, something to last you a few days. After that you come back to me, not your mother, understood?”

 “Yes sir.”

 Mary started working at the end of May, and by August she had thought that the sinking feeling she gets in her gut whenever Thomas Shelby speaks her name would disperse. It didn’t. Her hands were always wet with sweat, her fingers twitched uncontrollably, and her breaths never really seemed to calm. She was at war.

  “Mary, come here.”

 Her feet still trembled whenever she walked through that door, like her knees were made of cotton.

 “Here. For the hair.” Tommy extended her a folded banknote between two fingers, like a cigarette. Mary thought about taking it with her mouth. She stood there, looking at his desk, for a bit too long.

 “Something wrong?” she heard him ask. The girl nods her head up and down but doesn’t speak. Tommy waits patiently, smoking away. After a solid minute of silence, her whispering voice sounds out through the empty office, curtsy of the late hour.

 “ Sir, I can’t take your money anymore with a clear conscience.” she started, trembling, looking at her feet like a guilty child. “ The truth is that from the first day, the ladies at the salon refused to take pay, however hard I tried. I have been putting away the money you have given me since, so I can return it in full at any moment.” her eyes were wet and her voice shook.

 Tommy smiled despite himself. This must be the most innocent soul in the whole of Birmingham city, here, before him, almost crying over a couple pounds he had freely giver her.

 “Look at me, Mary.” her name always left a sweet taste in his mouth. He liked saying it, a lot.

 Her big, warm, deep eyes met the cold of his own. Mary felt her stomach drop.

 “I don’t care what you spend that money on, ya hear me? I give it to you, it’s yours.” he leaned back in his chair. “Summer’s ending. Should get yourself a coat. “ he remembered her mother saying the girl gets sick easley.

 “I have a coat ,sir.”

 “Then get another one.”

 They were interrupted by a knock on the door. A man entered. Tall, broad. Tommy looked him up and down, Mary only stood there, looking at her feet. The man still didn’t talk.

 “Mary.” Tommy took his gaze off the intruder, looking at the girl’s hands, clasped behind her back, as if cuffed, and her twitching fingers. “Mary it’s late. You go home now, I’ll lock up.”

 “Yes sir.”

 She hurried out of the office. That looked like a bad man in there. But then again, she worked for a bad man, so it should be no surprise that he works with men like that. Her bag was done in record time. She took her coat and tied her shoe laces, two times, and practically ran out the door, with her hands crossed over her chest.

 She counted the steps home, as to not think about what was going on in that office. At step twenty six she realised her shoulder felt unusually light.

 The bag.

 She forgot her bloody bag, with her keys inside it. Of course. Of course this happens to her today. Her mother’s out again, staying at her lady friend in the country. There’s no one to open the locked door for her at home. She hesitates, but there’s no use. She needs that bag. She runs with her hands crossed. The faster she does this the better.

 She tries to be quiet as she enters the building, and goes over the her chair, where the godforsaken bag stays in place, as if it were innocent. She takes it and turns, only to hear a loud bang in the office right beside her. The door isn’t closed all the way. It’s cracked. She peeks inside.

 There he is, an almost blue Tommy Shelby, hanging against the wall, held up only by the hand of the tall, broad man.

 She drops her bag.

Chapter one: Polluted

Thick, smoke filled air made the office hard to be in for anyone unused to it. Lizzie, who was an irregular presence in the room, mistook the heaviness of her breath as nerves, rather than pollution.

“She’s a good girl Tommy.” she got but a glance in return. “ Fancy school taught her everything a girl could need. Counting. Typing. You need people like that.”

Thomas didn’t respond for a long time, so the woman continued.

“She’d do good in a betting shop. Like I used to. In accounting. Maybe in one of the Cheltenham ones. Cold doesn’t suit her, you know. Got sick often as a child. Further south would be best.”

“Now why would i need a college graduate in a betting shop” the Shelby arranged the already organised supplies on the desk. “She’ll come here”

Pause.

“Here?” the shock in Lizzie’d voice was barely contained. Indignation swam through it.

“Here, at the office” He felt his lungs itch for a cigarette. He stood still. “ I need a secretary. Ally’s pregnant”

“Why would you want my daughter as your secretary?”

“You said yourself. Her fancy school thought her everything. I need people like that.”

“She’s not good with people.”

“I’m sure she’ll manage.”

“Now Tommy-“

“What. Tommy what.” his voice was raised already. It was way too early to be this irritated. “ I need a secretary. You asked me to find a job for your daughter. I did. What else is there”

The woman was visibly distraught. “She’s not…a la mode Tommy. You wouldn’t want her up front, greeting your people.”

“I’m sure you can take care of her wardrobe if need be Lizzie.”

The woman sighed, looking around the room as if searching for the right words on the pristine beige wallpaper.

“New clothes won’t help much.”

“Are you calling your own daughter ugly, Lizzie” he wasn’t as shocked at her as he probably should have been. For all he knew the girl could have been a freak show, god knows he hasn’t ever been privy to her company.

“Not per se. She’s just … she hasn’t blossomed yet. I just feel like a job out back would be more suited”

Her use of words was starting to grate his nerves.

“I don’t have any jobs available out back.”

“That’s why I proposed Cheltenham.”

“Lizzie.”

The echo of his voice finished the conversation for him.

“Mr.Shelby.” Ally was a sturdy woman. She wore a pencil skirt, tight around her tights, with stockings and a simple white blouse. She had wide hips and wide shoulders, and she was scared. Her voice trembled a bit as she addressed the man in charge.

She worked with the man every day and she was scared.

Mary suddenly fears that she will piss herself during the interview.

“Miss Stark is here“

“Lizzie?”

“No, not Lizzie sir, Mary. Miss Mary Stark. For the interview. You said you’d do it during lunch. If you changed your mind I’m sure she wouldn’t mind waiting ,sir.” hurried the blonde.

“Right.” he looked at the drink he just poured himself. Bottle was already half empty and it was only lunch. “Have her in, then.”

He returned back to his chair. It was a leather chair. Genuine. Expensive. Mahogany wood and genuine leather chair. He heard the girl come in.

The air was awfully polluted for an office. She could hardly breathe.

“Mr. Shelby” she prayed her voice didn’t sound as pitched as she heard it to be. He didn’t respond. For a long time he didn’t respond. His eyes scanned her up and down, and his mouth kept shut. For a long time he didn’t respond.

“I’m here to interview for the secretary position, sir.”

For a long time he didn’t respond.

She looked down at herself. Maybe she had already pissed herself and has stunned him with her indecency. Surely not. Skirt dry and shoes clean, she looked back up at him. He caught her eyes directly for the first time. A chill ran up her back, as if caught.

He looked down at his desk then. As if trying to figure out the biggest mystery there ever was. He didn’t respond for a long time.

“Can I sit?” her heels were new. Beautiful, but a size too small. Her feet were killing her ,slowly but surely.

“Yes.” his head snapped back up in her direction. “Yes. Sit.”

She made her way over to the chair on his right. Crossed her legs, folded her skirt neatly under her and sat, hands and bound papers in her lap.

“These-“ her voice screeched. She readjusted. “These are my credentials. My diploma and also proof of past employment, also recommendations….f-from my professors back at-“

“Mary” he stopped her rambling. She looked at him. In her daze she hadn’t noticed how he’d already lit a cigarette, slowly smoking away. Looking at her with the same look one would have seeing an elephant for the first time, brows low, eyes wide, mouth a little open.

“Hmm?” she didn’t trust her voice anymore. His glacial blue eyes studied her like a new language, as if trying to guess what the unfamiliar sounds meant.

“When was the last time you saw your mother?”

She faltered. “ This..morning?” she answered, not sure why.

“ This morning.” he repeated. “And how often do you see her. How often did you see her while you were at school.” his questions didn’t sound like questions, more like phrases from a modern poem. No rhyme nor reason. He smoked like a chimney.

“I’m not sure..?”

“Try for me.”

“ At least once every semester. I came to live with her for the holidays. Every Christmas and Easter.” her voice was so small it was almost a whisper.

“Huh.” his head bobbed up and down in a sort of nod. He didn’t speak for a long time. A sudden inhale followed by his stomping out of the cigarette, barely smoked.

“You’re hired.” he stood up. Walked around her, to the door. His smell hit her. He smelled like coal. She hurried out of her seat when she realised he was opening the door for her. “You’ll work Monday through Saturday. Sunday off. Saturday only half a day. The pay is hourly. You’ll start on Monday, six o’clock.”

“Yes sir.” she hurried out of the door that he was holding, rushing, forgetting her goodbyes.

As she exited the building she realised. She thought about going back and apologising, but thought it to be too childish. She regretted not going back all the way home, her sore feet slowly carrying her in the opposite direction.

Back at the office, Thomas Shelby thought he should recommend Lizzie Stark that she procure a pair of glasses.