13

The Shelby Manor was much larger than she had remembered it to be. Then again, during the only evening that she had spent there, too much had happened to allow her to admire the decadent yet somehow modest building. Up close, from the window of the car that rolled up onto the round gravelled driveway, Ana could see the vast extension of land that he owned that ventured out from the stables.

From across the drive, a familiar figure walked with his hands in his pockets, head down and eyes shaded by his Peaky cap. Ana felt herself sigh. It seemed like everywhere she went, he happened to be there too. But he was a Peaky Blinder, she reminded herself. It was only natural.

Ana stepped out of the car, her feet crunching audibly against the pebbles of the ground, though not loud enough for him to hear. Walking forward slowly, she pulled her coat to her chest, wrapping her hands on the inside. A chill had erupted up her spine, despite the clammy palms that scratched against the fur lining, mixing sweat into the soft decoration.

"John Shelby," she shouted across the space between them, her voice sounding more croaky than she would have liked.

The man turned, his eyebrows raised and, like Ana, he seemed unsurprised when his gaze met hers, his blue eyes like lightning against a navy sky. Smiling, he waited for a moment, letting her join his side before beginning to walk toward the house once again.

"So you're following me now then?" He asked, as he turned back to cast her a single glance.

She felt herself blushing, though she had noticed herself doing it a number of times recently and brushed the red tint of her cheeks off as the different English wind. On her own face, she held a distinct smile, her teeth flashing cheekily as she answered him.

"Why wouldn't I? You're a very handsome man." Ana shrugged as she joked.

"Funny," John laughed, the sound coming out jokingly rather than bitterly as she had imagined. He teased, "I've always known you'd think I'm handsome."

"Oh, I joked about one think. Maybe I was joking about the other?" Ana suggested, her tone of voice sounding unfamiliar, even to her own ears. "Or perhaps I wasn't joking at all. You'll never know."

Ana had moved in front after catching him off guard. They moved swiftly up the steps, John now following her to the wide, oak doors, the dim hallway of the reception room clear in view through the dusty glass of it. She felt his presence drift past her as he hurried to gain a few steps, twisting so he walked backwards, his heels never missing a jump.

"What if it was you doing the following?" he said, his voice light as he glanced behind him, prying his eyes away from her gaze. "This is my brother's house."

They reached the end of they all steps, Ana's dress swaying around her legs as she stopped shortly, dodging around her pale ankles. She slid around him, the lace of her sleeves tickling at the edge of his suit as she manoeuvred his playful stance.

From here, the house seemed smaller, the row of spotless Georgian windows not nearly as large as those of her old home. Out from manicured grass, ornate sandstone covered the earth, much fancier than she would ever deem necessary. Though even so, she couldn't see how the likes of her Aunt and Uncle could look down on Tommy Shelby for his lack of old money, especially when they were borderline poor, and had barely a penny to their current name.

"And it was my house the other day," she reminded him, before joking. "No need to joke and call me beautiful."

They walked into the house, the doors being opened by a maid, her features pretty and petite but rather mouselike. She scurried away, her footsteps light and inaudible, leaving them alone in the extensive hallway, the Grecian statue handing against the wall glaring at them as if scrutinising each of their movements and looks.

John had moved to step in front of her, this time without the playfulness in his step. His fair face was void of a grin, instead holding a serious look that startled Ana at first. An arm was held to the side, touching her gently on her waist to the opposite side of him, silently asking her not to move forward.

Ana stopped willingly, her breath the only sound that she could hear from the room. It felt larger, all of a sudden, than when she had stepped in, yet at the same time, she felt giant with it, as if her and John were the only two there, easily filling the space with their complex looks and unspoken thoughts.

"And what if I want to call you beautiful?" The words just barely came out from upon his breath, slipping plump lips smoke from a cigarette.

Ana's own breath hitched in her throat, until it was coming passed her lips in short spurts, quick enough to be in time with her rapid heart beat. Why did she feel like this? She didn't want to feel so flustered, so off guard and so affected. Had this been how John had felt the other night outside of her house?

Had he meant to make her feel like this too, just as she unknowingly had to him? But, no, he wanted a reaction out of her, whether it be for fun or another odd reason. He had said it on purpose.

Ana thought of her sister, of her family. What would they say? She was now more than ever, a Petrovna, of course, with her mother home and her Aunt finally trusting her. And a Petrovna didn't not get caught up in such a thing. A Petrovna would not be caught up on such meaningless words. Meaningless, she thought, trying to convinced herself of the fact.

"You don't want to do that, John Shelby," she warned him lowly.

Her eyes shifted to stare straight ahead, pin-picking the tiny details of the wall paper across from her. It was dark, navy, just like something her grandmother would have in her tea room. But John's voice pulled her from her calculated distractions too effortlessly.

"Why not?" He pressed, his eyes brows furrowing and darkening his bright eyes.

Ana's jaw clenched as she breathed in. His scent filled her nose and she wanted to cough it out, sending it away with a splitter, but she didn't, with knowledge that he was too close to rid herself of it. John smelled like whiskey and cigarettes, just as he had when she first had encountered him. Yet now as she had known him and was so close to him, she could smell damp wood, somehow of a forest in winter, rubber capping of his shoes and the sharp scent of burning coal.

They had backed into the wall by the front doors without meaning to, Ana's back placed firmly against the dark paint. Her hands were encased behind her, not daring to snake forward. Her eyes had drifted as unwillingly as her feet, placing themselves across his jawline, soaking in the sight of the light stubble on his chin and bitten marks on his lips.

"I am Petrovna," she said, her voice attempting to be strong but wavering still.

She felt a pressure on her waist. His hand had wrapped fully around her waist now, his thumb wrapping itself in the dark material of her dress. His breath had deepened too, in clear annoyance, as she felt the hot air waft against her forehead, playing with the whisper of hair that framed her face.

"What has that got to do with anything? You told me you had no family to trust," he said, his voice strained and quiet, as if warding off a shout.

How can I trust a stranger when I can't even trust my own family? I am Petrovna in name only.

She had said those things. She remembered it clearly, the feeling of the gun in her hand and threat of the man in front of her. So much had changed in so little time. Once she had been characterised with her lack of trust, and now... Now she had too much of it.

John has stepped forward even more, his hand reaching to place itself on her cheek, lifting her chin and tracing his finger against her sking and toward her mouth. They were parted, the ghost of a gasp still on her lips.

"I don't see a Petrovna," he said, his eyebrows downcast and eyes searching her face for any small hint of emotion, of the understanding that she herself hand spoke of. "I only see Ana."