(tw for police brutality) So sorry if this sounds like a jarring transition, as I added this bit just before publishing, but before I get into the actual chapter I want to mention something that's really really important—following the decision not to charge Jonathan Mattingly, Brett Hankison, or Myles Cosgrove for the murder of Breonna Taylor, the mayor of Louisville, Kentucky has declared a State of Emergency tonight (9/23/2020) so that the LMPD will have legal grounds to brutalize those who participate in the protests tonight.

If you're financially able, please, please, please donate to the Bail Project and encourage your friends and family to donate as well (if they're in a position to). If police behavior at previous protests indicates anything, they'll likely be using rubber bullets and tear gas on protestors whether or not they're peaceful (and the police have shown no regard for the respiratory pandemic, which is also disproportionately affecting Black Americans) and organizers are going to need as much financial support as they can get to assist with medical care, bail, and legal costs. Breonna Taylor, and all Black women who have been brutalized by the American legal system, deserve justice. Those who seek it for them should not be punished by even more brutality.

If you want to learn more about the case and what you can do, visit standwithbre dot com. Thank you.

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soundtrack: sptfy.com/bbf11

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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟏:
 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬
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"Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body." —1 Corinthians 6:19-20

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When Tommy woke up—sometime around three, according to his pocket watch—he wasn't surprised. His body had rejected sleep with some degree of violence since returning from the war. A sideways glance at Trixie indicated that she did not experience the same predicament; she slept silently, curled into a tight ball, jaw locked.

For a long moment, he didn't move; just laid there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force himself to enjoy the moment of peace and fucking quiet. It didn't last long—soon, the itch in his fingers had him reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the end table. Tommy smoked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and then reflected on his conversation with Trixie from night previous. She'd been so annoyed, so devoutly unafraid of him. He found it equal parts irritating and fascinating. Now, she slept, even with the knowledge that he had a gun within arm's reach. What kind of person did that? They were reciprocal, he realized. Tommy didn't mind Trixie, but he didn't trust her either. On the other hand, she had nothing but disdain to offer, and still trusted him enough to sleep in his presence.

Growing up, when the boys were learning to fight, John and Arthur had always been stronger. But Tommy—Polly had taught Tommy something else to help him make up for the difference. Make them afraid of you, Tommy. And if they're not afraid of you, then you should be afraid of them.

Maybe that held true with the other families; the bigger gangsters down in London, even with Billy fucking Kimber, if he took Polly's word for it. But it couldn't possibly hold true for the woman who was sleeping beside him, who even Finn could probably beat in a fight, who wore those delicate gloves to keep her hands clean from a city coated in ash and dirt and grime. On the surface, she was barely worth a second glance. Then again—neither was Grace, and she'd proven hardly innocent. Tommy had been in the game long enough to know that nobody was as they seemed in Birmingham. If Trixie wasn't afraid of him, then that had to mean something.

When the cigarette was little more than a stub, he lifted his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, ignoring the way his head throbbed from whatever combination of exhaustion, thirst, and a hangover he'd subjected his body to. By now, it was nothing noteworthy, the dull ache all that kept him company.

He left quietly, buckling his holster and buttoning his coat. Even in the state he was in, wearing a nightshirt, vestless, Tommy was more put-together and better aware of the streets than the other men who were out at this hour, and probably a better shot, too. As he opened the door, he cast one last look at Trixie, brazen and unafraid, even in sleep.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Tommy was gone by the time Trixie woke up in the morning. It didn't surprise her—she'd felt the mattress dip under his weight as he'd risen several hours earlier, and even if she'd managed to sleep through the fact, Tommy's reliance on opium to get to sleep indicated some sort of insomnia.

It relieved her to wake up alone—it spared Trixie the awkward conversation and the getting ready and the need to rehash all that had happened the night before.

She spent her morning as she usually would, delighting in James' notable absence as she soaked in the tub. As far as he knew, she was spending the morning with her fiance. If she went back into town, she might even be able to avoid him for the rest of the day.

Even with the relief that came with James leaving her alone, Trixie felt heavy with guilt at the second deal from the night previous. Tommy had tried to buy her out and she'd just...let him. Birmingham was her whole life, and she hadn't put up much of a fight when he asked her to walk away. What if it was a test? What if he'd tell Polly about how easily she'd been persuaded? The thoughts occupied her mind all through the morning, as she dressed and ate and walked the distance to the Garrison. She just needed to get away from home, she just needed to clear her head.

The plan didn't stand for long. Almost as soon as she had stepped inside the pub, Trixie found herself colliding with Grace, who was looking pretty in a flowy white top and a long skirt. She swerved, the tray of drinks in her hand only barely missing Trixie's face as she swung away. "Oh my—Miss Price!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry."

Trixie shook her head, even though her grip on the door behind her was white-knuckled. "It's alright."

Grace deposited the drinks at a nearby booth before rounding back over to greet Trixie a second time. "Sorry again," she apologized. "You caught me by surprise."

"It's no matter," Trixie insisted. "Has it been busy today?" she asked, following Grace back to the counter, where she took a seat at the bar.

"Not too bad for a Saturday," the blonde replied. "Gin?"

"Coffee, please, actually."

Their conversation paused for a bit as Grace fixed Trixie a cup. She'd remembered how Trixie preferred her coffee already, pouring a healthy serving of milk into the cup and skipping the sugar before sliding the saucer and mug across the bar. At noon, the bar was already crowded, men shouting and laughing and drinking, and Trixie couldn't help but feel so strangely out of place in her navy blue dress. It was only a matter of time before James showed up, though, and she forced herself to enjoy the break while it lasted.

"Saturday morning's not a bad shift," Grace remarked. "I'm surprised more people don't go to the cafe instead."

Trixie shook her head. "Italian owned. The men here don't like Italians much."

It was why she steered clear, at least. Hatmaker, fine. Seamstress, alright. Those were women's professions, but the cafe was mostly a front for their less legitimate business, and the men there knew well enough by now whose side Trixie was on. She wasn't safe there.

"Didn't realize there were boundaries in Small Heath," Grace remarked. "You know them well?"

With a shrug, Trixie lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a very polite sip. "After a while, some things just become clear. Competing businesses aren't much for having Shelbys as customers. Or their fiances."

"Makes enough sense," said Grace. "I'm afraid I'm not too familiar."

Trixie smiled. "Pretty girl like you will be fine. As long as you manage to stay neutral, you'll do alright for yourself."

"Birmingham doesn't strike me as a place with many neutral parties," Grace remarked. "There's too much changing to go without choosing a side."

"I didn't choose my side, really," Trixie said. "It was....necessitated by my circumstances." That wasn't wrong, really.

"Is that why you're engaged to Tommy?" she asked. "Something political?"

Trixie smothered a grimace and did her best not to induce some kind of stroke as she replied, "No—no, we love each other."

"He seems like a difficult man."

"He is," Trixie agreed emphatically, before she could stop herself. The night before had hammered it in so much more than she'd already believed. Tommy was difficult to talk to, difficult to be around, difficult to impress, and—probably worst of all—difficult to understand. I like you fine. He'd denied any ill will towards her, and yet made such a point of trying to get her out of his life as quickly as he possibly could. What was liking to a man who bartered in trust? Worthless, she supplied. Totally and completely worthless. But it wasn't like she could tell Grace that. "He's very sweet, deep down," Trixie insisted. "It's just...how hard his life has been...it does things to a person." What was she even saying at this point? Trixie lifted the cup and took a nervous gulp to keep herself from talking any more.

"Haven't we all seen terrible things?" Grace asked. "You lost your parents, I've lost my father. And you're still perfectly decent."

Trixie considered it. Somehow, it wasn't the same. All the wounds she bore might have measured up to what she knew of Tommy, but that was still relatively little. His parents, his time in the war, his life before taking over the Peaky Blinders. She resisted the urge to defend him on principle, even though she knew it would be the fairest thing to do.

"He's decent," she argued half-heartedly, just to say something.

"He called me a whore," Grace volleyed, though she had the nerve to look good-natured about the incident. Trixie wanted to share her similar experience with the man, but she bit her tongue. "I heard a rumor once that he tried to throw you into the canal."

Trixie didn't have a good excuse for that, and frankly, she didn't want to. It wasn't like she agreed with his decision to nearly throw her to her death. So she just shrugged. It was clear that Grace just wanted to find some common ground, weaken whatever bond Trixie had towards Tommy, but it was futile—he'd been pulling away from her with some degree of violence since the day they met.

"How else have you been spending your time?" Trixie asked. "Besides working."

Grace shrugged, making a poor attempt at busying herself with a rag as she wiped the bartop down. "Taking walks. Trying to familiarize myself with the area. I was thinking today I might go to the movies, unless you have a better idea for spending a Saturday afternoon."

"No idea," Trixie said. "I was planning on spending my day at home."

Grace beamed in a way that made Trixie feel like she was in trouble. "You could give me that tour then, finally," she mentioned casually. "Help a fellow lady navigate the streets here."

Trixie felt very little solidarity towards a white cop attempting to ruin her life, despite her sex. Still, she had to give Grace credit: she'd trapped her, and now, it would look rather odd for her to refuse the offer. Plus, as much as Grace managed to stress Trixie out, James was infinitely worse, and if they got out of town, he couldn't hunt her down hold her hostage with a conversation on Epicureanism and Cynicism. "I think if we went—if we started out of town, maybe we could go to the museum in the countryside. Skies are bluer there. We could work our way back, after."

"That sounds lovely," said Grace, taking a deep breath and smiling again, this time more gently. Almost genuine. "My shift ends at 1, we can take the train out."

Trixie had never been on the train, truthfully. Whenever her father took her to the countryside growing up, it was in the back of a horse-drawn caravan. Trains, and cars, and motorcycles were all still foreign to her. What use did she have for them? Still, she agreed. "Alright—the train."

For the rest of the hour, she sipped on her coffee and read through the newspaper. News about the King, news about the races, news about the bonfire, with Tommy's quote notably absent. America was trying to ban alcohol, strangely enough—Trixie laughed at that. BSA strikes had disappeared from the pages, though Trixie doubted that they'd continued, with Campbell in town to reign terror on any suspected communists. By the time she'd reached the news of Monaghan Boy's loss, Grace was untying her apron and gathering her purse from the back office. She called a quick farewell to Harry, and then stepped out from behind the bar.

"I've got just enough money for the fare, I think," she said. "And hopefully for admission to the museum, if it's not too much."

Trixie didn't know how much the museum cost, because she'd never actually been there, so she just nodded and said, "I'm sure it's not too much." Worst case scenario, she'd cover Grace's ticket. Though, she thought bitterly, Grace probably qualifies for some reduced fee by working for the Crown. Not like that was going to help her now, though.

Walking around Birmingham with another woman felt strangely vulnerable. Alone, Trixie was invisible, known only for her association with the Peaky Blinders. With Ada, or Polly, or John, nobody in their right mind would think about approaching her. But with Grace by her side, people were paying attention.

Well, she thought lamely, if anyone did decide to pick a fight, at least Grace probably knew how to fight. In the long run, it wasn't ideal, but for now they were at least pretending to be on the same side.

Grace folded her arms across her torso gently, the strap of her handbag looped around one wrist as she looked up at the buildings around them. "Do the fires ever scare you?"

"I've learned to tune them out," Trixie said. "And to cross the street to avoid them. The flares can burn you badly if you're too close, and they're hard to predict."

"Hard to believe it rains this much and people still manage to sustain them," Grace remarked. She dug around in her purse for a moment before holding something out to Trixie. "Cigarette?"

The tin that Grace had were not like Trixie's cigarettes, or the cigarettes any of the people around her smoked. They were the women's brand—faster burning, and more expensive. It was a scam, but maybe Grace didn't know that. Or maybe she just didn't care. Trixie didn't comment, accepting the cigarette instead, and paying Grace back with a light of her match.

Trixie knew the way to the train station despite never having taken the train herself—she often met messengers at the platform to pick up race results, or on one occasion, had been the designated escort for one of the Peaky Blinders' business suppliers. After a mostly quiet walk, they each bought a ticket, and found their seats on the most recently arrived train heading out of town. There was no real reason to be nervous, Trixie knew, but her heart fluttered in her chest nonetheless. Trains were safe, trains were common, now. And if something bad did happen, she'd take Grace down with her, and she could die knowing it was in service to the Peaky Blinders, the only family she had left.

"I love the train," Grace commented. "It's quite nice to just sit and watch the world go by. Almost feels like a film."

"I've never been on one until now," Trixie revealed, pressing back nervously against the leather seat. "It's not bad, is it?"

"It's faster than a horse," Grace said. "But it's smoother, too. Not as much bouncing around."

Oh, thank God. Trixie got nauseous on horseback most of the time, and the way the movement made her teeth buzz gave her a headache. Smooth was good. Fast, she would just have to deal with.

"I'm not good on horse," Trixie admitted.

"I hear Tommy enjoys the races," Grace said. "Is he much for riding horses, too? Or just watching?"

She flashed back to the night before, to the wreck he'd been after having to execute one of the horses at his stables. Somehow, the terror in his eyes had made him more human than anything else. Yes, she thought to say, Tommy likes horses. But she stopped short—Tommy was fond of riding around town on horseback; surely Grace would've seen him by now. Surely, despite everything Trixie had said about Tommy being a businessman, Grace had put together that he made his money in the races.

"He likes horses, yes," Trixie said, trying to come up with something to supplement Grace's existing knowledge. "He spends quite a bit of time at the stables. I think it helps him get his mind off of things." Whether or not that was true, Trixie hadn't a fucking clue, but it sounded right. "Do you like horses?"

"I love horses," Grace said. "My mother taught me to ride when I was growing up."

"Is she still in Galway?" Trixie asked.

Grace nodded. "My brothers, too. Paul and Henry. They're twins."

"How old?"

"Seventeen, about. Paul's gone into the Church, Henry's trying to open a bakery, I think. Or a bar. He changes his ambitions so often it's difficult to keep up."

"I wish I'd had siblings," Trixie confessed.

The train whistled, and then lurched forward suddenly—er, backwards, actually. Trixie glanced out the window and realized she'd chosen a seat facing the city, which meant that the train car was dragging her backwards into the countryside.

Grace had been right about the smoothness—the train picked up speed easily and began gliding along the tracks almost like they were ice, but the speed wasn't all that notable, once they'd hit a steady pace, and Trixie slid forward a bit from the acceleration evening out.

Strategically, it was probably not a good idea to have a back to her destination. Trixie's view of Birmingham was clear, smoke plumes and crowds and horses and all, but she didn't need to know what was happening back home, when what lay beyond the city's boundaries was so much more unfamiliar. Which of them had sat down first? She strained to remember, but it hadn't felt worth noting at the time. It wasn't out of the question to think that Grace had done this on purpose.

"Siblings are a lot of energy," Grace said delicately. "Half the time, they're your best friends in the world."

"And the other half?"

She shrugged. "Other half you want to kill them."

That seemed more than fair, if the Shelbys were anything to go off of—but then again, they were hardly a typical example of anything. "Tumultuous," Trixie remarked.

"The best things in life are," Grace concurred.

They spent the rest of the train ride in quiet that Trixie couldn't categorize as easy or uncomfortable. Grace seemed content enough to stare out the window, and soon, Trixie had also discovered that watching the trees fly by was quite hypnotizing. The temptation to relax, though, was easily disrupted by hard-to-ignore fact that they were rivals in the middle of a massive police operation.

Under different circumstances, Trixie wondered, would they have ever been friends? There seemed to be something genuine about Grace's kindness towards her, however strategic it might be. Maybe she thought Trixie was being held hostage by the Shelbys; maybe she wanted to rescue her. Even for Trixie, it was difficult to peel back her own lies and comprehend how she felt about Grace. Was it loneliness that drove her to reveal honest parts of herself? Or did she actually find her company enjoyable?

By the time they arrived at the museum, the sky had lightened into a pale blue that almost made Trixie want to cry. Round, white clouds meandered across the sky lazily, beautiful in a way that almost felt impossible. It was so distracting, in fact, that she nearly fell face-first off the train as they were disembarking—Grace had needed to grab onto her shoulder to steady her.

Even entering the museum created separation that made Trixie grieve the blue sky outside. The elaborate mosaic ceilings were hardly boring, thousands of pieces of glass fabricating a scene of angels above them, but it was nothing compared to the real thing.

"Are you a fan of art?" Grace asked.

"I don't know much about it," Trixie replied. "I haven't seen many paintings in person." Luca, though, Luca had been a fanatic, rambling always about Caravaggio and Michaelangelo, beaming with a mix of pride over his heritage and awe at their talents. He would've loved this. If they had been able to afford it, she would've brought him here just to hear him gush about the statues and pictures in terms she didn't understand.

"Did your school never bring you here when you were growing up?"

"I didn't go to school," Trixie replied. "I wasn't allowed. My father taught me to read, and the rest, I learned from books I picked up."

She didn't seem to know how to respond to that, so she just nodded, hanging her coat to the coat check attendant. Trixie warily followed—what an odd job to have. She'd never seen anything like it. Were the wealthy so delicate they couldn't hang their own jackets?

As they weaved through the museum, mostly in silence, Trixie stared up politely at the large oil paintings of Christ, angels, saints. Eventually, they reached a wing devoted solely to marble statues, faces carved from stone in a way that almost made it look soft, like she might reach out for their hands and find them warm.

They reminded her of Tommy, she realized suddenly. He was more dead than he should've been, and these figures here, before her, were more alive than should've been possible. Their sharp faces, their empty eyes, they elicited the same kind of reverence she had to wrestle back.

"You like that one?" Grace asked, and Trixie started, yanking her eyes away from the statue so suddenly she felt like something had snapped. She hadn't even realized that she'd locked onto any one of them in particular—this was Roman, a man staring off at some fixed point behind her. It had to be six feet tall, the contours and bends of his muscles highlighted by the chandelier overhead, the curves of his lips and the cut of his jaw painfully familiar. Maybe it was fine for her to be staring at it so immodestly—or, maybe it would've been, if the man in the statue wasn't completely nude. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a dozen different passages about shame coming to mind. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.

But desire wasn't—that wasn't what she felt. It couldn't be.

"What?" she asked dumbly, blinking as she comprehended Grace's question. You like that one? Did she like that one? A face like Tommy's, and a body that was so shamelessly out in the open. Trixie resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands out of embarrassment. "Oh," she started, when she realized she'd been silent for quite some time. "It's just—striking, is all."

"They're quite beautiful," Grace agreed.

Beautiful wasn't the right word for something that unnerved her so much. Trixie gritted her teeth against the way it seemed to pull so brutally at her stomach. The stark white of the marble almost made her eyes ache, and yet, she couldn't make herself look away. It was more terrifying than anything.

"It's something, certainly," Trixie murmured. She couldn't bear to look at it any longer, so she pulled away from it. "Well," she asked, turning towards Grace. "What else is there to see?"

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

After hours of carefully avoiding eye contact with every portrait they passed, Trixie had allowed Grace to lead the pair back to the train station and into town. The plan was to walk for a bit around the Italian Quarter, after, but they'd gotten sidetracked talking about their childhoods, and wandered into the Garrison instead.

Public drunkenness was hardly ladylike, but the pair were three drinks down each and beginning to grow giggly at the stories they were telling. Grace, now, was recounting in extreme detail the time she lost her virginity. A boy in school, who had then attempted to propose to her after graduation, only to leave down suddenly after she refused. When Grace raised her eyebrow and gestured to Trixie, Trixie blanched.

"I don't suppose I can tell that story," Trixie said. "It never happened."

Grace gasped, and then covered her mouth with her hand, laughing into her palm. "I'm sorry—just—I didn't think Tommy would be the kind to remain celibate until marriage."

Oh...oh no. Trixie had momentarily forgotten that she and Tommy were supposed to be engaged. She'd been so careful about the rest of the things she'd shared, only really talking about her childhood and her teenage years, but that had just...slipped out. And it didn't make sense at all, really, because there was no way that Tommy was alright with killing in cold blood but conservative when it came to sexual morality—it was so ridiculous it almost made her laugh, but the,n Trixie was suddenly thinking about it in a way that made her want to dunk her brain into a bucket of soap but also made her pulse start flying. He had such an ego, such confidence, that he had to be good at it. Or at least have done it a lot. Oh—for the love of Christ. She needed to stop thinking about this.

"He has...before," she clarified, narrowing her eyes and willing the image out of her mind. "Before he met me." Technically not false, she presumed. Trixie was just letting her believe that Tommy also hadn't in the months since she met him. "I was the one who wanted to wait."

"Well, priest for a father," Grace surmised, as if that explained the whole thing.

Before Trixie could say anything in response, the pub doors flew open. The crowd seemed to collectively jump, and she straightened in her chair to see if Tommy had come in—it wasn't Tommy, though, but a man with a rather odd half-mustache and a miserable-looking middle part, flanked at either side by two men in bowler hats, brandishing pistols.

"Holy shit," said Harry, from behind the bar.

"Is there any man here named Shelby?" he called, accent thick.

Nobody moved, though Trixie knew the answer to that question was a resounding yes. The sudden commotion had sobered her up somewhat, and now she was sitting stiffly on the barstool and eying the newcomers carefully. Grace was staring at her sideways, but Trixie didn't meet her eyes. She was too focused on the most present threat.

The man lifted his pistol into the air and fired a warning shot. The bullet lodged itself in the ceiling, sending chips of paint toppling down into the crowd. Trixie jumped at the sudden noise, but she noticed that Grace hadn't.

"I said," he shouted, "Is there any man here named Shelby?"

Trixie would blame the alcohol for her slow-thinking in putting it all together, but she realized with a start that this man had to be Billy Kimber. Who else had Tommy gone and pissed off recently? Well—who else had Tommy pissed off, who could also afford to dress in a tailored three-piece suit and be accompanied by two armed musclemen?

The door to the Shelbys' private room swung open, and Tommy strolled out, looking irritated, with his brothers not far behind. "Harry, get these men a drink," he demanded. With a wave of his arm, he added, "Everybody else, go home."

Trixie swallowed. This was her business—she couldn't just go home. She was also drunk, and with James lurking nearby, ready to lecture her patronizingly, she was hardly enthused by the idea of seeing him.

So instead, in the commotion, she hooked her arm through Grace's and hopped off the stool, ducking below the back of the bar and moving into the office. She tossed a look over her shoulder, out of habit, and met Tommy's eyes. He knew she was listening.

Following Trixie's lead, Grace sat with her back to the cabinets. If, for whatever reason, Kimber decided to start shooting, this was the safest part of the room.

"Who's that?" Grace asked, peering around the corner of the office to the scene playing out in the Garrison.

Trixie grabbed onto Grace's wrist and dragged her back. She should've played dumb, but the answer had already materialized so fluently on her tongue, a realization of her own as much as an answer to Grace's question. "Billy Kimber," she said. "That is Billy Kimber."

"Billy Kimber...who runs the races?" Grace asked.

Trixie nodded. She could make out their conversation outside if she focused hard enough. Chair legs screeched as they were pulled across the floor. Even this far removed, Trixie could envision the situation—Tommy and his brothers, Billy and his guards. They'd need to sit at the same table, six seats shoved tightly together for equity in the sake of negotiation. It never quite looked as natural as the Shelby men seemed to think it did, but that hardly ever stopped them.

"Some Diddicoy razor gang...I thought to myself, 'So what?'" Kimber was saying. "But then you fuck me over."

Well, that they had. Tommy seemed to make a habit of humiliating anyone who underestimated him.

"So now you have my undivided attention."

"What does he want here?" Grace asked.

Trixie resisted the urge to shush her, remembering the woman she was supposed to be right now. "I think Tommy may owe him money," she said.

"Isn't Tommy quite well-off?" Grace asked.

At this point, she was just prying, but Trixie humored her anyway. "Sometimes Tommy gets into debt because he doesn't feel like paying someone back."

"Who's the boss?" Kimber asked.

A beat of silence. "Well, I'm the oldest." Arthur.

Something muffled, and then John burst out accusingly, "Are you making fun of my brother?"

"Right, so...he's the oldest, you're the thickest, and I'm told the boss is called Tommy, so I'm guessing that's you."

Trixie furrowed her brow, crawling over Grace's legs rather inelegantly, before standing up and pressing her back to the door. A curtain obscured her view out, nailed to the top of the window and then again to the bottom, but the fabric hung loosely, and there was a little give for her to pull it back and peer outside.

"Trixie," Grace hissed, looking slightly panicked. Trixie ignored her. Outside, Tommy was smoking a cigarette casually as if Billy Kimber wasn't able and willing to shoot him. That was just Tommy, Trixie thought. Any situation that warranted fear, he confronted with steely calm.

"I want to know what you want," Tommy said.

"There were suspicious betting patterns at Kempton Park," a bespectacled man at Kimber's side shared. "A horse called Monaghan Boy. He won by a length twice and then finished last with three-thousand bets placed on him."

Well, that certainly added up. Trixie's eyes slid over to Grace, who was also listening intently to the conversation. She wasn't sure, exactly, how she would explain this to the other woman, but it wasn't the biggest problem they were facing at this exact moment.

"Which one am I talking to?" Tommy asked, his voice a low rumble. "Which one of you is the boss?"

The bespectacled man surveyed the table. "I am Mr. Kimber's advisor and accountant."

Trixie scowled. She was Tommy's accountant, but she was cowering in the back room instead of negotiating. It was for the sake of the act, she knew, but that was little comfort for the bitter taste that suddenly filled her mouth.

"And I'm the fucking boss," Kimber asserted, standing up in his chair. With his scarf still swinging around his neck, it was hard to find him intimidating. "Okay, right, end of parley. You fixed a race without my permission." Trixie flinched at the slurs that followed, words melting together as he waved his finger around in accusation. If this was how he did business, then maybe Tommy was right. Maybe he was there for the taking—after all, if he was this fucking volatile, she didn't imagine he would be all too successful in building trust within the community. "I am Billy Kimber!" he shouted. "I run the fucking races! You fixed one of them, so I'm going to have you shot against a post!" Or maybe not. Maybe his volatility was exactly why he wasn't to be trifled with.

Out of surprise, Trixie found herself looking to Grace; the only thing that comforted her was that Grace had done the same, and now the two of them were sharing a wide-eyed stare.

Back outside, Kimber was shoving his seat back and storming out, only for Tommy to cut him off and toss something his way. "Look at it," he said, lacking his usual authority. "That's my name on it. It's from the Lee family."

Trixie sighed. It was getting difficult to keep track of everyone Tommy was making enemies with. She hoped to God they never got around to meeting each other.

Tommy's voice was so low that Trixie couldn't make it out, just the sturdy line of his shoulders, the way his body held itself with such assuredness, even in the face of a threat on his life. The room was stilled with consideration, Tommy's silvertongue stalling as he gave Kimber a reason to reconsider. And then—like a bullet through a window—Kimber tossed something back at Tommy and ordered, "Pick it up."

All at once, John and Arthur rose from their seats, sending their chairs clattering over, and when they moved, Kimber's men stepped forward, pulling out their guns. In the middle of it all, Tommy bent over, waving a dismissive hand at the table as he picked whatever it was up from the floor.

Kimber turned on his heel and stormed out the door, his men following quickly behind him. "Trixie?" Grace asked. "Trixie? What's going on?"

But her voice barely registered. Because across the Pub, while John and Arthur were yelling at the door, Tommy was staring straight at her through the window. On his face he wore something like shame—shame that he'd capitulated to Kimber's demands, shame that his men had witnessed it, shame that she had witnessed it.

His stare, like the statue she'd been staring at this morning, unnerved her and thrilled her in a way that made her want to flinch and lean in all at once. It wasn't a decision she was ready to make. So Trixie dropped the curtain instead, letting Tommy disappear into the creases of the red fabric.

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A/N: Hello everyone and thank you for reading! I apologize if this chapter was a bit slow, I realized there were some things I needed to start setting up for future chapters, and having Trixie spend the day hanging out with Grace seemed like a good way to get them out there. I'm also sorry that this chapter is delayed—school got very busy over the weekend and I went kind of bonkers trying to finish all my assignments and then I didn't have time to wrap up my writing until today.

Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well if you feel so compelled and I will see you soon for the first chapter of episode three! :)

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Chapter 12 / Liabilities

"You see, Miss Price, I have the feeling you've been lying to me."

Trixie blinked at him dumbly. "And why ever would you think that?"