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Chapter Text

Birmingham, March 19, 1922

The scent of damp coal and cold tobacco filled the air, seeping through the slightly open window of the small room. The walls, yellowed by time and smoke, seemed to shrink under the dim light of the oil lamp perched on the rickety table.

Amara slowly closed the door behind her, the sound of wood echoing in the thick silence. Tommy Shelby stood there, in the middle of his meager apartment, his long coat falling to his ankles, his usual cap absent. He had not come as the leader of the Peaky Blinders, nor as a businessman. No, he had come as a man. As a coward.

She crossed her arms over her chest, scrutinizing him, waiting for him to speak. Something in his posture the slight movement of his jaw, the way he lightly touched the cigarette between his fingers told her he wasn’t here with good news.

He took a deep breath before finally saying, in a calm, almost detached voice:

— I’m getting married, Amara.

Her heart skipped a beat. She remained motionless, unable to move, unable even to breathe properly. The words hung in the air, bouncing off the walls, echoing in her head like the sound of a gunshot.

— To Grace, he added after a moment.

She blinked. Just once. As if that could erase what he had just said. But no. He was there, real, and so were those words.

A burning sensation rose in her throat, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from breaking. Her gaze locked onto his, searching, hoping to see hesitation, doubt, regret. But Tommy Shelby was a man who revealed nothing.

So, she slowly nodded, fighting against the threatening wetness in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was low, controlled, but each word was a knife driven into her own flesh.

— I appreciate that you came all this way to tell me you’re marrying someone else.

Tommy sighed, looking away for a brief moment before meeting her gaze again.

— Don’t make this harder than it already is.

Amara let out a laugh without warmth, without amusement. A bitter, painful laugh. She crossed her arms tighter, as if to protect herself.

— Harder for you? she asked, raising an eyebrow. Tell me, Tommy, what exactly is hard for you?

She took a step forward, her dark eyes piercing into his.

— You made your choice. You lost nothing.

She placed a trembling hand against her chest, where her heart was beating too fast, too hard.

— I did.

Tommy clenched his jaw, his throat contracting slightly, but he didn’t respond immediately. He just watched her, as if searching for the right words, as if trying to soften the blow. But there were no words for this.

— Amara… You and I… It was never possible.

— And why is that? she cut in sharply.

He didn’t answer right away. But she already knew. She had known from the start.

— Say it, Tommy, she insisted. Because I’m Black? Because a woman like me could never be the wife of a man like you?

The silence was an answer in itself. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t make excuses.

She let out a shaky breath, briefly looking away.

— It’s not just that, Amara, he finally said, his voice low.

She scoffed, but it was a broken sound, a muffled cry.

— Oh. Of course. There’s also the fact that I’m not a state spy, that I don’t have white skin and light eyes. That I’m not the kind of woman society would accept by your side.

She shook her head, fighting against the sting of tears.

— You should have told me from the start, Tommy. You should have told me I never stood a fucking chance against her.

He briefly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again.

— It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

— But it did.

The silence between them was a chasm. A void filled with what could have been—and everything that would never be.

Amara took a step back, as if to put distance between them, between her pain and him.

— You didn’t have to come, she finally said, her voice softer, more tired. But you did. Why? To ease your conscience?

He hesitated.

— Because I owed you that.

She stared at him, fighting the urge to scream, to cry, to hit him.

— You owed me nothing, Tommy. Nothing at all.

She looked away, and this time, she didn’t even try to hide the tears rising in her eyes.

— Get out of my house.

He didn’t move right away. Maybe he was waiting for her to say something else. But she remained silent, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the wall.

Finally, he put his cap back on, adjusted his coat, and walked to the door.

Before leaving, he paused for a moment, as if he were about to speak, as if he still hesitated. But there was nothing left to say.

So, without another word, Thomas Shelby left the apartment, leaving behind the scent of cold tobacco, the weight of silence, and a broken heart.

Amara collapsed to the floor as soon as the door shut behind him. Her body, which she had held upright with almost inhuman strength, gave way under the weight of her pain. Her knees hit the hard wooden floor, but she felt nothing. Nothing except the cold emptiness gnawing at her chest.

She had kept up a strong front in front of him, fighting to keep her voice steady, to keep her gaze from faltering under his. But now that he was gone, she couldn’t control anything anymore. A sob escaped her broken, muffled in the solitude of her tiny apartment.

How could he do this to her? How could the man she knew, the man she loved, betray her like this?

This wasn’t the Tommy she knew in private. Not the one who would sit across from her in the betting shop late into the night while she tallied the accounts. Not the one who spoke to her in a low voice, elbows resting on the desk, a forgotten glass of whiskey beside him, lost in thought.

Not the one who watched her in silence as she lined up numbers on paper, before breaking the quiet with a confession dragged from the depths of his soul.

— I can’t sleep, Amara.

She still remembered the tone of his voice that night. Tired. Almost vulnerable. She remembered the way he had sunk into the chair across from her, rubbing his forehead, weighed down by the burden of his growing empire and the ghosts of war.

— The tunnels? she had murmured without looking up, focused on her calculations.

He hadn’t answered, but she had known. Of course, she had known.

And yet, he had stayed there, with her. Because in those silent nights, when he couldn’t sleep and she was too absorbed in numbers to dwell on her own wounds, they had found each other.

But that Tommy… The one who confided in her about his insomnia, the one who found a strange peace just watching her work… That Tommy no longer existed.

Or maybe he never had.

Maybe she had only ever been a temporary refuge, a distraction in the chaos of his rise. A lie she had told herself to avoid seeing the truth.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and this time, she let them fall. She didn’t need to pretend anymore. She didn’t need to act like it didn’t shatter her.

Tommy Shelby was getting married.

And it wouldn’t be to her.

At that thought, another sob tore from her throat. A raw, strangled sound ripped from the depths of her chest.

She had been there when everything fell apart because of Grace and the guns. She had picked up the pieces when he discovered the truth. Because Grace Burgess, with her blonde hair and big, soft eyes, had worked for Campbell all along. Because she had betrayed him.

And yet, he was choosing her.

Amara clenched her fists against the floor, her nails digging into her palms.

It was she who had told him that what he had done for Danny Whizz-Bang was the right choice. That he had saved him from certain death by staging his execution rather than leaving him in the hands of those who did not understand.

She remembered that night the tension in the betting shop, the way Tommy had scrutinized her face after telling her the story. As if he were searching for absolution he would never find.

“Tell me I did the right thing, Amara.”

And she had.

It was also she who had told him to be gentle with Ada when Freddie Thorne had to leave Birmingham. When the police, under Campbell’s orders, had tracked his every move. It was she who had told Tommy that Ada was much stronger than he thought, but that she needed her brother, not her boss.

It was she who had watched over Polly when she had lost hope, speaking to her about the children she had lost, accompanying her to church when even whiskey was no longer enough to dull the pain.

It was she who baked little cakes for Finn, simply because he loved them, because he was still just a child in the midst of all this chaos.

It was she who helped John with his children before Esmee became part of their world. She, who told them bedtime stories, who made sure they ate, who made sure they laughed despite their mother’s absence.

It was she who tended to Arthur when he came back from the ring, covered in blood, unable to distinguish pain from rage. Because he drank too much, because he wanted to prove he was still strong when he was, in fact, destroying himself from the inside.

Not her.

Not Grace.

A burning sensation rose within Amara, a bitter mix of anger and sadness. She wanted to scream, to shout, to break everything around her.

But what was the point?

Tommy Shelby was getting married.

And she... she was nothing more than a ghost among her own.

The woman and the little girl inside her were broken. Two parts of herself, torn apart, shattered into pieces by the cruel reality she had refused to see for far too long.

She had lived in a fairy tale. Or at least, she had wanted to believe in one. Like the ones her late mother used to tell her when she was a child.

A knight and a princess.

The knight rescues the princess, protects her against all odds. And the princess, grateful, marries him, takes care of him, and bears him many children. A strong love, simple, obvious.

Oh, how she had dreamed of that love as a child.

But the princess wasn’t Black.

No.

She was white, blonde, with big, innocent light-colored eyes. Like Grace.

And the knight… he was dark-haired, with piercing blue eyes, a gaze both hard and captivating. Like Tommy.

Even fairy tales had predicted it.

She had never truly belonged in this story.

And yet, she had dared to believe.

She had been naive. So naive. And now, she was paying the price. Every thought, every memory, every glimmer of light that had once illuminated her heart crumbled under the weight of this betrayal. She blamed herself. She blamed herself for believing she could change the rules of the game, that she could be the princess, that she could have a role in a story that was never meant for her.

She could almost hear her mother’s voice, soft yet firm, resonating in her head, as if she were still there, as if the words of the late matriarch were trying to make her understand, once again, what she had failed to see.

“I told you, Amara, my daughter. You trust too quickly. You give too much to people who don’t give you enough in return.”

Those words burned in her mind, echoing like a truth she had refused to see. Why had she believed Tommy would be different? Why had she thought that love could heal the scars of the past, erase the walls of society that separated them?

Amara let herself go, her head resting against the cold floor, tears flowing freely now. She sobbed harder, as if each drop of sadness was a weight she had to release in order to breathe.

“I’m sorry, Mama…”

The words slipped between her sobs, broken and muffled by pain.

“I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for believing, sorry for loving, sorry for giving a part of herself to someone who was never even capable of seeing her, of understanding her. She was sorry for believing in promises that Tommy had never been able to keep.

She continued to cry on the floor, for long minutes, lost in the haze of pain and anger. Time seemed to have stopped, an eternity spent in a void where she was nothing more than a shadow, a broken woman, her head filled with confused thoughts. Her sobs were the only sound breaking the silence of the apartment.

She had no answers, no solutions, only an endless torrent of tears. She stared ahead without really seeing, absorbed by the weight of the moment, each thought drowning in bitterness. After a long while, she slowly turned, lying on her back, arms stretched out, her head resting against the hard floor. Her afro, usually well-kept, now mingled with the dust on the ground a dust she fought against every day, a battle she waged against the months of neglect in an apartment she had never truly wanted to call home.

But what did the dust matter now?

She had nothing better than a stone-cold apartment, a prison of solitude where she was merely a shadow of herself. And stone, she knew, crumbled over time. But right now, she had nothing else to do but let herself crumble too.

Her thoughts drifted to Polly. Polly… She wasn’t sure if Polly knew what had just happened. But Amara knew one thing: Polly wouldn’t let Tommy get away with it so easily. Not with the strength she had, not with the loyalty she carried for her family.

Polly hated Grace. She knew it; everyone knew it. Grace was nothing but a traitor, a spy who had played a double game with Tommy and the Shelbys. But Amara also knew that Polly, at times, hated Tommy or at least, what he was becoming. Tommy, the ruthless businessman who had made choices that had marked them all, even if it meant putting the family in danger. And if Polly had her reasons for acting that way, she wouldn’t forgive him for this marriage.

This marriage… It was going to unleash a world of unspoken words and resentment. The Shelby women had their own ways of seeing things, and Polly would surely be no exception. Tommy and Grace’s wedding wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms far from it.

A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.

A part of her hoped Polly would be against this marriage, but not just for reasons of family loyalty or hatred toward Grace. No, a part of Amara hoped Polly would oppose this marriage because she cared about her Amara. Because she saw the honor and dignity in her, not just her place in this world of conflict, betrayal, and power games.

She recalled a conversation they had had two years ago, on a rainy afternoon under a heavy, gray sky. They had gathered over tea in Polly’s small kitchen. Ada had joined them, and as always, the conversation had drifted to Ada’s motherhood, to Karl, and to the children she dreamed of having.

The women had talked about what they desired for their future, about what it meant to be a mother in such an unstable world. And Amara, listening to their discussion, had allowed herself to dream too, to imagine a life where she could one day have children with Tommy.

She had seen herself, in a small corner of her mind, sitting at the breakfast table, preparing food for him and their children, laughing and exchanging knowing glances, like the ones they had shared on those silent nights in the betting shop.

She had seen herself with a rounded belly, her arms full of babies, Tommy by her side, strong and protective.

She had seen herself chasing away nightmares, soothing their child’s cries in the middle of the night.

And she had believed him. Because she wanted to believe him.

Or was it later? When he offered her the accounting of Shelby & Co.? Amara had volunteered, offering to take on the role in addition to her usual tasks. But Tommy had declined. No, not now. She had told herself that maybe he didn’t trust her enough.

But then, without warning, he had given her the job.

Was it a sincere decision, or simply a way to make up for what had happened with Billy Kimber?

And that day… had he kissed her when he offered her the position? Or had it been purely professional? She could no longer remember for certain. Had she imagined the glances, the heavy silences filled with meaning?

Tommy Shelby was not a man who let his emotions show easily. But with her, sometimes, she thought she saw something.

Something deeper.

Something real.

How had he felt when he realized she had betrayed him? When she had left for America, disappearing from his life without another word?

She had no idea. Because he had never told her.

She hadn’t even heard of his return from him directly. No. She had heard it through whispers.

The murmurs in the streets of Birmingham, the hushed conversations between women in the markets.

"Tommy Shelby is back… and he’s not alone. A blonde. Beautiful, elegant. They were together at the Epsom races."

A blonde. Grace.

He hadn’t even told her himself.

A cold shiver ran down Amara’s spine.

That day, had he kissed her too? The woman he was about to marry? Had he run his hands over her skin the way he never had with Amara?

Had he given her what he had been denied because she had wanted to wait until marriage?

Amara’s heart clenched so tightly she thought it might shatter.

And then she laughed through her tears.

A joyless laugh, bitter, almost hysterical. A laugh that echoed in her tiny apartment, a hollow sound bouncing off the walls, a reflection of her own pain.

He had made sure to come and tell her.

After all of it after everything they had shared, after all those nights whispering in the shadows of the betting shop, after all those hushed conversations about the war, about their invisible wounds, after everything she had done for him, for his family he had made sure to tell her in person.

"Because he owed me that."

That was it, wasn’t it?

He had thought it would have been wrong to say nothing.

He had thought he owed her at least the truth, that he needed to face her gaze, even if it changed nothing.

But why? Why now?

Amara wondered then… did he love her?

Had he ever really loved her, even for a moment?

Or had she just been a fleeting distraction after the war, a temporary bandage on a ruined soul?

Had she been nothing more than a convenient presence at the right time, at the wrong time, when he was desperate for female company and had simply settled for whoever was there?

Was she ever even a choice?

Or had she merely been a temporary fix, a refuge, a mirage in his world of ashes and blood?

Chapter Text

Birmingham March 20, 1922

The betting shop was full. Cigarette smoke lingered beneath the low ceiling, mingling with the stale scent of alcohol and sweat. The air was thick, heavy with silent anticipation. Everyone was there.

Arthur and John sat at a table, an open ledger between them, though their focus was elsewhere. Whiskey swirled in their glasses, and their laughter rang out in bursts too loud to be natural. A façade. A habit before the storm.

Finn, too young to be there, stood nearby, eyes fixed on the bottle of liquor. Thirteen years old. He found it unfair that he was only allowed beer. John, in a moment of brotherly mischief, had attempted to pour him a small measure, but Polly’s gaze—sharp and unwavering from where she stood in the doorway leading to the family home—froze him in place. He reconsidered without protest.

Polly smoked slowly, one arm crossed under her chest, the other holding a cigarette between slender fingers. She was waiting. Impatience crept into the taut line of her shoulders, but her face remained unreadable. Tommy had given them a time. He was late. She hated that.

In one corner, Ada rocked Karl in a practiced rhythm. The baby whined, squirming against the noise and restlessness around him. Esmee, seated nearby, watched with disinterest, her long hair cascading down her back like a curtain.

Uncle Charlie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at some invisible point in the distance. At his feet, Curly fidgeted with his hat, turning it over in his hands, placing it down, picking it up again. A nervous habit he couldn’t hide.

The Shelby cousins, the ones who worked at the shop, lingered at the edges, murmuring among themselves, gauging the atmosphere. Johnny Dogs, ever loyal, leaned against the counter, a smirk carved into his weathered face, watching the scene with quiet amusement.

And then there was Michael, seated alone at another table, absorbed in the accounts. Meticulous. Distant.

The wait stretched on. No one spoke of the obvious. A family gathering never meant anything good.

And Tommy Shelby never called his family together without a reason.

Ada sighed, trying in vain to soothe Karl, whose cries grew louder against her shoulder. She rubbed his back in slow circles, but it did nothing to calm him. The baby was tired. Agitated by the impatience in the room, the rising voices, he wanted only to go home. And so did his mother.

“If he doesn’t show up soon, I’m leaving,” she snapped, exasperated.

Her dark eyes swept across the room, daring anyone to challenge her. But no one did.

Arthur and John merely shrugged, too absorbed in their drinks to care about Ada’s complaints. Polly, however, didn’t react right away. She simply brought her cigarette to her lips, inhaled deeply, then exhaled into the already smoke-laden air.

She understood Ada. She shared her frustration. If Tommy had gone to the trouble of gathering everyone at this hour, he damn well ought to be on time himself.

But something was off.

For weeks now, she had been watching him closely, wary. Lately, he had been distant. More silent than usual, vanishing at odd times, returning with that cold, calculating expression.

Polly knew Tommy better than anyone. She recognized the signs. He was thinking. He was planning something.

And she knew why.

The rumors had reached her. They always did.

Grace Burgess was back.

Word had spread that Tommy had been seen with a blonde woman at the Epsom races. That they had spoken, walked together, as if they had never been apart.

Polly had confronted him. Because it was her role. Because he wouldn’t lie to her.

“Gossip,” he had said, impassive.

A women’s thing.

As if it didn’t matter. As if the whispers of Small Heath had never been reliable, when in fact, they always held the truth.

She had watched him for a moment, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“Old women usually know what they’re talking about,” she had replied coolly.

Tommy had sighed, briefly looking away. A sign.

A silent confession.

Polly knew. She already knew he was lying.

So, she had twisted the knife a little deeper.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. That woman needs to stay away from this family.”

She had noticed the slight movement of Tommy’s jaw the barely perceptible tension he had when he didn’t like what he was hearing.

But he had said nothing.

And that silence spoke volumes.

Polly had risen, tired of the game they had been playing for years, and before walking away, she had simply added:

“God help us if Amara finds out.”

Amara.

Her absence struck her suddenly.

For three years now, Amara had always been present when a family meeting was called. Always.

She might not have been a Shelby by name, but she was one in practice. She was part of the clan, there for every fight, every decision, every moment of doubt.

But tonight, she wasn’t here.

And that was not a good sign.

A bad feeling settled in Polly’s stomach.

What had Tommy done?

A door slammed inside the Shelby home, shattering the murmured conversations and forced laughter that had filled the room moments before. Heavy, purposeful footsteps followed, echoing across the wooden floor. The long-awaited or long-dreaded arrival of Thomas Shelby.

Silence fell.

He strode through the betting shop’s entrance without sparing a glance at anyone. He passed by Polly, and under normal circumstances, she would have immediately called him out for his rudeness. But this time, she merely watched him in silence, eyes narrowed, cigarette poised between her fingers.

Tommy moved straight to the front of the room, positioning himself with his back to the blackboard, where hastily erased chalk marks still lingered. That was no accident. It was calculated.

From there, he could see them all. Control them all.

Dominate them.

Ada let out an exasperated sigh, her impatience now mixed with a hint of relief. Finally, he was here. And yet, she almost wished he hadn’t come. Because now that he was here, it meant he was going to speak. And when a Shelby gathered the family to talk, it was never to share good news.

All eyes turned to Tommy.

John, true to form, grabbed a whiskey bottle, poured a glass, and wordlessly handed it to his brother. Tommy took it, brought it to his lips, and downed it in one go.

He set the glass back on the table with a sharp clink and simply said:

“Tomorrow, I’m getting married.”

The shock was immediate

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Arthur, who had just raised his glass, froze, eyes squinting. Slowly, he lowered his arm, uncertain. Esmee furrowed her brows, glancing at her husband as if to check if he was just as surprised as she was. John shrugged slightly, as if to say he knew nothing about it either.

Finn, wide-eyed, opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

Charlie, who had been leaning against a table, lifted his head slightly. Curly, still nervously playing with his hat, abruptly stopped his movements.

Ada was too shocked to respond immediately.

It was Polly who broke the silence first.

Her voice was cold, sharp above all, threatening.

— With whom?

But deep down, she already knew the answer.

She had figured it out before he even stepped into the room.

And if she knew…

Then Amara did too.

Before Tommy could answer Polly’s question, a loud, nervous laugh burst through the room. It was Arthur. He turned to Polly, his expression twisted in disbelief, and said in a mocking tone:

— You’re mad, Polly. Who else but Amara would Tommy marry?

Tommy remained unmoved. He didn’t even have time to respond before Arthur interrupted again. But before Arthur could add anything else, Tommy’s voice cut through, suddenly firm:

— No, Arthur. With Grace.

Arthur’s laughter stopped abruptly. His expression froze, and he stared at his brother in surprise, confusion creeping onto his face. The entire room seemed to halt, as if time itself had frozen around that one sentence.

Even John lowered his whiskey glass without a word, his hand suspended in the air, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

A thick silence settled over the room.

Polly, still standing in the doorway, let out a long sigh of indignation, her gaze hardening. She turned her eyes to Tommy, and what she saw in him made her tense even more. She couldn’t understand, couldn’t accept. How dare he?

His family. How dare he put his family in danger with such an irresponsible, needlessly destructive decision?

Her gaze darkened. How dare he do this to Amara a woman so respectable, so loyal to their family?

The look Polly gave Tommy could have killed him on the spot. She wasn’t just disappointed she was furious. She felt betrayed, as if her own flesh and blood had just spat on everything they had built together, everything they had fought for.

Bitterly, she thought that maybe she should have done it sooner cut off his balls the moment she heard the rumors about him and Grace at the Epsom races. It would have been easier, less painful than facing this now.

The weight in the air grew heavier as the others processed the news. Tommy stood there, unmoved, relentless. But Polly still couldn’t understand.

Ada had stopped rocking Karl, her eyes dark with a rage she no longer tried to hide. It wasn’t just because Tommy was marrying Grace a mere pawn in his twisted game with Campbell. No, this was far bigger than that. Ada usually stayed out of family affairs, but this time, it was personal.

Amara, for years now, had been more than just a friend. She was the sister Ada had never had, the one who had been there when everything seemed lost, who had helped her through the worst moments of her life. And now, Ada felt a deep disgust. Shame. Shame that her own brother could betray such loyalty, such trust shame that he could break the heart of someone who deserved none of this.

Ada knew that Amara loved Tommy. But more than that, she was convinced that he loved her too. She had seen them together, countless times laughing freely, exchanging genuine smiles, sometimes kissing with a rare tenderness. For years, she had watched Tommy, seen the cracks forming in his heart, especially after the war. He had become a hard man, almost unreachable. And yet, with Amara, it was as if he reclaimed a piece of his lost humanity. He smiled with her. He was himself with her.

And to see that bond shattered by Tommy himself was inconceivable.

The thick silence was finally broken by Polly’s sharp voice. She turned to Tommy, her face lined with years of hardship, now twisted in disgust.

— If I didn’t have immense respect for my mother, she spat, her voice shaking with resentment, I’d call you a son of a bitch just like your father.

She let the words settle in the air, her eyes locked onto Tommy’s, filled with a cold, relentless fury. Her voice faded into a silence so heavy, it felt like each word had been a blade plunged deep into the family’s very core.

Then, Polly spoke again, her tone even sharper, her words filled with accusations.

With a sudden movement, she turned back to Tommy, her eyes burning with anger and disappointment. She wasn’t going to hold back this time. Her voice, cold and laced with reproach, echoed through the room.

— You’re a fucking fool, Tommy.

She paused, letting the words hang heavy.

— Grace nearly got us all killed you included. She betrayed us, sold us out, worked for that bastard of a cop. And you think she deserves your forgiveness just because she gave you a few moments of pleasure?

She shook her head, disgust twisting her features.

— You, the so-called genius, are thinking with your dick, not your head. It only took a few sweet words and a roll in the sheets for you to forgive her after everything she did to us.

She took a step closer, her piercing gaze never leaving him.

— You have no idea the danger you’re putting us in by bringing her back into this family, Tommy. No fucking clue. You act like nothing happened, like we forgot what she did. But I don’t forget. She is poison to this family.

She exhaled sharply, frustrated, disappointed. Her tone turned even sharper, a mix of bewilderment and pent-up fury.

— Are you even thinking about us? Or is your vision too clouded by your own damn desires? That bitch almost destroyed us all, and you expect us to believe it was just some small mistake?

She shook her head, but her eyes remained fixed on him, unwavering an accusation.

Tommy stood motionless, unshaken. He stared back at her without reacting, as if her words didn’t touch him. But Polly knew better. She knew that, in some way, he was hearing every single one.

Finn, witnessing his first real family meeting, felt more and more lost. He had thought this would be his chance to prove himself to finally be more involved in family affairs. But he had never imagined the discussion would take this turn.

He felt like a mere spectator in this silent war a little brother, almost invisible, caught in a storm of resentment and unspoken truths.

He had always liked Amara, though he had never dared to tell her how much he appreciated her kindness. When he was younger, she used to bake him little cakes, and even now, though he was no longer the eleven-year-old boy who ran to the kitchen for a treat, he couldn’t help but smile whenever she told him there was one waiting for him. It was a small gesture, almost childish, but it meant something to him.

And now, a question haunted Finn.

Did Isaiah know about Tommy’s marriage to Grace?

He remembered the way Isaiah had always looked at Amara with a certain possessiveness and wondered if, somewhere, Isaiah knew more than he let on.

Finn hadn’t seen him today, hadn’t heard his reaction to the news.

But maybe the truth was still slipping through his fingers.

Finn wondered if he was truly the only one unaware of everything happening behind the scenes. Maybe he still had so much to learn about his family, especially about this complex relationship between Tommy, Grace, and Amara. But for now, all he could do was listen in silence, observing the others, wondering if he still had a place in this increasingly complicated world.

Polly felt the fury burning inside her, but a thought froze her in place. She turned to Tommy, her voice laced with both anger and pain. “Did you even think about Amara, Tommy?” She let the words hang in the air, a challenge.

Tommy, as if anticipating the question, cut in quickly. “I warned her,” he said, his tone sharp.

Polly shook her head, utterly unimpressed, her eyes locked onto his. “How noble of you,” she replied coldly. “You gave her a warning how generous.” She paused before continuing, her voice turning even sharper. “Good thing your mother isn’t here to see how her own son treats an honorable woman. You treat her like a whore, Tommy. A mistress you take, use, and forget the moment something better comes along.”

Arthur, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his voice deep and heavy. “You’re completely mad, Tommy.”

Tommy raised a hand, signaling that he didn’t care for their judgment. He turned to them, his gaze sharp as a blade. “This is how it’s going to be.” His voice was dry, almost ice-cold. And in that coldness, Polly knew that bringing up Amara had affected him more than he wanted to admit. It was a sore spot, one he wasn’t ready to face. He crossed the room without another word, as if his decision had already been made. Before stepping out of the betting shop, he turned back one last time and said, “The wedding is in three days. Be at my house for the reception dressed properly and behaving accordingly.” Then, without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and disappeared, leaving behind a silence heavy with consequences.

Polly, exasperated, muttered bitterly through clenched teeth. “And now he’s turning his back on his own family… Wants us to behave properly, like well-mannered, respectable people. Not like Gypsies.” Her voice carried the weight of betrayal, a resentment she couldn’t hide.

Arthur abruptly rose from his chair, his face dark with anger. He walked toward Polly with heavy steps, his gaze hard, as if searching for an answer to the unacceptable. “He’s completely lost it, Polly,” he said, his voice trembling with indignation. He repeated the words, like a mantra, as if saying it enough times might somehow make it easier to accept. “Completely lost it.” He shook his head, despair in his eyes, before turning sharply and storming out without another word. The door slammed behind him, carrying away some of the thick tension in the air.

Ada, without another word, picked up Karl in her arms and walked out of the room with a swift, decisive movement. “Fucking Tommy,” she spat, her voice full of rage and disillusionment. Her words lingered in the air as she walked away, her anger palpable, but her abrupt departure left a heavy, oppressive void behind.

And for once, John didn’t make a sarcastic remark or crack a joke. He simply turned to Esmee and said, in a low, tense voice, “We’re going home.” Without a backward glance, he walked past Polly without another word, his expression troubled, as if already trying to avoid any further conflict.

Only Finn and Michael remained, both watching the scene with growing unease, trying to slip away unnoticed. They had nothing to say,nothing to say to Polly, at least. Words failed them, as if the situation was too much to process. Finn hesitated for a moment, but the urge to escape the heavy atmosphere won. He slipped quietly toward the door, hoping Polly wouldn’t notice. Michael followed closely behind, though not without giving his mother’s shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze before leaving.

Left alone, Polly remained in the empty room, her thoughts swirling in a storm of frustration and despair. She murmured, almost to herself, her voice broken and weary. “One day, they’re going to kill me,” she said, her eyes fixed on some invisible point. “They’ll be the death of me.” The words, heavy with resignation, faded into the silence of the room, as if, deep down, she knew he was slowly destroying this family.

Chapter Text

 Birmingham, March 21, 1922

Amara was sitting at her kitchen table, motionless, one arm resting on the worn wood, the other hanging limply by her side as if her own weight had become unbearable.

The silence of her apartment was broken only by the slow ticking of a clock on the wall, a monotonous sound that reminded her with every second that time was moving forward, while she remained frozen.

She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Not even a glass of water. Her stomach had tightened the moment Tommy slammed the door behind him, and since then, hunger had become a distant concept.

She knew she must look like a ghost.

Her hair, usually neatly styled, was now a tangled mess, her crown of curls turned into a nest of dust, a remnant of her collapse onto the floor the day before. Her face was marked by exhaustion, her eyes puffy, dark circles carving into her dark skin. Her clothes, still the same ones from the day before, were wrinkled, sticking to her skin with sweat and resignation.

She was unrecognizable, even to herself. Her gaze was empty, fixed on a non-existent point ahead of her. She wasn’t thinking of anything, and yet, everything screamed inside her.

She felt heavy, as if every cell of her body bore the weight of a disappointment she should never have felt.

She had been foolish.

Naive.

Her own bitter, joyless laugh echoed in the room. She thought back to the day before. To those knocks on her door. One, two, three knocks. Hesitant. Followed by silence. Then, the cries of a child.

Karl.

And then, Ada’s voice. Weak. Uncertain. Amara hadn’t moved.

She had stayed in her bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her body emptied of any will, any energy. She knew what Ada wanted. To offer comfort. A shoulder to lean on. But Amara had nothing left to give, all her tears had been shed.

Not to Ada. Not to anyone. Because she herself was in ruins.

Amara closed her eyes for a moment, trying to piece together the blurry and foggy memories of the day before.

The knocks on the door. Ada’s voice, trembling but sincere.

— Amara, are you okay?

She remembered staying still, her gaze lost in the darkness of her room.

— Amara, please open the door.

Her fingers had clenched the sheets.

— Tommy is such an idiot...

A sad, bitter laugh almost escaped her at that moment.

— I have to leave, Karl is tired... but I’ll be back.

Amara had bitten her lip. She knew Ada was sincere, but at that moment, it changed nothing.

— I’m really sorry for what my brother did to you.

Amara felt a shiver run down her spine at the memory of those words.

— I don’t approve. Neither does Polly.

Her heart tightened at that thought.

— You’re my friend, Amara. I’ll be there for you.

Then, silence.

Ada had left, and Amara had remained alone, trapped in her own grief.

She wished she had the strength to get up, to open the door, to listen to Ada, and to accept her support. But yesterday... yesterday, she simply couldn’t. The weight of the pain was too overwhelming, too fresh, and hearing those words, however kind, would have been like twisting a knife buried too deeply in the wound. So, she had stayed there, frozen, imprisoned by her own sorrow.

Amara furrowed her brow, the memories still eluding her, drowned beneath the exhaustion and hunger. But something in Ada’s words seemed off, like an important detail floating just beyond her memory, one she couldn’t grasp. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, forcing her numb mind to piece the fragments together. Then, Ada’s voice returned to her, harsher this time, more bitter, more angry.

— That bastard is getting married in three days. He didn’t even wait. Damn Tommy.

Three days. No... two now.

Amara felt her stomach tighten as the brutality of the timing hit her. Tommy hadn’t waited. Why? Was he in such a hurry to marry her? Or was it Grace who couldn’t accept waiting?

A joyless laugh escaped her as she ran a trembling hand over her face.

The worst part of all this was that she didn’t even hate Grace. Oh, of course, she resented her for betraying the Shelbys, for serving Campbell, for putting everything they had built at risk. But on a personal level, she had never harbored any real animosity towards her. Back when Grace worked as a barmaid, they had maintained cordial relations. Not warm, but not hostile either. When Tommy had hired her at Shelby & Co., Amara had remained courteous, professional, polite. She had never tried to harm her or belittle her.

And now… Now, it was this woman Tommy had chosen to marry. A wave of pain struck her heart, taking her by surprise. But a much more pragmatic thought came to chase away the emotion.

Shelby & Co.

She no longer had a job.

How could she continue working there after this? Manage the accounts of a man who had just broken her heart? Work for the company of Tommy Shelby’s future wife?

No. Impossible.

A dizziness overcame her, and she had to grip the edge of the table. She had nothing left. No love. No future. No place. Amara took a deep breath, trying to push back the anxiety that threatened to choke her.

She had to make a decision.

Amara placed her hands on the table, her fingers gripping the cold wood, trying to steady her breath. She couldn’t stay here, sitting in this empty kitchen, replaying the same poison over and over again.

She needed a drink.

She wasn’t the type to drink, not like Arthur, not like so many others in this city who drowned their pain in alcohol. She knew what it felt like; she had seen it with her own eyes: the illusion of relief, a fleeting euphoria, followed by the brutal awakening with a headache and despair lying in wait. But a few hours of respite, even stolen, even artificial, were better than this conscious agony. She scanned her kitchen, almost hoping to find a forgotten bottle somewhere, but she knew there was nothing. She didn’t keep alcohol at home.

A sigh escaped her. If she wanted to drink, she had to go out.

And going out meant getting dressed, fixing her hair, facing the world. The thought disgusted her, but she had no choice.

The Garrison.

It was the only possible place. Harry, the bartender, knew her. He knew who she was, what place she held within the Shelby circle. She was one of those who could drink without paying. And most importantly, he would serve her, even if she was alone. Because elsewhere, in the other bars of Birmingham, a woman alone was not welcome.

And worse still...

A black woman wouldn’t even have gotten through the door. Bitterness tightened her throat, a taste almost as burning as the whiskey she desired.

She had to go.

Get up, get ready, put something decent on. Force herself to exist a little longer. Before the weight of this day completely finished her.

Amara made her way to her room, slowly taking off her dress, letting the fabric slide down her body to fall in an unshapely heap at her feet. She did the same with her underwear, exposing her bare skin to the cool air of the room. A shiver ran down her spine, but she didn’t move right away.

Her gaze fell on the small sink in the corner of the room, where a tired mirror hung on the wall. She approached, her bare feet against the cold floor, and slowly lifted her eyes to her reflection.

What she saw didn’t surprise her. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were swollen, rimmed with dark shadows, betraying the lack of sleep and the tears shed. Her mouth was tight, frozen in an expression she no longer recognized. Her deep black skin, usually radiant, seemed almost dull under the dim light.

She ran a hand through her hair, brushing away some dust particles accumulated from the day before, when she had collapsed onto the floor, drained of all strength. Normally, her afro was a crown, a round and voluminous mass she maintained with care. But this morning, her curls refused to cooperate, as if they, too, had given up the fight. She sighed and dropped her hand, accepting the imperfect reflection.

Her gaze traveled down her own body, examining every curve, every mark left by time and life. Her broad shoulders, strong, forged by years of work and resilience. Her high, firm breasts, smooth-skinned, that no one had ever truly touched, never possessed. Her narrow waist, contrasting with her full hips, hips shaped to bear life, to give birth. Her muscular thighs, witnesses to her strength, her independence. A body she had always known to be powerful, capable of dancing, running, fighting if necessary.

A body she had preserved. And yet, she wondered…

Would Tommy have loved her? Would he have taken his time with her on their wedding night, or would he have been eager to discover her? Would his hands have explored her skin with admiration or with simple desire? Would she have been enough for him?

A dull pain settled in her chest. She couldn’t help but compare.

Grace.

Grace, with her porcelain skin and golden hair. Grace, beautiful in a classic, obvious way, a beauty that is shown off, that is immediately desired.

Amara clenched her fists. She knew Tommy could show Grace to the world without fear. Take her to the races, introduce her to his associates, seat her in the front row of bourgeois salons, watch her effortlessly mingle with the wives of men in power.

But her, Amara?

She wasn’t a woman you displayed. She was the one you hid, the one you respected in private but hesitated to claim in public. Not because she wasn’t beautiful. But because her very presence posed a question the world wasn’t ready to hear.

A solitary tear slowly rolled down her cheek, and she didn’t even try to wipe it away.

She had just realized a truth she had always wanted to ignore. She had never had a place. Not in this family. Not with him.

She turned on the tap, letting the cold water flow into the small sink. The water slowly accumulated, sliding down the edges of the sink with a chilling freshness that made her shiver as soon as she plunged her hand into the water. She brought the cloth to her face, letting the water spill over her skin, an icy sensation almost comforting in contrast to the heat of her mind.

The Birmingham apartment was a misery. The dampness of the walls, the light dimmed by the grime on the windows, the smell of dust and moisture that constantly hung in the air. There was no hot water in this place, and Amara didn’t even care anymore. Usually, she would have heated water, but today, she couldn’t find the strength. So, she let the cold water run over her body, the raw sensation of the temperature temporarily banishing the numbness that had overtaken her.

She washed quickly, without ceremony, as if she didn’t want to linger in the moment. When she was done, she dried herself with a rough towel, her skin reddened from the too-cold water.

She stood and walked over to her wardrobe, an old, worn piece of furniture with squeaky doors. After a few seconds of hesitation, she grabbed the first dress she found.

It was a simple dress, a dark yet pleasant color, a deep black that slightly contrasted with her complexion. She smoothed the fabric, a thick cotton that covered her shape without emphasizing it too much. The cut was modest, but it gave her a sense of ease, without being too tight. She felt freer in this dress, less burdened by the obligations and expectations of those who looked at her.

She put on simple underwear, a black garter belt, discreet but practical, and the dress fell slightly over her ankles, covering just enough to bring a sense of comfort.

She straightened up and looked at herself in the mirror again. Her tired face and unkempt hair reflected the woman she had been all day: lost, exhausted, defeated. But as she studied herself more closely, she noticed that, despite everything, the image in the mirror seemed a little less devastated.

She felt a little better, in this dress that didn’t constrict her and that partially hid the pain in her eyes. She stood a little straighter, even though she knew the weight of what had just happened, and what was still to come, was still there, hidden in the dark corners of her mind.

She ran a hand through her hair, trying again to reshape it, but couldn’t get it how she wanted. It didn’t matter anymore. What mattered now was to feel a little better, even if it was just for a moment with a glass of whiskey for company.

She turned away from the mirror, took a deep breath, and left the room.

Amara slammed the door of her apartment with a force that echoed through the building. The sharp sound was necessary, for if she didn’t, the door remained stubbornly open, unable to close properly. A final turn of the key to lock it, and she walked away, heading for the stairs. She descended the floors of the building, the fresh air outside lifting her out of her stupor. Once outside, the damp street breeze hit her, a burst of air mixed with coal dust, soot, and the ever-vibrant noise of Small Heath.

The streets of Small Heath were lively, always bustling, full of life but also dirt and dust. The cobblestones, rough under her feet, seemed a little more worn every day, marked by the years and the incessant steps of its inhabitants. The buildings, with their dark and faded brick facades, pressed up against each other, and the persistent dampness seeped through the cracks. In the distance, factories released plumes of smoke, and Amara could see men outside, their hands smeared with grease and dust, staring at her as they passed. She felt the weight of some of their gazes and adjusted her coat over her shoulders, pulling it up to cover part of her face, though it did little to help. But this was how it was here, in Small Heath.

The sounds of children playing in the street, workers toiling, the clattering of wagons and the rumble of passing truck engines echoed in the air. The city lived, roaring and raw, faithful to itself. Amara walked without hurry, weaving between narrow alleys, avoiding puddles of dirty water and coal crumbs that littered the ground. The fine rain began to fall, breaking the oppressive atmosphere of the day.

After a few minutes, she finally arrived at the Garrison, the familiar pub, with its black facade, windows yellowed by time and dirt from the years. The brown swinging doors seemed old but sturdy, witnesses to many years of stories exchanged within those walls. Two lampposts rose above the door, casting a faint light into the street that disappeared into the shadows of the night. The smell of alcohol and tobacco wafted out every time a door opened, calling her in, to find a little comfort among the bottles of liquor.

She didn’t hesitate. She pushed the doors open and entered without waiting. The sound of conversations hit her immediately: deep, gravelly voices, bursts of laughter mingling with the clinking of glass. The men sat in worn leather booths, telling stories while drinking beers and whiskeys, women surrounding them, workers relaxing during their breaks. The smell of beer, tobacco, and metal filled the air, with a hint of moisture the walls and stones had absorbed, as if offering temporary shelter from the turmoil of the street.

Amara walked directly to the bar, where Harry, the bartender, was cleaning glasses with a grayish cloth, his face marked by the familiarity of this environment. She leaned on the wooden counter, waiting for him to notice her. The music was present but quiet, and the dull thud of voices was rhythmically punctuated by the pouring of alcohol, beer flowing, laughter, and conversations.

“Harry,” she said in a tired but determined tone. He turned his head, immediately recognizing her, but said nothing, simply looking at her, waiting for her order.

Amara stared at Harry in silence, her gaze tired but determined. She wiped a nervous hand against her coat before placing her order in a calm, almost flat voice, as if not wanting to attract too much attention. “A whiskey.”

Harry looked at her for a moment, observing the emptiness in her eyes, then asked, “Irish or Scotch?” He knew, just as she did, that Irish whiskey was a well-rooted habit among the Shelby ranks. It was the one they drank, the one he drank. But at that moment, Amara didn’t want to hear those thoughts. The Irish whiskey, the one he loved, from the same place as her, made her grit her teeth. A dull pain rose within her, an almost contained rage. They were well-matched, weren’t they? Tommy and Grace, both bound by Ireland in different ways. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to stop the tears from coming. But she pushed them down, forcing herself not to show it. Not here. Not in this bar, where she was looking for fleeting comfort.

“A Scotch whiskey,” she finally answered in a composed, controlled voice. Harry nodded without a word, disappeared behind the counter for a few seconds, and returned with a glass of Scotch whiskey. He set it in front of her, giving her a look that said a lot, but said nothing. “It’s on the house,” he said in his usual tone.

Amara, though grateful, couldn’t bring herself to accept this gesture. The closeness she had with the Shelbys, the power she wielded in their name, no longer made sense. Tommy was no longer there to guarantee such privileges. She took out a few coins from her pocket and placed them on the counter, refusing to be treated any differently than any other customer. Even in this bar, she wanted to be a woman who paid for what she consumed, regardless of her connection to the Shelby family.

She raised the glass to her lips, and the alcohol burned her throat, a sharp and cold shock that surprised her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like whiskey, but she wasn’t a heavy drinker. She only needed one drink sometimes, to either erase the bitterness of life or to celebrate it. The taste of Scotch spread on her tongue, strong and harsh, much rougher than the Irish whiskey she was used to drinking. Tommy was right, she was almost convinced of it in that moment. The Irish one was better, smoother, easier. But that thought angered her even more, burning like the whiskey in her throat.

She turned her head slightly, trying to push away the thoughts that inevitably returned to Tommy and Grace. She turned away from the bar, focusing on the room around her. Low voices, murmurs, the laughter of men a little too loud. Amara felt watched, but it wasn’t a gaze of desire. No, those gazes were full of disgust, of judgment. The men in the room stared at her as though she didn’t belong here. Not in this pub. Not a black woman. They looked at her like a stranger, an intruder who didn’t belong there, among them. But no one dared to say anything directly to her, not here, in a place like this.

She knew why. She worked for the Peaky Blinders. They knew she was connected to them. They feared her, silently, in the shadow of their ignorance, preferring to watch her from afar rather than confront her. It was a matter of fear, of respect, not tolerance. Because no one here, in this bar, felt comfortable with her presence, but no one dared to cross that invisible line drawn by the Peaky Blinders.

Amara turned away, fixed her gaze on the whiskey glass in front of her, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t the alcohol she was trying to escape from, nor even the warmth that was beginning to spread through her body. What she was fleeing from was the reality, the one that hit her heart every time she thought of Tommy and Grace.

Amara continued drinking her whiskey, her mind drowning in memories and pain, her thoughts muddled by the warmth of the alcohol that burned her throat. A few minutes passed in heavy, almost palpable silence. Then, the doors of the pub creaked open, announcing the arrival of new customers. The noise of the outside world seemed to pause for a moment. Amara didn’t even turn her head, absorbed in the contemplation of her glass, too focused to pay attention to the others.

The newcomers all stopped when they saw Amara’s figure at the bar, a discreet presence but undeniable. The tension in the air rose. Isaiah walked into the pub, accompanied by Michael, and his gaze immediately settled on Amara. At the sight of her posture, her face marked by exhaustion and sadness, he quickly understood what was wrong. That morning, he had learned the news of Tommy’s marriage to Grace. A heavy blow. And he knew it affected Amara more than anyone.

Isaiah exchanged a heavy look with Michael. He didn’t know what to say, but the silence between them spoke volumes. Michael sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

— Go talk to her, Isaiah. She needs you.

Isaiah nodded, but he hesitated. Michael, more pragmatic, gave him a small nod towards the private room.

— I’ll be waiting for you there.

Isaiah nodded and watched Michael walk away to the room reserved for the Peaky Blinders. Then, slowly, Isaiah took off his cap, folding it carefully so he wouldn’t cut himself on the hidden blade inside. He made his way with measured steps toward the bar, his eyes still fixed on Amara, the woman who had always been there for him, who had protected and guided him.

He sat next to her without a word, making a gesture with his hand toward Harry to pour him a drink. This time, Harry took a bottle of Irish whiskey and poured the liquid into a glass. Isaiah didn’t need to say more. The Irish whiskey was Tommy’s brand, the family’s brand. But this time, he wasn’t drinking it to honor the family. He was drinking it to give himself courage.

Amara slowly turned her head, drawn by the presence beside her. She didn’t want closeness, but something within her knew it wasn’t just anyone who had sat next to her. She met Isaiah’s gaze. Instantly, her face relaxed, her eyes softened, and a small, shy smile stretched across her lips. That smile, fragile yet sincere, was all Isaiah needed to see to understand that he didn’t need to worry. Not yet.

“You’re here,” she whispered softly, almost reassuringly.

Isaiah didn’t answer immediately. He looked at her, concerned, sinking a little deeper into his stool, his eyes full of tenderness and worry.

“Are… are you okay?” he finally asked, a softness in his voice that he didn’t even try to hide.

Amara didn’t respond right away, simply shaking her head slowly, a sigh escaping her lips.

Amara turned her glass in her hands, her gaze lost in the amber liquid. She knew she was lying, that even a blind person could see that everything wasn’t fine, but she couldn’t afford to show it, especially not to Isaiah. At 16, he shouldn’t have to bear this burden, especially when the world around him was already pushing him too early into the darkness of reality. He still had a right to his youth, he needed to enjoy it.

She looked him in the eyes, trying to give the appearance of calm.

“I’m fine, Isaiah, really. Don’t worry about me. I’m just... tired.”

Isaiah looked at her, reading beyond her words. He nodded, not acknowledging the lie, but the silence that settled between them betrayed the unspoken pain. Finally, after a moment, he broke the silence.

“I know about Tommy’s marriage… He came this morning, to the house, to tell us about his marriage to Grace,” he said gently. “He said everything was decided… I didn’t know what to say.”

Amara slowly nodded, her eyes fixed on the bottom of her glass. She didn’t respond right away, taking her time to digest his words. Tommy. She wondered if he had any remorse for her, if he had tried to justify himself before announcing his marriage. Maybe it was out of respect for Jeremiah, or maybe he felt obligated, knowing he was a longtime friend. She wondered how Jeremiah had reacted. Knowing the old man, he surely hadn’t raised his voice, but she imagined his quiet disappointment, a calm look but heavy with reproach.

She then remembered how he spoke, always measured, calm, never losing his composure. If she was there, if she had a problem, he wasn’t the type to shout, but to confront her in a way that made you feel like you had acted wrong without him needing to raise his voice.

“Jeremiah would have surely said he shouldn’t have given false hope,” she whispered, more to herself than to Isaiah.

The young man lowered his eyes, pressing his fingers against the rim of his glass. He knew what it meant, and his guilt was written all over his face. It wasn’t so much about the situation itself, but the feeling of being caught in a machine he couldn’t control, didn’t want to control. He had always been more like his mother, impulsive, quick-tempered even. His mother, that woman Amara had known as a strong and pure soul. And him, he had inherited her fiery nature, the one that burned everything in its path. But in Amara’s eyes, there was also a sensitivity, a fragility that concerned her.

She sighed, setting her glass on the counter, then turned slightly toward him.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Isaiah,” she said calmly. “Keep working for Tommy, do what you need to do. But take care of yourself. You’re not responsible for what Tommy does, nor for what he decides.”

She leaned slightly toward him, trying to capture his full attention, as if she wanted him to understand that there was no fault in her eyes.

“Don’t put yourself in a position where you have to choose between me and your work for the Shelbys. It’s not for you to bear that burden. You have the right to work with them, without feeling guilty about me. Don’t distance yourself from them because you’re afraid of how I might feel.”

Isaiah gritted his teeth, a dull pain forming in his gut. She understood him, and she was right, she was always right. She had taken care of him when everything had fallen apart around him, after his mother’s death, during the war. She had been there for him and his sisters, like a real mother. When Jeremiah had left, she had taken on that role, asking for nothing in return. Like Polly with her nephews. Amara wasn’t the type to take someone else’s place, but she had accepted her role as protector, as guide.

She had seen Isaiah grow, seen him fight to find his place in a society that was too white for a black man, his father’s gaze always present in his choices. But Amara didn’t want this kid, this young man, to lose himself in this world of violence. She knew this life he was living now wasn’t the one she had imagined for him. But she couldn’t change it. The war had transformed them all, even the youngest among them. She looked him in the eyes, a gaze full of the affection of a mother and a friend.

“I don’t want to see you forget yourself in all of this, Isaiah. Don’t lose yourself. Think of yourself, not of me. You’re not a man yet, you’re still a kid. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

Isaiah closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He knew that, no matter what he did, Amara would always be there for him. Always ready to support him. But he didn’t want to be the one to disappoint her. Not him, not after everything she had done for him.

“I’ll be careful, Amara. I promise.”

She smiled faintly at him. That was all she needed to hear.

“And you, what are you going to do now?” he finally asked.

Isaiah looked at her with a glint of concern in his eyes, waiting for an answer. Amara sighed deeply before responding, her gaze fixed on her empty glass, as though the words were as difficult to form as facing reality.

“I’m going to find a new job,” she said finally, her voice calm, but internally, a whirlwind of thoughts was spinning in her head. She didn’t add anything, but her mind was already considering the obstacles that lay ahead. Finding a job here wouldn’t be easy, not for a black woman, and even less so for a position where she was truly qualified, like accounting. Employers would only see her as a foreigner in their eyes, thinking that a woman of her color couldn’t have skills, that she wouldn’t even be able to read, understand numbers. They would reduce her to her skin, ignoring everything she had accomplished. But she had no choice. She couldn’t keep working there, seeing Tommy with Grace, hiding behind a desk while he rebuilt his life with her.

Isaiah, silent, watched her for a long time. He understood that things weren’t simple. Amara, lost in her thoughts, spoke again in a softer voice.

“If it were just for me, I would have already left Birmingham.”

She felt Isaiah’s breath catch, a heavy pause filled with concern, and suddenly, she felt his hand grasp hers. He didn’t want her to leave. She knew that. He didn’t want to lose her, not now, not after everything they had been through together.

Amara gently caressed Isaiah’s hand with her thumb, her heart tight. She leaned a little closer to him, offering a smile she hoped would be reassuring, though her eyes betrayed a sorrow she couldn’t hide.

“But I won’t leave, Isaiah. I can’t leave you, your sisters, your father. You’re my family.”

Isaiah let out a quiet sigh, his gaze softening a little, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully fade. Amara grabbed her glass, emptied it in one go, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spread inside her. She then stood up from the stool, making a tender gesture to gently lift Isaiah’s chin between her fingers, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

“Go join Michael in the private room,” she said with a smile, trying to hide the pain behind her lips. “He can’t wait for you any longer.”

She paused for a moment, then added gently:

“And don’t drink too much whiskey.”

She turned toward the exit, ready to leave. But before she could reach the door, Isaiah stood up as well. He called out to her, standing tall in front of her, looking at her with a determination she recognized immediately.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said.

Amara stopped and turned toward him, a tender look in her eyes.

“No, son,” she replied softly. “Go enjoy your evening.”

She gave him one last smile before heading toward the pub doors, stepping out into the cool air. She closed her eyes for a moment, her breath caught by the emotions rising within her. She knew she was right to leave, not to show Isaiah the heaviness of her feelings, but deep down, everything felt too heavy to carry.

The tears she had been holding back threatened to consume her. She was angry at Tommy. She was angry at herself. She was angry at Tommy for not choosing her, for playing with her feelings, for making her feel loved and desired before relegating her to the shadow of his past, to second place. He had made her feel special, then abandoned her for someone else. All of this had changed her life when she thought she had finally found a little stability, a little peace.

She thought she had everything: a job, a place to live, a family, friends, a circle that didn’t reduce her to the color of her skin. And she thought she had found the man with whom she would build a future, a husband, children. She had allowed herself to hope.

But all of that had collapsed in an instant.

She felt the tears threatening to fall, but she kept them to herself, clenching her fists and walking with firm steps down the street. She didn’t know if she could continue to ignore everything, to bear it all. But for now, all she knew was that she couldn’t let herself fall. Not yet.

For Isaiah. For her family. For herself. But she doubted she could.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, March 23, 1922

Amara stood in the garden of Arrow House, wrapped in cold and darkness. The night air was freezing, and each breath she exhaled turned into a thin white cloud. In front of her, the mansion loomed, imposing, almost intimidating.

Built of red and black bricks, Arrow House was a symbol of power and success, a reflection of Tommy Shelby’s ambitions. Its elegant yet austere and severe architecture commanded respect. Large windows, aligned with almost military precision, let a dim light filter through, contrasting with the darkness of the park. The house seemed to breathe luxury and order, a true modern castle, as cold as the man who lived in it.

Beneath her feet, the black gravel crunched softly with each movement. At the center of the path leading to the mansion, a fountain stood, majestic. The water flowing within it reflected the lights of the house, casting shifting glimmers onto the ground. All around, meticulously trimmed hedges structured the space, reminiscent of French gardens. Every element of the decor bore witness to a rigorous discipline, a will for absolute control.

But Amara did not look at this house with admiration.

She couldn’t stop thinking about those who now lived in it. About them. Tommy and Grace. They were inside, sheltered from the cold, warm within these walls he had made his own. A life of comfort awaited them.

Amara knew Grace would have no trouble managing this house. She was certain that Tommy had already hired several servants, butlers, maids now that Shelby & Co. allowed him to do so. She could almost picture them, dressed in immaculate uniforms, moving silently through the hallways, ensuring that every detail was perfect. Grace wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

Everything was in place for her to live the dream life.

Amara felt her heart clench.

All of this could have been hers.

If Tommy had chosen her.

But he hadn’t.

And now, she was here, outside, alone in the cold, gazing at what she had lost.

Amara remembered Tommy speaking about this house, though never directly.

It was a night like so many others, alone in the betting office. Birmingham slept beneath a thick layer of smoke and silence. Seated on a chair before a desk cluttered with account books, a cup of tea in her hands, she had let slip:

— Sometimes, I just want to leave this place. Away from the noise, away from the soot… See something other than asphalt and factory chimneys.

Tommy, seated at his desk, a cigarette between his lips, had lifted his gaze to her before slowly exhaling the smoke.

— Me too.

He hadn’t needed to say more. She had heard in his voice that it wasn’t just a fleeting desire.

— It was there before the war, but… it’s worse now, he had added after a pause.

She had nodded, understanding without him needing to explain. She hesitated for a moment—he spoke to her about the war more than he did to his own family. Amara could only understand that it was a sensitive subject for him. She added softly:

— I suppose… after what you saw in France, that makes sense.

He hadn’t responded right away, staring at some invisible point before him. Then, in a softer, almost distant voice, he had said:

— When I was a kid, my mother’s family would take us on the road me, Arthur, and John. In caravans. During the holidays.

Amara had straightened, intrigued.

— I didn’t know you traveled like a Gypsy.

— It wasn’t really traveling… We’d stop near lakes, in the woods… on roads no one else took.

She had watched him, trying to guess what he felt as he spoke about it.

— And what did you love most about it?

He had smiled slightly, as if recalling those memories.

— The nature… The silence. And the horses. Without them, we never would have seen all that. They carried us, pulled the caravans… I owe them for that.

Amara had laughed softly.

— Tommy Shelby, grateful to horses? That’s surprising coming from a bookmaker.

He had merely shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips.

She, on the other hand, had never known anything but Birmingham. So she had told him:

— My father used to take us, Jeremiah, my brothers and sisters, and me to the edge of the city. On foot. But at eight years old, walking for hours just to see a field and three cows felt more like a chore than a pleasure.

Tommy had smirked slightly, then looked her straight in the eyes.

— One day, I’ll take you to a real country house. In a car.

He had taken a drag from his cigarette before adding, almost absentmindedly:

— And this time, we’ll take the time to enjoy it.

Amara opened her eyes again.

That was a long time ago. Another life. Another time.

Today, he had kept his promise.

But not with her.

A part of her still couldn’t help but be happy for Tommy.

He had gotten what he wanted. His country house. His escape.

Even though Arrow House wasn’t far from Birmingham, the sky here seemed different. Amara lifted her gaze and observed the stars. She had never seen so many. Back in the city, they disappeared behind smoke and dust. But here, they shone freely. The pollution had yet to smother this place.

A bitter smile briefly crossed her lips.

She could still hear her mother’s voice in her head, gentle yet firm.

"Rejoicing for someone who has hurt you is a fine Christian virtue, my daughter. But neither I nor the Lord would want your heart to break because of it."

Amara lowered her gaze to the ground, her breath trembling.

In a whisper, barely a murmur in the night, she said:

— I’m sorry, Mama.

The cold wind seeped into her coat, but it wasn’t that chill that made her shiver.

Amara didn’t really know why she was here.

Why her steps had led her to this garden in the dead of night, where only the biting wind seemed to keep her company. Was it to prove to herself that all of this was real? That Tommy Shelby had truly abandoned her, had chosen another woman, another life?

Or was it to hurt herself? To feel every shard of pain, every fracture in her heart, until she could no longer deny the truth?

Maybe a small part of her still hoped.

Hoped that Tommy had changed his mind at the last moment. That, when the moment came to speak those fateful words, he had hesitated. That he had realized his mistake, thought of her and what they had shared, and had said no.

But there was no no . There was only the warm light spilling from Arrow House’s windows, illuminating the silhouettes of the guests. Sumptuous gowns, tailored suits, laughter muffled by the mansion’s imposing walls.

Then, her gaze fell on a detail that crushed the last remnants of her hope.

The uniforms.

Red and gold.

The Royal Irish Constabulary.

Her breath caught for a moment.

Tommy Shelby would never have let those men inside his home if this union hadn’t been consummated, accepted, wanted . He would never have let those Irish dogs drink his whiskey and walk his floors if he hadn’t sealed his fate with Grace Burgess… Grace Shelby .

Hope, insidious as it was, extinguished within her like a candle being blown out.

It was over.

There would be no turning back, no miracle.

The cold of the night seemed to seep under her skin, down to her very bones. She crossed her arms over herself, but it wasn’t the wind that made her shiver. It was the harsh truth she had tried so hard to avoid.

She lowered her head for a moment, clenching her jaw.

There were no more promises of a country house for her.

The only certainty Amara had was that, upon leaving this place, her pain would be even sharper.

And her purse even lighter.

Four days had passed since Tommy had come to her home to announce his marriage. Four days spent wandering the streets of Birmingham, looking for a job, facing rejection after rejection.

Some employers simply told her no, without any explanation. Others didn’t even wait for her to speak before ordering her to leave, eager to avoid frightening their precious clientele. There were those who looked at her with suspicion, those who lowered their voices when speaking to her, as if her very existence was an anomaly they didn’t know how to handle.

But the worst were the ones who smiled at her with fake sympathy before explaining that, unfortunately, they could not hire a Black woman.

As if it were obvious.

As if she was supposed to accept it without question.

Amara knew this city, she knew the looks, the heavy silences, she knew that no matter her skills or experience, her skin would always be an obstacle. She could argue, insist, prove that she could read, write, and count better than most of the men they hired without hesitation none of it made a difference.

It was only a matter of time before she would have to ration her money, count every meal, sell her belongings just to survive a few months longer.

A sigh escaped her as she lifted her gaze toward the imposing façade of Arrow House.

She had paid for a carriage to get here.

But she had no money for the return trip.

So, she would walk back.

Through the cold and the night.

Amara had arrived late at Arrow House, knowing this time of night would be perfect to avoid the guests' eyes. She knew everyone would already be inside, sheltered from the cold, and that no one would see her. No one would disturb her either. She had made sure to remain unnoticed, unwilling to be a silent spectator at the event that should have been hers.

She had learned the date and location of the wedding from the gossiping old women those elderly ladies whose tongues were always too loose and ears always open. Amara wasn’t surprised that the news had spread so quickly; after all, some of the Shelby cousins or Peaky Blinders members, probably drunk after a few glasses at the Garrison, must not have been able to keep such information to themselves. And, of course, the old gossips were the first to hear about it.

She remembered that day, when she had returned home after her conversation with Isaiah. That was when she had overheard them, those old women, sitting on the wooden bench outside their house. They spoke loudly, thinking no one was listening. They had commented on the wedding, unaware that Amara was passing right by.

— “That gypsy, it’s better that he marries a respectable woman, not a Black one like her," one of them had said with a sneer. "That would only make things worse for him."

The words were like daggers to Amara’s heart. She didn’t stop, but inside, she froze. She kept walking, but each word echoed in her head, embedding itself like shards of glass.

She had heard their judgments, their cruel words, and what they thought of her. What they thought of people like her. Those words had struck her harder than she had expected. She didn’t even dare to dwell on the way they had spoken. They had used terms she had never imagined hearing from women who seemed so respectable women who, in truth, were merely reflections of the intolerance that plagued society. Women who, to feel a little better about themselves, allowed themselves to judge and demean others.

Amara had walked away quickly, clenching her fists, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. It hurt, terribly so, and yet she didn’t react. She didn’t shout, didn’t respond. That wasn’t her way, and besides, she knew it wouldn’t change anything. To them, she was a foreigner in a world that was hostile to her, a world that rejected people like her.

Those words had settled within her, deeper than she wanted to admit, but she knew she couldn’t let them consume her. She took a deep breath and kept moving forward, refusing to be crushed by the prejudice of others. But with each step she took, she drew closer to the pain, to the suffering that life inflicted upon her, again and again.

Amara was abruptly pulled from her thoughts by shadows appearing in front of the window she had been observing—likely that of the living room, the main reception area of the wedding. Through the glass, she could make out a Royal Irish Constabulary soldier dancing with a woman dressed in a stunning red gown. The woman seemed to glow in her attire, the light in the room highlighting the richness of the fabric and the elegance of her movements.

Amara let out a quiet breath. She wondered how the Shelby family had reacted upon seeing all these men arrive in uniform for the wedding. Although she wasn’t surprised by the presence of the Irish police, she suspected that the Shelbys had observed the scene in their own way.

John and Arthur had surely been unable to resist making jokes, mocking the uniforms while raising a glass of whiskey. Amara could picture them perfectly, laughing loudly, not caring whether the officers could hear them or not. As for Polly, she was probably keeping a frosty distance from all the guests, freely passing judgment on every man and woman in attendance. She wouldn’t have spoken to anyone unless absolutely necessary, and even then, she would have done so with the coldness of a piercing gaze, as if she could see straight into their souls with a single look.

Amara thought that, though different from Polly, Ada wouldn’t be any less imposing. She blended into this world better than her aunt, but Amara could still imagine her looking down on them with disdain, as if she felt superior to all these outsiders mingling with the Shelbys for an occasion like this.

Linda and Esmee, on the other hand, were certainly on high alert. They would be making sure their husbands didn’t drink too much a role they had probably taken on from the very start. They would also have their eyes fixed on the swarm of Shelby children, though unlike Esmee, Linda didn’t have any among them. They would watch attentively, never letting them out of sight.

Finn, the youngest of the Shelbys, was surely too shy to engage in conversation with anyone outside of his cousins. But Amara also knew that he was probably trying to drink more than he was allowed, like all young men eager to prove something.

She knew each of them by heart. She knew their laughter, their flaws, their little habits, their routines as if she were part of this family, as if she had grown up with them. And yet today, a chasm seemed to open between her and them. She no longer had the right to know them this well. These bonds, these familiar markers she once had with them, seemed to drift further away. And in her chest, she felt an emptiness she had never known before.

Amara thought that Grace’s family couldn’t have been thrilled either, seeing one of their own mingle with what they considered impure blood, with wild gypsies. She imagined their faces twisted with surprise and discomfort, shocked by the loud and unfiltered ways of the Shelbys. She could almost hear their disdainful whispers, their judgmental glances cast upon a world they saw as so far removed from their own. A world where proper manners and decorum were sacred, where the dirt of Birmingham’s streets had no place.

The couple dancing in front of the window then separated, revealing another pair of dancers amid a crowd that had joined them. The fluid movement of the dancing guests gradually unveiled them. Amara froze instantly, her heart pounding harder in her chest.

There was a silhouette she would recognize anywhere, even in the dim glow of the reception hall.

Tommy.

Her gaze locked onto him.

He was there, dressed in a perfectly tailored black-and-white suit. The deep black of his jacket contrasted with the stark whiteness of his shirt, the open collar revealing a subtle detail that gave him an effortless elegance. His tall, upright frame seemed perfectly at home in this luxurious setting. He looked so handsome, so... himself. And yet, Amara felt her throat tighten at the thought that she had once seen him by her side, the man who had promised her so much.

Beside him, Grace was just as striking. She wore a violet gown that cascaded elegantly to her feet, the folds of the fabric fluid and flawless. The rich purple of the dress accentuated the golden tones of her hair, which was swept into a delicate chignon, with a few loose strands framing her face. A matching violet veil extended over her head, draping almost to her shoulders, giving Grace a regal and almost ethereal presence.

It was a vision that, unwillingly, shattered Amara’s heart, each detail a painful reminder of what she had lost and what she would never have.

The two dancers turned slowly, lost in the music that floated through the air. Tommy looked so at ease, so relaxed, as if this moment of joy was exactly what he had always wanted.

Despite the pain crushing her chest and the silent tears rolling down her cheeks, Amara couldn’t tear her gaze away from the window. She watched them, the two of them, swaying gently in each other’s arms, surrounded by their families. The music drifted through the air, intoxicating the atmosphere, but nothing could soothe the torment in her heart.

She had never seen Tommy dance. Even at John and Esmee’s wedding, he hadn’t allowed himself that kind of lightness. Tommy was not a man who indulged in such things always reserved, always guarded, as if dancing, like other expressions of emotion, was a boundary he preferred not to cross.

But now, here he was, turning slowly, his arms wrapped around Grace.

He looked so handsome, almost unreal in this scene. More than the beauty of his black-and-white suit, it was the aura surrounding him that captivated her. He was finally where he belonged. He looked so... happy.

And together they looked so beautiful, so perfectly matched. Like two souls who had finally found each other, finally bound by an invisible thread.

They danced with a natural harmony, a fluidity that hinted at hours spent getting to know one another, learning to love one another. Every gesture seemed like a promise, every exchanged smile a shared secret.

Amara felt a pang in her chest.

She wondered when that closeness between them had appeared. When had they crossed that invisible boundary, where the relationship between a man and a woman becomes more than just friendship or shared interests?

She recalled the early days, the way Tommy had looked at her, his protective gestures, the way he had always put her first, as if she were a treasure to be kept safe.

But she now wondered if that closeness, that connection between them, had always been there. Even when he had first met Grace.

A wave of pain engulfed her. Perhaps she had seen this bond forming between them without ever understanding it, without ever wanting to accept it. Every gesture, every glance they exchanged seemed to mean something that Tommy had never shared with her. And yet, she had believed. She had hoped, even when the signs were there, that her place was beside him.

Amara bit her lower lip, trying to hold back a sob, to tame the storm raging inside her. But the truth was there, right before her eyes: Tommy was with Grace, and everything they shared was far from what she had hoped for. She had been a piece of the puzzle, a step toward something he once thought was his future. But he had changed. He had made his choice. And she was no longer part of it.

She slowly turned her head, her gaze drifting toward the shadows of the night stretching around the house. If she had to watch them together, if she had to endure this pain in silence, then she might as well absorb it, imprint every image, every moment in her mind so that, maybe, one day, she could turn the page and move forward. But that day still seemed so far away.

The couple had separated, and in a fleeting motion, Amara quickly wiped her eyes with her hands, trying to erase the silent tears carving paths down her cheeks. She needed to regain control. But just as she tried to steady herself, a figure suddenly appeared in the window of the living room.

Amara startled, her heart stopping for an instant, struck as if by lightning. She froze. She wanted to look away, to hide in the shadows of the garden, but something held her in place. The man standing there, bathed in the dim light, looked so familiar. It was Tommy. He stood motionless, gazing through the glass, but his eyes, though directed outward, seemed as if they were searching for something or rather, someone.

At first, she thought it was an illusion, a mere shadow in the darkness. But no. Gradually, the contours of his face became clearer. Tommy. Her gaze locked onto him despite herself. The distance between them was vast, a sea of emotions and unspoken words separating them, yet she had this strange feeling, a pressing sensation in her chest, that his gaze was fixed right on her. He didn’t move, didn’t make any gesture. He was frozen, his eyes fixed on the garden where she stood, lost in the night’s shadows.

She hesitated, wondering if, in this darkness, he could truly see her. Perhaps it was just her imagination, her mind playing tricks on her, making her believe in things she wanted to be true. But no, he remained there, still, as if waiting for a reaction, as if his eyes were seeking hers, even across this distance.

A cold shiver ran down Amara’s spine, a mixture of pain and confusion overwhelming her heart. Her eyes welled up with fresh tears, heavier, more agonizing. Why was he looking at her like that? Why him, after everything that had happened? Why this strange feeling of still being connected to him, even after all he had done? Her thoughts swirled, colliding inside her mind, trapping her in place, making escape impossible.

She tried to focus on something else the cold wrapping around her, the crisp evening breeze but there was his presence, his silhouette, burned into her mind. She couldn’t look away from him, even though it shattered her more with each passing second. Why? Why had she been so naive? Why hadn’t she seen that this man the one she thought she knew was no longer the same?

The tears began to fall again, silent, like a river that would never stop. She quickly wiped her eyes, but it only made the moment more real. He was there, on the other side, watching her or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Yet, the longer she stared at him, the more another sensation crept in. That look the one that had been so full of life when he was with her, that spark she had always known was gone. It was empty now. A void. An abyss in his eyes, as if there was nothing left behind that gaze, as if he was lost in something he could no longer comprehend. The light Amara had once seen in his eyes was no more. Instead, there was a tired, broken man, a man who seemed to have given up on everything that made him feel alive.

Memories crashed against each other in her mind. Tommy so close, yet so far away. The Tommy she had loved, the one who had touched her with his hands, his words, his promises. Where was he now? What had he become? The man she saw before her, standing in the window, belonged to another world. He was no longer part of the reality she had known. That emptiness in his gaze, that absence lingering in every movement of his frame, left a mark on her heart. It was as if a part of him had already disappeared long ago, long before he made this choice, long before everything between them had changed.

Amara couldn’t breathe. She wanted to turn away, to flee from this scene playing out before her, to escape the pain suffocating her. But she couldn’t. Her eyes remained locked onto him—this man she no longer recognized, this stranger standing there, alone in the darkness, despite being surrounded by so many people inside. Why was he there, by the window, like a man lost, without life?

Her heart grew heavier. Finally, she turned away, shattered by the sight of Tommy and the emptiness in his gaze. But the pain followed her, relentless, gnawing at every thought, every memory. She had loved this man more than she had loved herself.

Amara no longer cared whether Tommy could still see her through the window. She turned on her heels, another wave of tears welling at the base of her eyes, flooding her face with despair. Her feet carried her forward, but her heart was too heavy to follow. She rushed out of Arrow House’s garden, darting through the shadows, her hurried steps echoing against the uneven gravel paths. Tears blurred her vision, making each step more uncertain, each breath more painful.

She ran without direction, without purpose, like a shattered soul caught in a whirlwind of pain and loss. The sorrow crushed her, devastated her, as if she were collapsing under the weight of a burden she could no longer bear. Every breath grew harder, every beat of her heart felt like it was tearing her apart. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t turn her head back. Not as long as the image of Tommy dancing with Grace remained burned into her mind.

The night’s cold seemed to wrap around her tighter, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating heat of the pain consuming her from within. The tears kept falling, uninterrupted, chilled by the breeze, but they didn’t stop. They flowed like an uncontrollable torrent, erasing every trace of dignity. Pain mixed with anger, with incomprehension. Why didn’t he choose me? Why her and not me?

She could see nothing anymore her world had shrunk to the muffled sounds of her own footsteps, her ragged breaths, and the whirlwind of suffering making her stumble, fall. She didn’t even feel the sting in her feet when she tripped over a stone that sent her crashing forward. Her body hit the ground hard, her knees slamming against the pavement with a dull thud. A cry escaped her lips, not just from the physical pain but from the deep despair rising from the very core of her being.

The gravel beneath her knees tore at her skin. She felt the cold seep into her flesh, but the physical pain was nothing compared to what was happening inside her heart. She wanted to get up, to push herself back to her feet, but her body refused to obey. Her hands trembled as she tried to press against the ground, but her legs too weak betrayed her. She collapsed again, this time onto her hands, which scraped against the rough stones.

The scratches on her knees deepened, her skin splitting open violently against the gravel. She felt the blood begin to flow, but it was only secondary pain. A pain that blended into the numbness of the agony in her chest. She placed her hand against the ground, forcing herself to find some strength to rise. But her body was too drained, too weighed down by suffering.

She cried out, this time in pure anguish the pain of a broken heart. The pain of unreturned love, the pain of a stolen future.

“Tommy…” she whispered, her voice shattered, like a breath stolen away. The words were barely audible, lost to the night. She tried to rise once more, but the pain was too much. She had no strength left. She whimpered, her head falling onto her outstretched arms, her eyes closing.

She felt like a lost soul, weighed down by solitude and pain. Everything she had believed possible had crumbled around her, like a sandcastle swept away by a storm. She stood there, on this dark road, alone, the wounds in her heart as deep as those on her body. Her thoughts blurred together; she could no longer distinguish what was real from what was not. The only certainty that remained was the relentless pain consuming her whole.

She surrendered to the gravity of the moment the pain, the tears, the loss. Maybe in this darkness, far from everything, she could finally find a semblance of peace. But even in this harrowing silence, Tommy’s voice, his silhouette dancing with Grace, remained in her mind unchanged, unshaken.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, March 23, 1922

The boys were all making their way to the kitchens of Arrow House, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty hallways. Finn, as usual, had spotted a few pastries on the servants' trays and had swiped them on the way, munching on them without a care. He arrived in the kitchen with an overly satisfied grin plastered across his face.

Arthur descended the stairs leading to the kitchen, his steps heavy and rushed, with John at his side, a bottle in hand. The tension in Arthur was palpable, his face marked by stress. He was nervous, his gaze darting around, unable to find his place in a moment that felt foreign to him. He had to give a speech, and he wasn’t even sure if his brother would like it. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if he liked it himself. He hadn’t been able to put his thoughts together, and every attempt he had made to write a few words ended up speaking more about Tommy’s relationship with Amara than with Grace.

Linda had written half the speech for him, but the words on the paper didn’t match what he felt. “Tommy, my brother, you have always been there for me, and today, I am proud to see you make this great decision, the decision to commit.” Arthur couldn’t recognize himself in such smooth, emotionless phrases especially since he had never imagined reciting them in front of a blonde woman and an entire cavalry, but rather in front of Amara and her family, whom he already knew. “You have become a respectable man, a true family man, and it is an honor to stand by your side today.” These words only highlighted the gap between what he wanted to say, what he thought, and what Linda had deemed appropriate to write. It wasn’t him. Not at all. The speech wouldn’t have been so favorable.

On the other side of the room, Michael stood against the wall, calm and silent, a lit cigarette between his fingers. He observed without really looking, seeming detached from the commotion around him. He was simply waiting for it to pass, as if he were there out of duty rather than desire. Michael was always the same the calm exterior masking an inner storm, indecipherable to others.

Isaiah, meanwhile, positioned himself against a table, feeling uneasy. He and his father were there to support Tommy, but a heavy question weighed on his shoulders. He thought about his conversation with Amara at The Garrison she had assured him that he wasn’t responsible for the pain she was feeling. But despite that, he felt guilty for being here. Working for the Peaky Blinders, being part of this family, was one thing. But attending this wedding, which was largely the cause of his aunt’s suffering, was another. The guilt was eating away at him. He wondered if this wedding, this supposedly joyful moment, was really worth it.

Johnny Dogs, Curly, and Uncle Charlie arrived next, followed by a few more Blinders. The agitation in the kitchen kept growing, the atmosphere becoming heavier as more men gathered. The conversations were brief, sometimes whispered, but everyone was wondering why they were really here. Everyone except one.

Tommy finally entered. He took off his jacket with a fluid motion and lit a cigarette. He positioned himself in the center of the room, looking calmer than the others, yet carrying that same invisible tension on his face. He scanned the men around him, saying nothing, his cigarette slowly burning between his fingers. The moment felt suspended, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen.

Then Tommy spoke, his cold gaze sweeping across every man in the room. He didn’t need to shout everyone knew that when Tommy Shelby spoke, it was an order disguised as a statement. He took a drag from his cigarette before exhaling slowly, then said:

— Today is my fucking wedding.

Before he could continue, John cut him off abruptly, his voice firm and irritated:

— You said there wouldn’t be any bloody uniforms.

John gestured sharply toward the men in the uniforms of the Royal Irish Constabulary Grace’s family members. Their presence had already been a point of friction since the start of the day, and now that John was openly addressing it, a palpable tension settled in.

Tommy stepped closer to his brother, his gaze locked onto his, a determined expression on his face. He punctuated his words with broad gestures, as if striking the air around him.

— Nevertheless... nevertheless, John, despite all the bad blood, I don’t want any of that on my fucking carpet, he said, pointing to the floor as if it signified an entire world.

He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting into the distance before refocusing. He shrugged, as if convincing himself, then continued:

— For the love of...

He hesitated, his gaze briefly flickering to the tiled kitchen floor, a slight discomfort crossing his face before he resumed in a calmer, colder tone:

— For the love of Grace, nothing will go wrong.

The words were heavy with meaning, but it wasn’t so much the "for the love of Grace" that unsettled the room it was the weight he carried on his shoulders and the burden he wanted everyone else to carry with him. But in John’s eyes, and in the eyes of the other men, nothing of Tommy’s inner turmoil was visible.

Isaiah, standing by the table, exchanged a fleeting glance with his father. He didn’t need words to understand what his father felt though calm, his father had noticed the pain in his son’s eyes. He gave him a discreet nod, a gesture meant to be reassuring. But nothing changed in Isaiah’s mind. Every word, every movement from Tommy, echoed within him like a refrain. He heard only Amara’s name, thought only of her. He saw himself by her side, as he had been during the darkest moments when his mother had died and his father had left for war. She had supported him then, reached out to him when no one else had. And today, it was his turn to be there for her. He felt it deep in his gut nothing else mattered more.

Isaiah closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the commotion around him, his head full of images of his aunt, of her devastated face. But all he could think about was that his duty, that day, was to protect his family not to be a mere spectator at Tommy’s wedding. And yet, he was here, not with her.

Tommy resumed his speech, his icy voice rising once more above the hushed turmoil of the kitchen.

— Those bastards over there… they’re Grace’s family.

He let his words hang in the air for a moment, his gaze lost in the void, as if searching for something invisible—some kind of anchor, some certainty. Then, he continued, slower, firmer:

— And if any of you fuckers do anything to embarrass Gra… her. Your families, your cousins, your horses, and even your fucking children...

His voice almost faltered at the end. He was threatening them, yes, but without truly putting his heart into it. The habit of being ruthless was there, ingrained in him, but there was something more fragile, more hesitant in this precise moment.

Isaiah, his gaze still troubled, kept thinking of Amara. Being here suffocated him, weighed on his conscience like an unbearable burden. He had to find a way to ease it, to soothe the guilt eating away at him. Then, without much thought, he blurted out:

— Tom… what about the snow?

The kitchen fell into silence, broken only by John's mocking chuckle.

— Yeah, their women are athletic, huh, Isaiah?

John, laughing, grabbed Isaiah’s head and ruffled his hair like a child’s. Isaiah let him, his forced smile barely masking his discomfort. But as soon as he straightened up, Tommy was already in front of him, so close that he could feel his burning breath on his face.

— No, Isaiah. There will be no snow.

Tommy’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but sharp as a blade. Isaiah clenched his teeth, bit his lip, then looked away. He would have to bear his guilt alone, with no way to numb it, no escape.

Tommy abruptly turned to John, pointing a firm finger at him.

— There will be no sport either.

John rolled his eyes but said nothing, merely shrugging. He knew Tommy wasn’t joking tonight.

Tommy passed by Arthur without slowing down, his voice cutting through the kitchen where servants still moved about, carefully avoiding the group of men at the center solid, impenetrable.

— No fortune-telling. No racing.

Arthur gritted his teeth but did not protest. This wedding was already a compromise they all had to accept, and Tommy was laying down the rules with no room for discussion.

Then, without warning, Tommy turned to Finn, stepping in quickly and grabbing his chin between firm fingers. Finn, caught off guard, widened his eyes slightly as his brother locked eyes with him.

— And you are absolutely not to siphon gas from the cars.

He punctuated his words with a light slap on Finn’s cheek not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to remind him who was in charge.

— … From Grace’s fucking family.

Finn lowered his eyes, resigned, as Tommy straightened up.

Leaning against the wall, Michael watched the scene in silence. He exhaled slowly, a cloud of cigarette smoke drifting from his lips, his cold gaze fixed on Tommy. His mother wouldn’t have stood for this. She would have cursed Thomas Shelby for betraying his own family, for making them bow to these Irish officers in their stiff uniforms and arrogance. Michael could almost hear Polly’s voice, spitting insults through clenched teeth.

But Tommy wasn’t done. He pivoted toward Uncle Charlie, stepping forward with quiet authority.

— And you, Charlie, stop telling stories about me.

Charlie, unfazed, raised an eyebrow before responding in a calm, almost amused tone:

— Just trying to sell you to them.

A muffled chuckle sounded behind them, but no one dwelled on it. Tommy wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

He moved back to the center of the group, running a tired hand over his face, the cigarette still clenched between his lips. He was exhausted. The wedding had barely begun, and he was already tired of playing warden, of having to watch over every member of his own family to prevent disaster.

He knew how easily things could spiral. One provocation too many, a misplaced look, and he’d have a Shelby in bed with an officer’s wife or worse, an Irish officer beaten to a pulp in Arrow House’s garden.

But he still had more to say. He lifted his head, took a final drag before crushing the cigarette between his fingers, then declared sharply:

— The most important thing, you bunch of bastards…

He let the words hang in the air, sweeping his gaze over each man in the room.

— … is that no matter what the cavalry says or does, no matter how they provoke you… you do not fight.

A tense silence settled. He knew it was easier said than done. His family was proud, impulsive. The Shelbys rarely took a blow without striking back.

Tommy let his eyes wander among the men until they landed on Isaiah. The young man, still leaning against the wall, was staring hard at the floor, as if hoping to melt into it and disappear. He had no desire to be here Tommy could see that clearly, and he couldn’t blame him.

— Isaiah.

Isaiah lifted his head reluctantly. Tommy studied him for a moment, hesitating, then raised a warning finger.

— No fighting.

Isaiah slowly nodded, silent.

Tommy immediately turned to John, repeating the gesture, finger still raised.

— No fucking fighting.

John merely exhaled through his nose, a glimmer of defiance in his eyes, but he didn’t protest.

Finally, Tommy turned to Arthur.

— No fucking fighting, Arthur.

Arthur raised his hands in surrender before Tommy felt the need to say it a third time.

Then, as if making sure everyone had understood, he returned to the center of the group and, in a voice that was firm, sharp, and absolute, hammered one last time:

— NO FUCKING FIGHTING.

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen. Tommy knew he had just set a challenge for his own family: a challenge of restraint, of patience. A challenge they weren’t sure they could meet.

Tommy left the circle of men and grabbed his jacket near Arthur. As he slid it over his shoulders, a waiter, rushing past, accidentally bumped into him in the crowded kitchen. The reaction was immediate without thinking, Tommy shoved him violently, sending the man stumbling to the ground.

— Get the fuck off me!

The sharp crash of breaking glass echoed through the room. The bottle the waiter had been carrying shattered into pieces on the stone floor. A tense silence followed as the other servants froze, torn between wanting to help their colleague and fearing to draw Tommy’s attention.

But Tommy didn’t linger. He ignored the fallen waiter and walked toward the kitchen exit, unfazed by the tension he had left behind. Behind him, Arthur, visibly agitated, threw his own glass to the floor, amber liquid splashing against the cold stone. Tommy didn’t acknowledge it.

Once outside the kitchen, he paused for a moment in the hallway. Most of the guests were already there, the house buzzing with movement, laughter, and hushed conversations. Yet the thought of immediately mingling with the crowd especially this crowd full of soldiers repulsed him.

And then, there was Polly.

Tommy inhaled deeply. A part of him would have preferred to avoid her disapproving stare. Since he had announced the wedding, she had barely spoken to him. No long conversations, no fiery warnings just one sentence, heavy with meaning:

"I see your father and mother fighting inside you, Tommy. Let your mother win."

But right now, Tommy knew. His father was winning.

And that simple thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Tommy pushed open the door to his room and closed it behind him, granting himself a moment of solitude before diving back into the chaos of the wedding. He scanned the room, feeling that strange mix of familiarity and detachment that always gripped him when he stepped inside.

It was massive compared to his old bedroom in Small Heath, where narrow walls still held the echoes of his childhood. Here, the space breathed wealth, success. But to Tommy, success had a bitter taste.

The bed dominated the room, imposing. A canopy draped in delicate fabric framed the heavy covers embroidered in gold and burgundy. There was nothing left of the simple, austere bed of his youth. This bed was made for two.

The surrounding furniture radiated luxury and modernity. A large dark wooden wardrobe with finely carved handles stood against the wall, beside an elegant desk cluttered with scattered papers. A velvet armchair in deep midnight blue rested near the unlit fireplace, which still carried the faint scent of burnt wood.

But it was the vanity that caught his attention. Its polished wood gleamed under the dim lamp light, almost surreal. On it, delicate objects betrayed a woman’s presence: a half-open perfume bottle, a gold necklace carelessly draped over the edge, a brush tangled with a few strands of blonde hair. This room was no longer just his.

Tommy sighed and mechanically pulled out a cigarette. He stepped toward the vanity and stared into the mirror. He saw the exhaustion in his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his clenched jaw. He remained there for a moment, lost in his own reflection. Then he closed his eyes.

He needed a drink.

One last whiskey before returning to the crowd.

One last whiskey, he hoped strong enough to burn his tongue and erase the bitter taste of the words he had spoken earlier that day.

Tommy grabbed the crystal bottle and paused for a moment, watching the amber liquid through the finely cut glass. A precious drink for some, a necessity for him. Wasting no time, he poured himself a generous measure, the liquid splashing noisily against the sides of the glass.

He could have sat in the velvet armchair by the fireplace, savoring each sip like a man at peace with himself. But Tommy Shelby was not a man at peace. He had neither the time nor the desire for it.

So, without hesitation, he brought the glass to his lips and drained it in one go.

The first sip was too much to swallow all at once, but he refused to lower the glass. His throat tightened under the intensity of the alcohol, a familiar burn rising behind his nose. He swallowed, took a brief breath, and downed the second gulp immediately after.

He had been drinking whiskey for years, but drinking it this way brutally reminded him of the first times. When the burn was a shock, when it made him wince. Today, he didn’t wince anymore. He welcomed the pain.

He set the glass down on the dresser with a sharp clink and slid a hand into his pocket to retrieve his pocket watch. He opened the lid with a mechanical gesture and fixed his gaze on the golden hands.

It was time to go.

The guests were waiting. She was waiting.

The reception and dinner wouldn’t start without him.

Tommy left the room, taking the stairs down to the ground floor of the house. With each step, the noise of the crowd grew louder, intensifying as he neared the salon. Voices, laughter, and conversations blended into a muffled hum. He had no real desire to rejoin that world, to dive back into it after taking a moment to breathe upstairs. But the evening would not wait, and he knew he had no choice but to go through with it.

When he entered the salon, he immediately spotted Grace approaching him. She gave him a light look before speaking.

— My uncle and several of his cousins want to meet you," she said, pulling him aside. "They might be… a bit overwhelming. Just a warning, they don’t know when to stop.

She ended her sentence with a fleeting caress on his cheek, a gentle gesture meant to be reassuring, though it tensed Tommy more than he wanted to show.

— Thanks, Tommy replied, unfazed, a faint smirk on his lips.

She gently took his arm, leading him toward the waiting guests. That was when his gaze landed on a man in the uniform of the Royal Irish Constabulary. He stood straight, his posture rigid, almost threatening. He nodded at Tommy in greeting but without warmth, without sincerity. Tommy returned the nod, his cold stare never leaving the man’s.

— A pleasure to meet you, said Grace’s uncle, his voice icy and calculated. It’s not every day one gets to meet a man like you.

Tommy immediately understood this wasn’t just a polite exchange. The man didn’t bother hiding his judgment, his evident disapproval. But Tommy remained calm.

— The pleasure is mine, he replied, his tone just as polite, yet unwavering.

The uncle then turned to his niece.

— Grace, don’t you think it’s time to inform the master of ceremonies so he can seat the guests for dinner? he added with a slight air of superiority.

Grace gave Tommy a final glance apologetic but said nothing. She simply nodded before discreetly heading toward the master of ceremonies, leaving Tommy alone with the man.

Grace’s uncle then focused entirely on Tommy, his voice turning sharper, more direct.

— Tell me, Tommy Shelby, how does a bookmaker from a place like Small Heath end up in a house of this stature?

The question was laced with accusation, with judgment, as if the man expected an answer that would confirm his suspicions. Tommy, however, wasn’t the kind to be unsettled by such remarks.

— Well," he replied calmly, I invested wisely, at the right time, with the right people. My family and I worked hard to get here. We grew, and our business grew with us. Nothing more than that.

The man raised his eyebrows slightly, seeming somewhat surprised by the simplicity of the answer. But he nodded, as if not entirely convinced yet unwilling to press further.

— Interesting, he muttered distractedly before turning slightly, lost in thought.

But Tommy was no longer really listening. He had heard this question a hundred times before, and his answers had become automatic. What now caught his attention was the man who had just entered the salon Father Hughes. Tommy watched him from afar, his eyes never leaving the imposing figure as he slowly moved through the room.

Grace’s uncle also noticed the priest’s arrival but made no comment. Tommy, however, was now entirely focused on Father Hughes. The man, with his calm and impassive demeanor, moved through the crowd like a shadow.

Tommy excused himself briefly from Grace’s uncle, who didn’t seem to mind much. He turned and headed toward Father Hughes. But before he could say a word to the man, the master of ceremonies spoke up in a loud, clear voice.

— Ladies and gentlemen, please follow the newlyweds to the dining hall. Dinner is about to begin.

Grace slipped beside Tommy in an instant, gently linking her arm with his. They had prepared for this moment, but Tommy knew it was just another step in a much more complex and far more troubling event. The dining hall awaited, and with it, all the guests.

The guests began to move, forming distinct groups, each settling into a carefully designated place. There was a palpable caution in the air. No attempt was made to mix the families, no effort to weave bonds that wouldn’t be welcomed. Order was essential for everything to go smoothly. Tommy could feel the weight of the stares on him, the silent expectations building around him.

He dreaded this dinner as much as his brother Arthur did, though not for the same reasons. Arthur’s speech was a sword of Damocles, hanging over them all. But what troubled Tommy even more was the black ribbon he had received earlier a sign, an omen of misfortune. And, of course, the presence of Hughes, which could never mean anything good. But one thing was certain: if Hughes was here, then the Russians surely were too.

Tommy scanned the room, observing faces and body language as he always did in a crowd. His eyes landed on a man with graying hair and a thick mustache, his skull oddly shaped, almost like a lightbulb. The man appeared to be engaged in an animated conversation, but Tommy knew he wasn’t here by chance. It was him.

Grand Duke Leon Petrovich. An exiled aristocrat fleeing the Russian Revolution a mysterious man whose reputation left little room for uncertainty. Tommy quickly averted his gaze, focusing instead on his thoughts. Polly may have been angry with him, but she had listened when he asked for her help in extracting information from this man.

As Tommy continued his silent observation, Grace absentmindedly touched his arm. She laughed softly, drawing his attention to her.

— Did you see? she said lightly. Your aunt has found herself a man for the night.

Tommy gave a vague nod, his mind still preoccupied with far more pressing concerns. He turned his attention back to the table, focusing on the guests settling in around them.

At last, dinner was served, arranged with the same care and sophistication as the rest of the estate. Pristine white tablecloths covered the grand tables, where fine porcelain plates were meticulously placed with precise attention to detail. The silverware was arranged according to the strictest rules of etiquette, and crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow, adding an air of timeless elegance to the setting. Everything here was flawless the polished, perfectly carved furniture, the sparkling wine glasses. It was a scene one would expect to find in the salons of the grandest noble families, a near-unreal setting, as if everything had been designed to uphold a facade of perfection.

Yet despite the grandeur and elegance of the room, the atmosphere was heavy. Between his family's nervous laughter, the incessant teasing among his relatives, and John's children running through the room, screaming and squabbling, the evening’s balance felt precarious. Grace’s family, far more reserved, watched with an air of disdain, constantly turning to exchange looks with their table neighbors, as if silently pointing out each social misstep. Sharp comments were whispered discreetly, and Tommy could hear the murmurs of condescension about the "gypsies" a term Grace’s family used without hesitation to refer to certain guests.

Still, Tommy tried to remain calm, not to let himself be affected by the increasingly tense atmosphere. But he couldn’t shake the weight in his stomach, the ever-present sense of unease.

Then, at last, dessert arrived a small note of sweetness in an otherwise bitter evening. Delicately decorated pastries were placed before each guest, while servers moved about with glasses of champagne. But even this touch of indulgence couldn’t lift the mood. Tommy couldn’t rid himself of his worry. The stares of the Russians, the presence of Petrovich, Hughes' looming figure… the wedding… All of it haunted him, and he found himself unable to focus on something as simple as a meal, no matter how refined it was.

As dessert neared its end, so did the moment for Arthur’s speech. He rose slowly, searching for Linda’s gaze. He let out a quiet sigh, hoping for a sign of encouragement from his wife, and when he looked into her eyes, he found it a silent glimmer of support.

Arthur cleared his throat, drawing the guests’ attention. The room fell silent, the murmurs fading as he unfolded the paper Linda had written for him. He began reading, his voice slightly louder than usual, almost solemn.

— Ladies and gentlemen, dear guests, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two souls. Tommy, my brother, you have always been there for me, through good times and bad, and today, I am proud to see you taking this big step. The step of committing yourself, not only to… Grace, he hesitated, but also to the new life you are about to build together.

Arthur paused, trying to capture the audience’s attention. He looked at Tommy, seated at the table, and tried to recall the words he was supposed to say. But this carefully prepared speech felt heavy, too formal for him. He felt again the gap between what he wanted to say and what he was expected to say. He continued, though with less conviction.

— You have become a respectable man, a true family man, a man worthy of admiration, and it is an honor to stand beside you today, to have spent all this time with you, and to celebrate this new chapter in your life.

Arthur looked up at the gathering, hoping his words would strike a chord. But deep down, he felt an unease creeping in a disconnect. The image of Tommy he was painting was the universal one of a man getting married, but not the man he truly was in his heart. His childhood memories, their mischief, their schemes together, were far more vivid than these polished, conventional words.

With a hint of frustration, he folded the paper and let it fall onto the table. This wasn’t him; it didn’t feel like him. He wanted to say something more genuine, more personal, for his little brother.

Arthur then turned to the room, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

— I remember, Tommy, we got up to all kinds of trouble as kids, didn’t we? Like that time we set old Mr. Walters’ barn on fire with John, and you nearly got kicked out of the shop for leaving a pigeon inside? It wasn’t right, but it was us, wasn’t it?

He chuckled slightly, feeling the warmth of shared humor in his gaze. But an awkward silence settled over the room, and Arthur didn’t immediately notice, caught up in his own memories.

He continued, increasingly absorbed in his recollections.

— And then there was that time we stole Charlie’s horse, just to see if we could lead it to the river… and ended up soaked in mud from head to toe!

Laughter started to ripple through the room, but suddenly, Tommy stood up abruptly, cutting his brother off mid-sentence. He moved quickly toward Arthur, a determined look in his eyes. Before Arthur could say anything truly embarrassing, Tommy raised his hand, stopping him cold.

— Thank you, Arthur, he said in a calm but firm voice, raising his glass.

The guests froze for a moment, surprised by the interruption. Arthur, momentarily stunned, turned to Tommy with a wounded expression. He hadn’t had the chance to finish what he wanted to say. A feeling of incompleteness washed over him, and he felt a pang in his chest.

— Tom, I wasn’t finished yet, Arthur said in disbelief, a hint of resentment in his voice, though he tried to stay composed.

— We’ll talk later, alright? Tommy murmured, but Arthur didn’t respond, choosing instead to sit back down silently, arms crossed.

Arthur rolled his eyes, annoyed at being cut off mid-momentum. He stared at Tommy for a moment, then turned away with a slight huff, as if trying to mask his disappointment.

Seeing his brother’s expression, Tommy placed a hand on his shoulder a gesture that, though meaningful, did little to erase the awkwardness that had just unfolded.

Tommy then turned toward the guests, trying to steer the mood back on track, scanning the room for a way to divert attention.

He hadn’t intended to humiliate Arthur in front of everyone, only to prevent an embarrassing situation for both of them and for the entire gathering. But in doing so, he had likely planted a seed of anger in his already drunken brother.

The conversations slowly resumed as the guests, now satisfied with their meals, began rising from the table, drifting back toward the sitting room, where the atmosphere had lightened slightly after dinner. John, busy calming Esmee and their baby, stood with his wife near the fireplace. Ada chatted with a woman she barely seemed to know. Polly was still deep in conversation with the Russian, while Finn stood in a small group with his young cousins and Isaiah.

Tommy scanned the room, his mind still unsettled by the earlier scene. Then, he caught sight of Arthur quietly slipping out of the house, followed closely by Linda, who trailed after him as if also ready to withdraw to the front courtyard. Grace, who had been observing, stepped closer to Tommy, concern in her eyes.

— Are you alright? she asked gently.

Tommy looked at her, softening slightly so as not to worry her.

— Yeah, I’m fine. Arthur’s just a little pissed that I cut him off during the speech, but he’ll get over it. Don’t worry.

He paused, then, glancing in the direction Arthur and Linda had gone, added, I’m going to go talk to him.

Grace nodded but kept her gaze on him. Tommy stepped away, leaving her to return to her conversations, and headed toward the door.

Outside, Arthur and Linda stood on the porch of Arrow House. Tommy approached them without hesitation, letting out a quiet sigh before saying in a calm yet authoritative tone:

— Linda, please, leave us. We need to talk.

Linda gave a small nod, casting a final glance at Arthur before walking away, disappearing into the dim evening light.

Tommy placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder and gently guided him, arm around him, away from the door, toward the garden. They moved toward the stone fountain, where the air was quieter.

— Arthur, Tommy began firmly, we talked about the speech. That’s why I asked Linda to help you write it. I wanted to avoid any bullshit any stories about street gypsies.

Arthur, visibly hurt, stopped abruptly. He turned to his brother, his jaw clenched, clearly irritated by the remark.

— Who do you think I am, Tommy? he snapped, his voice rising as he paced around the fountain. You think I don’t know what I’m doing?!

Tommy remained calm, stepping closer.

— It’s not that, Arthur. I was trying to stop you from ruining what’s left of this evening. He paused, trying to reason with his brother. Don’t mess everything up with your nonsense.

Arthur, already agitated, spun around, pacing furiously in circles around the fountain, lost in his own whirlwind of emotions.

— I’m trying my best, for fuck’s sake! Arthur shouted, his voice growing more desperate as he continued pacing. I wanted to show you how I feel about you, damn it! What I really think of you!

Tommy, feeling the tension rising, spotted two Royal Irish Constabulary officers outside, smoking idly. He turned toward them, giving them a small nod.

— You’d best head inside, gentlemen.

The two men shrugged and turned away without a word, heading toward the entrance. Tommy, meanwhile, refocused on Arthur, following his brother’s erratic movements around the garden fountain, determined to calm him down.

— Arthur, calm the fuck down! Tommy shouted, watching his brother continue to flee, like a horse at full gallop.

Arthur, staggering slightly from the alcohol, was no longer listening. The anger, frustration, and drink had completely unmoored him. Then, with a furious outburst, he let out a primal scream.

— Fuck! Arthur shouted before stumbling and crashing heavily to the ground, twisting his ankle with a dull thud.

Seeing his brother down, Tommy immediately rushed toward the doors of Arrow House. Arthur, looking defeated, sat heavily on the entrance steps, his head lowered, visibly exhausted.

— Three drinks, that’s all, Tommy, he muttered, his voice broken by alcohol and frustration.

Tommy sighed, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

— I know, Arthur.

Arthur shrugged like a man who knew everything had already unraveled, that the words spoken were behind him now.

— I’ve drawn the line, Tommy. It’s over for me.

Tommy knelt beside him for a moment, his gaze sharp and serious.

— I know, Arthur.

He stood up, seizing the moment to give his brother some new information—something to focus on.

— The Russians made contact, Arthur, Tommy began gravely. And you’ll have to get used to those bastards. They see family as a weakness. They come after us, but family is our strength. We need to stand together now.

Arthur looked at him, anger mixed with exhaustion. Tommy grabbed his arms, pulling him up gently.

— There’s business to take care of, Arthur. I need you. No matter the speech, the wedding, or the bullshit. You’re my best man, and I need you by my side every fucking day.

Arthur, his eyes glistening with silent sorrow, nodded.

— You’re right, Tommy.

Tommy turned to leave but then stopped and added:

— Now go find John, sober him up, and get Johnny Dogs for the Russians tonight. Polly got the Russian’s code.

Polly had made it clear with a slight nod and a dark glance just before she left the dinner table.

Arthur, still half-stunned, slowly nodded.

— Alright. Got it.

Tommy turned toward the house, but just before stepping inside, he called back:

— And from now on, listen to Linda, alright?

Arthur, jaw clenched, nodded without answering. Tommy disappeared into the shadows of the house, leaving Arthur alone on the steps.

Arthur muttered bitterly:

— Amara would have let me finish…

Tommy, without turning back, continued walking, leaving Arthur to his thoughts.

Inside, Tommy made his way toward the living room, where Grace was waiting for their first dance as husband and wife. As he entered, the musicians adjusted their pace, shifting to a slow, romantic melody. The couples already dancing instinctively stepped aside, leaving the center of the floor to the newlyweds.

Grace beamed as she extended her hand to him, and Tommy, despite his calm and controlled expression, took it. He intertwined his fingers with hers, placing his other hand on her waist as she rested hers on his shoulder. They began to sway in slow, fluid movements.

Grace, with her bright eyes, looked at him with love. But despite his slight smile, Tommy’s mind was elsewhere. Arthur’s words echoed in his head.

"Amara would have let me finish."

The sentence lingered. There was no doubt Amara would have let Arthur finish. She would have encouraged him to recount their wildest childhood antics, laughing heartily, demanding more details, hungry for those street memories, for that chaotic life she understood so well. Unlike Grace, who now gazed at him with soft, idealized love, Amara had always seen him exactly as he was.

He tried to lose himself in Grace’s blue eyes, in the softness of her features, in the polished shine of her sleek blonde hair… but something in him resisted.

Not far away, Polly watched them, a cigarette perched between her lips. She hadn’t paid much attention to Grace throughout the day, mostly regarding her with her usual disdain. But now, as the young woman stood under the dim glow of the parlor lights, dancing with Tommy beneath admiring gazes, a detail struck Polly with sudden force.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying Grace.

Her hair shimmered with a certain light under the chandeliers. Her skin, though fair, had a warm undertone Polly hadn’t quite noticed before. Her gaze drifted lower, following the movements of the couple. That’s when she saw Grace’s neckline her full, firm curves.

Polly’s stomach twisted.

How had she not seen it before?

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to steady her thoughts.

How had she been so blind?

She took a drag from her cigarette, then exhaled slowly, her gaze still fixed on Grace. A thought struck her, cold and sharp.

Amara.

The poor girl.

Sweet. Kind. Genuine.

She was going to be shattered.

A sigh escaped Polly’s lips. She cast one last look at Tommy, who continued dancing, oblivious to her scrutiny, before turning away.

He was more like his father than he realized.

The final notes of the song faded into the air as Tommy and Grace came to a stop. The crowd erupted in warm applause, and Grace, radiant, turned to her husband with a bright smile. Tommy gave her a smaller smile in return before leaning in slightly.

— Go join your cousins. I’m sure they all want to dance with the bride.

Grace nodded enthusiastically, brushing his arm briefly before walking away, a smile still lingering on her lips. He watched her move toward the women, who welcomed her with smiles of varying sincerity.

Tommy, meanwhile, stepped away from the dance floor and made his way to a large window in the parlor. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control over himself, then let his gaze drift outside. Night had long since fallen, casting the perfectly maintained gardens into a semi-darkness. The carefully trimmed bushes formed irregular shadows, almost shifting under the glow of the outdoor lamps.

Then, a movement caught his attention.

Behind one of the large bushes, something stirred. Tommy narrowed his eyes. At first, he thought it was just a drunken guest who, overcome by an urgent need, had chosen to relieve himself in the shadows rather than wander aimlessly in search of the manor’s toilets.

But then, he saw the hair.

His heart skipped a beat.

It wasn’t just any hair.

It was an afro.

Not as round, not as perfect as he had always known it, but there was no doubt in his mind.

It was her.

His entire body froze. A shiver ran down his spine, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He had gotten married today. He had danced with his wife under the gaze of dozens of guests. He had smiled. He had played his part.

But not once had his heart pounded the way it did now.

Amara.

Could she see him too?

The answer came quickly.

She suddenly emerged from the bushes, her face barely visible in the flickering light outside.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, without even trying to hide, she turned on her heel and started running.

She was fleeing.

Fleeing Arrow House.

Fleeing him.

Tommy remained rooted to the spot, unable to look away. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he felt a chasm open beneath his feet.

She had come.

She had seen him.

And she had left.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, March 25, 1922

Amara pushed open the heavy church door, which creaked slightly under its weight, and stepped into the silent building. The air inside was cold, almost freezing a stark contrast to the noisy bustle of Small Heath she had just left behind. As soon as the door closed behind her, the neighborhood’s turmoil vanished, replaced by an almost unreal calm. Only the faint crackling of a few candles and the muffled sound of her footsteps on the tiled floor disturbed the sacred stillness.

She walked slowly down the central aisle, her eyes scanning the church's interior. Tall stained-glass windows in shades of blue and red filtered the moonlight, casting colorful shadows on the aged wooden pews. The statues of saints, frozen in immutable solemnity, seemed to watch her in silence. The scent of incense still lingered in the air, a remnant of a recently held mass.

Amara reached the small glass container affixed to the wall near the entrance and gently dipped her right hand into the holy water. The liquid’s cold touch sent a shiver down her spine. She brought her damp fingers to her forehead, tracing a slow, deliberate sign of the cross.

— In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… she murmured, her voice barely audible.

She completed the gesture with a whispered “Amen,” like an echo from the past, before lowering her gaze. Every time she repeated this ritual, she couldn't help but think of her mother.

She saw her again, smiling, dressed in her finest Sunday dress, gathering them all after mass, her arms wrapped around her children with pride.

— I have raised good Christian children, she used to say with a tender smile before placing a kiss on their foreheads.

But those words were not always a mark of affection. Sometimes, they were a warning, a discreet yet firm reminder. When her brothers tried to imitate the white boys from the neighborhood, laughing too loudly or speaking insolently, their mother would bring them back in line with a single phrase:

— I have raised good Christian children.

Then she would open their large family Bible and make them copy down the genealogical tree inscribed on its first pages.

The one that traced back to Adam, through Noah, Abraham, David, and all those names written in golden letters. Dozens upon dozens of generations. An endless litany of fathers and sons, which they carefully transcribed in black ink onto long, time-worn pages.

It could take hours. Their wrists would burn. But their mother remained there, silent, reminding them through this simple exercise that they must never forget who they were. But also because the poor woman feared that her young children would be targeted by the people in the neighborhood even more than they already were, being a poor family in a working-class district.

Amara took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, pushing away the memories tightening around her heart.

She stepped forward toward the altar, her footsteps barely echoing on the cold church tiles. The aligned pews on either side formed a silent corridor leading to the heart of the sacred space. Once before the altar, she bowed respectfully, then lifted her gaze to admire the grand structure before her.

The altar was imposing, carved from pale marble veined with gray. Brass candlesticks framed a large crucifix suspended at the center, depicting Christ in a posture of suffering and redemption. Behind it, an embroidered tapestry with golden motifs narrated a biblical scene, its colors slightly faded by time. On either side, heavy candelabras held consumed candles, their wax hardened into frozen rivers along the metal. The scent of burnt incense still clung to the air, mingled with the polished wood of the pews and the pristine linen of the altar cloths.

After a moment of contemplation, Amara turned away. Her gaze instinctively sought out her favorite spot in the church: a row of pews on the side of the altar, slightly concealed by a massive stone pillar. It was a quiet refuge where she had often found solace, a secluded space where she could observe without being seen. If anyone entered the church, they wouldn't notice her immediately unless they advanced all the way to the altar.

But just as she was about to walk toward her familiar sanctuary, her gaze froze.

A feminine silhouette sat on one of the pews. Slightly hunched, hands resting atop one another, she wore an elegant emerald green veil that framed her face and draped over her shoulders in silky folds. Beneath the veil, a matching dress cascaded in flowing pleats down to her ankles. The fabric, evidently expensive, was finely embroidered on the bodice with delicate floral patterns that caught the soft glow of the candles. The long, fitted sleeves accentuated her slender wrists, while a discreet brooch fastened the dress’s collar with calculated elegance.

Amara didn’t need to see her face to know who she was.

Polly Gray.

She stood still for a moment, staring at the seated woman with silent apprehension. A quiet sigh escaped her lips.

Had she taken the time to properly compose herself before coming here? Was she presentable, worthy of being seen as a respectable woman?

Or did she simply look like a lost soul, seeking comfort in an empty church, her heart too heavy to conceal her turmoil?

Amara pulled her coat tighter around her and took a measured step forward, her gaze fixed on Polly.

Polly said nothing, but her eyes spoke for her. Amara could feel the intensity of that silent observation, the way Polly scrutinized every detail of her face, searching for what had changed since their last meeting. It was not just a look; it was a meticulous assessment, an examination that went far beyond appearances.

Amara sat beside her in respectful silence. A silence that was not uncomfortable but carried the weight of unspoken words. Polly slowly turned her head toward her, observing her for a few more seconds before extending her hand. Her slender fingers, adorned with rings, brushed against Amara’s chin, then applied a slight pressure to tilt her face for a better view.

Amara did not move, neither resisting nor avoiding the gesture. She let her do it, accepting the touch for what it was: a mixture of affection and maternal concern.

Polly took her time. Her dark eyes studied Amara’s features, perhaps searching for signs of hardship. Was she thinner? Did her cheeks still carry their former softness, or had they hollowed under the weight of her struggles? Her fingers glided gently along Amara’s cheek, tenderly caressing her skin, as if to ensure everything was still intact.

Amara briefly closed her eyes under the touch.

Since her mother’s death, Polly had been the closest thing she had to a maternal figure. Though she was now an adult, responsible, and herself a pillar for Isaiah and her sisters, there was something profoundly comforting in that touch. A silent reminder that, despite everything, someone still watched over her.

She was grateful that the fall she had taken on the night of the wedding had left no mark on her face. The scrapes and bruises on her body were well hidden beneath the fabric of her dress, safely out of Polly’s piercing gaze.

Polly finally let her hand drop to her lap, but she didn’t immediately look away. She remained still for a moment, as if hesitating over what to say, as if searching for the right words before speaking.

Amara, on the other hand, waited.

At last, Polly spoke, turning her gaze away from Amara to stare straight ahead.

— Your absence in the business is noticeable, she said in a calm, almost detached voice.

Amara nodded without replying, her eyes lost in the distance. She didn’t need to be told to know it.

Just seven days ago, she had stood at the heart of the betting office, surrounded by the familiar chaos that had been her world for years. John, stationed near the chalkboard, announced the odds in a loud, confident voice, listing the names of horses and their owners. The hum of customers filled the room, an incessant movement punctuated by the sound of footsteps on worn wooden floors, the clinking of coins tossed onto the counter, and the rustling of betting slips exchanged with eager hands.

Glasses of whiskey clinked against tables as some men drank between bets, their coarse laughter mixing with the curses of those whose wagers had just vanished. The acrid scent of tobacco and alcohol lingered in the air, soaking into the walls just as surely as the chalk dust that covered the large blackboard where the odds were updated throughout the day.

And she… she had been there, focused on the ledgers, adding, correcting, making sure every number was in its place.

It was another world. A world she had known for years, one that might seem chaotic from the outside but that, to her, was perfectly structured. And now, she was no longer a part of it.

The cold silence of the church contrasted violently with that vibrant memory.

— It’s no longer my role, she finally murmured, not really speaking to Polly.

The older woman turned slightly toward her, watching her out of the corner of her eye.

— Is that what you think? she replied, a hint of irony in her voice.

Amara said nothing. Because deep down, she wasn’t so sure what she believed anymore.

Polly spoke again, fixing her piercing gaze on Amara.

— Did Tommy tell you that? she asked, her tone almost accusatory.

But Amara cut her off immediately, shaking her head slightly.

— It’s not Tommy.

Polly nodded slowly. Of course not. She already knew. She knew that Amara would be incapable of working in the same room as him, incapable of seeing him every day, of hearing his voice, all while knowing that he returned home each night to another woman.

After a few seconds of silence, Polly spoke again, her tone more irritated this time.

— Tommy gave your position to Arthur.

Amara raised her eyebrows slightly but said nothing.

— Even though Linda forbids him from drinking as much as before, he’s still terrible with the accounts, Polly continued, exasperated. "Michael has to double-check everything every night."

Amara simply nodded. She wasn’t surprised. Arthur had never been good with numbers. The very idea of him handling the books was almost absurd.

Polly sighed, muttering under her breath.

— I won’t let Tommy give your job to his whore. If someone has to be hired to replace you, it’ll be my decision.

Amara felt her heart tighten at those words. A part of her knew Polly said it because she had no trust in Grace. But another part, a more intimate one, knew Polly said it for her. Because to Polly, Grace could never replace her.

At last, Amara spoke, her voice rough and hoarse, betraying the weight of the tears she had shed in recent days. She hadn’t spoken in a while. Since leaving Arrow House, she had remained silent.

— How is Esmee’s pregnancy? she finally asked, her throat raw, struggling to form the words.

John already had four beautiful children with Martha, his late wife, whom Amara had once cared for as a nursemaid. She had looked after them whenever John needed rest, when he needed to see something other than cries and diapers. Now, he was expecting a second child with Esmee, even though their first one together was still just a baby.

— Everything is going well, Polly replied with certainty. I told her it’ll be a little girl.

A faint smile lit up Amara’s face.

— Esmee will be happy… And Maggie too.

Little Maggie, the only girl among all of John’s children, would finally have a sister. But almost instantly, a pang of sorrow crept in, and she forcefully suppressed the maternal longing she had once felt with Tommy.

Polly nodded before adding,

— By the way, Maggie asked about you.

Amara felt her heart tighten. These children, as wild and spirited as their father, she loved them deeply.

— She told Esmee she wanted to have the same hair as you, Polly continued with a small, amused smile. "Esmee tried to explain that it wasn’t possible, but she was just as stubborn as her father and replied that you would tell her your secret."

A soft, brief laugh escaped Amara. Maggie and her stubbornness... She was a Shelby, after all.

That was why Amara loved children so much. She firmly believed that children were not born cruel; they were merely reflections of those who raised them. John’s children had never shown any malice toward her, despite her skin color. Sometimes, they asked curious, innocent questions, without any ill intent. Amara recalled moments when some of them had asked her, with disarming sincerity, if chocolate truly came from the color of her skin. More than once, she had to explain, laughing gently, that no, if they licked her, they wouldn’t taste chocolate that her color was simply her own. It was just a child’s curiosity, and in that innocence, Amara saw a reflection of John, a man who, despite everything, had raised his children with respect, without prejudice.

John himself was a good father, though, in some ways, he remained a child who needed attention and supervision from others. He was always quick to get into mischief, to tell jokes sometimes inappropriate, sometimes childish but he had raised them well, with kindness and love. Amara had never been able to stop admiring that about him.

Polly broke her thoughts by informing her that Ada would be coming over for tea. Amara nodded without much enthusiasm. She wasn’t particularly in the mood for visitors, but the thought of spending time with Ada and maybe seeing Karl too offered her some comfort. Seeing them would surely take her mind off things, pulling her away from her troubles and the heavy solitude she had locked herself into these past few days.

Polly stared at Amara for a moment, her piercing eyes searching for something in the young woman's gaze. Then, she slowly looked away, pulling out a cigarette, hesitation flickering in her expression—something almost unnatural for her. Polly wasn’t one to hesitate. Usually, she didn’t care what others thought. She said what she had to say, no matter the consequences. But now, in front of Amara, something held her back. A part of her wondered if this was the right moment, if it was even her place to reveal this.

And then, she had seen it—the Amara who was no longer the same. The woman she once knew, full of life, of smiles and laughter, seemed to have disappeared. The sight before her—a woman drained, marked by pain, her cheeks hollowed, her gaze empty of its usual spark—moved her deeply. And for this Amara, she felt compelled to speak.

She wasn’t sure Tommy was ever going to tell her. She didn’t know if he would let her figure out the truth on her own, if he would keep waiting until she pieced it together herself. She doubted it. Tommy didn’t deserve Amara. He never would. That thought frustrated her even more, but she knew the truth had to come out. And maybe, just maybe, it would push Amara away from him. She deserved better.

Polly clenched her fists, her gaze hardening, and she finally said it, without hesitation:

— Grace is pregnant. That’s why everything was rushed, why it happened so fast. Tommy hurried to marry her because she’s carrying his child.

She let her words settle in the air, her eyes never leaving Amara’s face.

— Her silky hair, her glowing skin, her full breasts all of it. She’s pregnant, I’m sure of it.

She paused for a moment, taking a breath before delivering the final blow:

— Tommy married her because she’s carrying his baby.

Amara turned sharply toward Polly, her eyes widening, as if the truth she had just heard had struck her straight in the chest. Grace is pregnant. Those words spun in her head, infiltrating her thoughts with relentless brutality. Each syllable was like a hammer against her heart, cracking it a little more with every passing second. She closed her eyes, trying to escape the pain, but it was as if this revelation had rooted itself deep within her a sharp, dull, unbearable ache.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, each beat a drum against her ribs, reminding her of the reality she couldn’t avoid: Tommy was going to have a child. Grace was carrying his baby. The mere thought crushed her soul.

It was absurd. How had she not seen it? She felt stupid, lost in her tormented thoughts. She couldn’t believe what she had just learned. Tommy, the man she had loved, the one she had imagined growing old with, was now bound to Grace in a way she had never anticipated.

The thought of him lying with her burned through her. Images flooded her mind. They had done it. Of course they had. There was no doubt. Her memories of their moments together, the tender gestures, the laughter they all turned to ash in the face of this cruel truth. And suddenly, another thought hit her like a wave of nausea: Was it just once? Or multiple times? How many times?

Her hands clenched into fists, and she forced herself to breathe, but each inhale felt heavier than the last. Tommy. Her Tommy. The man she thought had been true. Had he done this because of her? Because she had denied him before marriage? He had always been patient, always respectful. But now, she understood. He had found his release elsewhere, in Grace’s arms. And Amara, naïve, blind, had believed in promises that, in the end, had been nothing but illusions.

The pain in her chest sharpened, each thought more agonizing than the last. She pressed a hand over her heart, as if the simple gesture could calm the storm raging inside her. But it only made the pain worse. The suffering was there, tangible, like a crushing weight, like a fireball rising from her stomach to her throat.

Her eyes welled up with tears, but she forced them back, unwilling to let them fall.

Her lips trembled as she turned back to Polly, her voice fractured, nearly hysterical:

— Did you touch her breast?!

The question burst from her lips like a cry of despair. Her breathing hitched, the air around her suddenly thick and suffocating. Each breath was a struggle, each word a battle against the panic clawing at her.

She felt the pain everywhere, in every fiber of her being. It was as if her body was breaking apart, as if disappointment and betrayal were carving their way into her very soul.

Polly stared at her, visibly taken aback by the intensity of Amara’s reaction, but she remained calm. Despite everything, she stayed composed. She reached out, placing a gentle hand on Amara’s knee, as if trying to soothe her panic, to offer her some of her own steadiness. But it didn’t help. Polly’s touch normally reassuring only made the agony inside Amara more unbearable.

A sharp pain shot through her leg, the wound from the wedding night still raw. A whimper escaped her lips as her head swam. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to regain control, but all she felt was pain.

She suddenly pushed herself up, her body trembling, standing before Polly as if she might collapse at any moment.

— Tell me. Tell me you didn’t touch her breast!

Her voice was frantic, shattered by anguish. She was like a caged animal, panicked, unable to understand why this pain was consuming her so completely.

Why did this image destroy her so much? She had known Tommy had betrayed her, but hearing that Grace was pregnant those words, those words had broken her in a way she hadn’t been prepared for.

Polly remained calm, taking a slow drag from her cigarette, as if she had expected this reaction all along. But she didn’t let herself be shaken. In a soft tone, she finally replied:

— No, I didn’t touch her breast. But I know what I saw, Amara.

Amara’s fists tightened, her heart pounding so violently she thought it might burst.

The question she had just asked Polly, about whether she had touched Grace’s breast, hadn’t come from nowhere.

That specific thought, that memory, was hammering in her mind, relentless, tormenting.

She couldn't forget that day, that scene that had etched itself into her, especially the way Polly had looked at Ada with such seriousness before placing her hand on her breast, examining it like a doctor. Polly had palpated Ada’s breast and had asked her a question, a question that revealed the truth long before anyone else knew it: "How long have you been late?" Polly had then told her she was pregnant, and at that moment, Amara had known she was never wrong.

Amara had seen it with her own eyes, the unwavering confidence Polly had in her gestures, the certainty with which she had announced Ada’s pregnancy. And that was what had led to her question. If Polly had done that with Ada, the thought that she hadn’t done it, that she hadn’t touched Grace’s breast, was the last sliver of hope lingering in Amara's mind, no matter how fragile it was. Maybe, just maybe, she was wrong. Maybe Grace wasn’t pregnant, or maybe it was a mistake, maybe it was all just a mirage. But that was just a fleeting hope that faded more and more as the truth forced its way into her consciousness, with overwhelming force.

Suffocation took over her, a sense of choking, of a lack of air. She felt trapped in her own body, as if the pain was compressing her from the inside, and tears started to flow down her cheeks despite herself. She felt vulnerable, broken, unable to face the reality. She had already been humiliated in front of the Shelby family these last few days, each encounter with them making her feel smaller, more insignificant, as if every glance, every word pierced her and obliterated her. She couldn’t allow herself to cry in front of them, to cry in front of Polly, to show that weakness that was destroying her from within.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then suddenly turned away, unable to bear the situation any longer. The tears blurred her vision as she rushed toward the exit of the church. She no longer had the strength to stay there, to endure the pressure. Each step she took led her farther away from Polly, farther from the pain of this revelation, but deep down, she knew that no place would shield her from the whirlwind that was ravaging her.

Amara ran without thinking, rushing toward the church doors, violently pushing open the large wooden doors. She could hear nothing around her except the sound of her own hurried footsteps echoing in the silence of the church. She didn’t stop until she crossed the threshold, finding herself outside under the gray sky, as if this simple act of fleeing distanced her just a little from reality. But the truth, no matter how far she ran, would always catch up with her, hands covering her face, silently crying, utterly exhausted, drowned in her pain.

She had lost everything.

Amara continued running, her legs carrying her body without her stopping, though her mind was elsewhere, engulfed in the whirlwind of images crashing against her. Grace, with a round belly, Tommy looking at her with eyes full of affection, all of it imprinted in her mind like poison. How could Tommy have changed like this? This wasn’t the same man she had known, the one who had kissed her tenderly, the one who had stood by her during tough times. This wasn’t him. No, it couldn’t be. How could he have betrayed her, made her suffer like this, going to marry Grace, and now with a baby on the way? Her heart was a sea of confusion, a sea of bitterness. He had left her, betrayed by his absence, by the coldness of his actions. He had chosen Grace, he had chosen her, and Amara had become nothing but a shadow of the past.

In her frantic race, her mind muddled, she momentarily lost her balance and bumped into a man who was in her way. Before she could react, he shoved her violently to the ground, and she felt the dull pain of her knees hitting the ground.

— Look where you're going, you dirty black," he spat, right next to her.

The cry of pain she let out echoed in the air, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t have time to focus on the pain. Her knees, already bruised from the fall the day before, were now covered with new scrapes, new wounds. But she didn’t let herself be overwhelmed by it, she didn’t let the pain invade her mind. She pushed herself up abruptly, her hands trembling but full of determination, and continued to run without looking back, fleeing, fleeing everything that reminded her of that betrayal.

She didn’t have the right to stop, not yet. Not until she found a place where she could finally breathe, free herself from this oppression, from this weight. Not until she was certain she had the truth.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, March 25, 1922

Tommy was sitting at his desk in the betting shop, a cigarette between his lips and a glass of whiskey resting on the dark wood of the desk. The shop had just closed its doors, and finally, a relative calm had settled in. No more John shouting the odds, no more constant coming and going of customers placing bets, no more clinking of coins tossed onto the counter, or the insults and exclamations of those winning or losing their wagers. Now, only a few muffled voices reached him through the closed door of his office quiet conversations between the men still present in the shop and the distinct sound of coins being counted, ensuring every note was in its place.

Tommy inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling into the air, his eyes fixed on an invisible spot on the desk. He could have taken a few days off he had every right to. After all, he had just gotten married. Any other man would have seized the opportunity to disappear for a few days with his wife, to get away from the turmoil of business, responsibilities, and danger. But Tommy was not like any other man.

When Grace had mentioned a honeymoon, he had declined without hesitation. He told her he would go with her later, when there were fewer matters to take care of, when the timing was better. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He had no intention of leaving. Not now. Maybe not ever. The idea of spending days alone with Grace, far from Birmingham, far from work, far from… everything, left him strangely cold. He didn’t feel the excitement he was supposed to feel not the eagerness one would expect from a man who had just gotten married.

He brought the glass of whiskey to his lips and swallowed a burning sip. He was tired more tired than usual. And yet his body refused to relax, still tense, still alert. He wished he could blame it entirely on the business with the Russians and Hughes, on the ever-growing complications, the constant threat. But it wasn’t just that. There was something else. Something deeper, more silent.

He thought about the night of his wedding. That brief but intense moment when he thought he saw a silhouette he knew all too well, hiding behind the bushes at Arrow House. His heart had pounded harder at the sight of her much harder than it had when he married Grace. He hadn’t imagined it. He knew what he saw.

Amara.

She had been there. She had seen him. And then she had run off.

Tommy clenched his jaw and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, irritated by his own thoughts. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to remember how his heart had reacted just from seeing her, nor the emptiness that had filled him when she disappeared. But he couldn’t help it. Because he knew. He knew that with her, things would have been different.

But it was too late.

And he had to live with that.

Tommy poured himself another glass of whiskey and took a sip, letting the alcohol burn down his throat before setting the glass down with a soft thud on the desk. He ran a tired hand over his face, then leaned over the papers scattered in front of him. Numbers, names, bets to verify, accounts to balance. Nothing waited in this business certainly not his exhaustion or his state of mind. The work kept piling up, whether he liked it or not.

He couldn’t complain. Since the Billy Kimber affair, the Peaky Blinders had taken control of most of the legal betting operations in Birmingham and beyond. That move had solidified their reputation, their influence, and above all, their fortune. More money, more power. Tommy had succeeded where so many others had failed. He had transformed this gang of bookmakers into a growing empire.

He still remembered the blood that had been spilled, the bullets that had flown that day. Billy Kimber had never seen it coming—not until Tommy shot him between the eyes. That day, everything had changed. Their business had become more prosperous, and with that came bigger ambitions. But it hadn’t come without consequences. There were always enemies. Always obstacles. Always threats lurking in the shadows.

He grabbed one of the account ledgers and scanned the lines of black ink. Michael was now the one checking the books every evening, ever since Arthur had been put in charge and predictably proved… incompetent. Tommy sighed as he thought of his brother. Arthur had never been good with numbers. He was a soldier, a man of the field not a strategist. And yet, it was Arthur Tommy had entrusted with leadership in Amara’s absence.

He tensed at the thought.

Amara.

Since she left, the office hadn't run the same. He hadn’t noticed it immediately too busy handling urgent matters. But little by little, Amara’s absence had become obvious. She wasn’t just an accountant or a trusted assistant. She had been a key piece in the functioning of their empire. Her absence weighed heavily.

Polly kept reminding him of it, and even Michael had ended up making it clear that without Amara, the books were no longer kept as neatly. Arthur made mistakes small mistakes that, if left uncorrected, would end up costing them dearly. He was going to have to hire someone new.

He knew that. He also knew why she had left. And he knew he had no right to complain about it.

But that didn’t stop him from feeling the emptiness she had left behind.

Tommy shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He didn’t have time to dwell on that. There was business to handle, deals to secure, enemies to watch.

He grabbed his pen and got back to work, as if nothing had happened.

Tommy gritted his teeth as he read through yet another document. The words seemed to dance on the page, refusing to settle in his mind. He’d had enough. He angrily signed the sheet and shoved it aside before rubbing his face with a tired hand. Everything was going to hell. Absolutely everything. And if he couldn’t even focus anymore, then nothing was going to get done.

He cast a bitter glance at the pile of papers cluttering his desk. All those documents, registers, permits… All that paperwork had come with the official bookmaker’s license they’d obtained after Kimber’s fall. It was the first truly legal thing under the Shelby roof. Ironic, when you thought about it. But that damn license represented security, a foothold in the world of respectable business. It was one step closer to something bigger.

They had celebrated that victory. First here, in the betting shop, surrounded by the noise of men drinking and laughing as they counted their winnings. Then the celebration had moved to the Garrison their hideout, their home away from home. He remembered the mood that night: glasses raised, genuine laughter, songs shouted at the top of their lungs. Even he had smiled, which had become a rare occurrence since his return from the war.

And then there was her.

He could still see her in his mind her face lit up with excitement, her full cheeks raised by a radiant smile. White teeth, shining eyes. She glowed in a way that fascinated him. She had ordered a drink. Orange juice. Tommy had chuckled at that, shaking his head, amused by her choice. A grown woman, sitting among half-drunk criminals, and she was having orange juice. He, of course, had a whiskey in hand.

That was a different time. A time when Grace was just a barmaid.

His gaze darkened, and he downed the rest of his drink in one go.

Tommy was buried in his paperwork, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He was absentmindedly jotting down some numbers on a document when a dull noise caught his attention.

Voices were rising behind his office door. That wasn’t unusual. Arguments broke out often over trivial things bad calculations, a disputed bet, some stupid thing one of the men had said a bit too loudly after a few drinks. John and Arthur in particular had a knack for throwing themselves into shouting matches as quickly as they walked away from them, like it was part of their natural way of speaking. Tommy didn’t pay much attention at first, used to the ambient chaos.

But then something made him freeze. A female voice. Not Polly. Not Ada. Not one of the usual women from the betting shop. This voice was different softer, and yet charged with a quiet anger he knew all too well. She wasn’t pleading or arguing. She was asserting herself in the masculine chaos, and that voice… he recognized it.

His brows furrowed slightly as he straightened, placing his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray without taking his eyes off the door. A second later, the door burst open violently, slamming against the wall with a sharp crack.

Amara stormed in.

Tommy barely had time to register her face before a strange tension filled the room. Her eyes were red, swollen with tears still streaming down her cheeks. Her breathing was ragged, broken, like she had run for several blocks without stopping. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, far too fast. Her hands trembled slightly, clenched at her sides as though she were holding onto a last thread of control.

Tommy didn’t move yet. But his gaze lingered on her longer than he wanted it to. Amara had never looked so vulnerable in front of him. Not even during their fiercest arguments, not in her most doubtful moments, had she ever stood before him like this.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the silence suddenly becoming heavy.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came. Just a faint, choked hiccup as she swallowed a sob.

Hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway, and a Peaky Blinder appeared in the doorway, exhaling in frustration.

— Tom, I tried to stop her. Told her you were busy, but she charged straight for your office. Almost knocked over a table on the way.

He looked at Amara, then at Tommy, hesitating before adding:

— You want me to throw her out?

It was a fair question. The situation almost demanded it. But at that exact moment, Amara’s sobs filled the room, shattering the illusion of toughness. She tried to hold them in, but every breath was torture, every hiccup a sign of her unraveling.

Tommy didn’t take his eyes off her, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

— No. Close the door and get back to the books.

The man nodded and disappeared, closing the door behind him, leaving Tommy and Amara alone.

Tommy rose slowly from his desk, careful not to make any sudden moves. He took a few steps forward, but kept a safe distance. Close enough to see her clearly, far enough not to be tempted to do something he’d regret.

It was the first time he had seen her up close since the announcement . Since he had said those damned words that had broken something inside her. And he realized it hurt more than he’d expected. Because despite everything he’d forced himself to believe, despite everything he’d had to do, he wasn’t ready to face her.

He looked away briefly. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Not like this.

Amara, still struggling to catch her breath, her body trembling under the weight of her despair, choked down another sob and placed a trembling hand on her chest, as if trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart. Then, in a voice barely audible, almost a whisper, she asked:

— Tell me it’s not true…

Tommy frowned.

What was she talking about?

For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then he saw the anguish in her eyes the kind that carved invisible trenches into a person’s face.

And he understood.

He had wanted to lie. He had wanted to wipe that pain from her expression. More than anything, he had wanted to hold her, whisper words to ease her pain, keep her from suffering even a second more.

But he couldn’t.

He was married now. He was going to be a father.

And he had already hurt her too much.

Tommy understood immediately.

Polly had seen.

He should’ve known. He had underestimated his aunt and her damn gypsy intuition.

At the wedding, he had told Grace to wear that dress the one that would hide the slight curve of her belly. He had thought it would be enough. But Polly had seen anyway. Nothing ever escaped Polly.

Tommy remained silent. He couldn’t answer Amara. The words stuck in his throat like a blade he refused to swallow.

Amara, still breathless, spoke again. Her voice trembled, barely more than a whisper.

— Tell me…

She paused, struggling to breathe, her wheezing gasp cutting the air. Then, in a broken murmur, she said:

— … that it’s Clive’s.

Tommy closed his eyes for a second.

How could he tell her the truth? How could he admit that it wasn’t the child of Grace’s late American husband but his own?

He stared at her for a few seconds, trying to find a way out, an escape, any way to soften the impact. But there was none.
So, he lowered his head and, in an unusually quiet voice, whispered:

— It’s mine, Amara.

His own heart shattered as he spoke those words. He had never said her name under such painful circumstances.

Amara looked at him for a moment. The truth seemed to seep into her slowly, like poison. Then, all at once, it detonated.

The scream that tore from her lips froze Tommy on the spot.

It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t just sadness. It was a scream of pure, raw, uncontrollable pain.

All of Small Heath must have heard it.

Then she collapsed to the ground.

Her back hit the wall, her body trembling, wracked with spasms. Her chest rose far too fast. Too fast. The gasping sounds coming from her throat weren’t just crying. It was something else.

And Tommy recognized it instantly.

A panic attack.

He recognized it so easily because he had seen it hundreds of times.

During the war, he’d seen men collapse just like that paralyzed by fear, short of breath, their eyes empty. He’d seen soldiers choke on their own panic as the shells whistled overhead, as mud clung to their skin, as the cold gnawed at their bones. He had seen those attacks in the suffocating dark of tunnels, where they dug like rats, praying not to be buried alive.

He’d been one of those men.

At the beginning.

Before the war had turned him into something else. Someone else. He’d had those attacks too, when he didn’t yet know horror before his soul had frozen into invisible armor.

But this scream, Amara’s scream this wasn’t war. It wasn’t shells or enemy bullets. It was something else.

And yet, it was just as devastating.

The sound of her sobs dragged him brutally back to the present.  His body moved before his mind could stop it.  There was no more restraint, no more hesitation. He had promised himself not to go near her, not to make things worse.

But that didn’t matter now.

She needed him.

So Tommy rushed to her and knelt down.

He reached out to grab her hand, but Amara flinched and pushed him away, her frantic movements nearly hitting him in her panic.

— Amara…

His voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was urgency in it a fear he never thought he’d feel. He tried again to take her hand, and this time, he didn’t let go.

— Amara, breathe. You can hate me later all you want but right now, breathe.

She fought him, trembling, her eyes drowned in tears.

Then Tommy placed his hand on his own chest, right above his heart.

People liked to say he didn’t have one.

But he did.

And it beat.

With an impossible love.

With mistakes he would never be able to fix.

He placed his hand over Amara’s, still pressed to his chest.

Part of him wanted to stroke her skin gently with his thumb, to give her comfort. But he had neither the right nor the luxury. This wasn’t the time, and it wasn’t his place.

— Amara, follow me.

His voice was deep, steady. He knew that in moments like this, he couldn’t give in to panic. He had to ground her, not feed the chaos. So he took a deep, intentionally slow breath, letting his chest rise beneath Amara’s hand, and then exhaled just as slowly.

Again.

And again.

Amara tried to follow.

But she couldn’t.

Her breathing was ragged, unstable. She opened her mouth for a deep breath, but instead of filling her lungs, she nearly choked on it. Her body rejected its own oxygen, refused to calm down. So she took five, six short, gasping breaths each one sharp and painful.

Her shoulders shook from the effort. Her chest rose too quickly, too hard. Her fingers dug into her own knee, betraying the war inside her. Her gaze was lost somewhere between Tommy and an invisible point, drowning under a pain he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

But she was trying.

And after a few minutes, finally, her breathing began to slow.

Her breaths became longer, less jagged. Her shoulders stopped twitching.

She wasn’t okay.

But at least she was breathing.

Tommy didn’t move.  He watched her, his face unreadable but inside, his mind was in turmoil.

Never not once had he seen Amara have a panic attack.

She never had. And now she had.

Because of him.

He was the cause.

And he had maybe killed men… But this… this felt like the worst thing he had ever done.

Now that Amara had caught her breath, it was her sobs that took over.

Deep, uncontrollable, heartbreaking cries.

Tommy didn’t even realize when she had moved closer.

Before he could react, she had pulled her hand away from his chest and rested her head there instead.

Her forehead pressed against him, her shoulders shaking with tremors.

Her afro brushed against his chin and neck, and he caught her scent—familiar, almost painful.

He had missed it. He had missed it terribly. He froze.

He had no right to find comfort in this. Not when he was the cause of her pain. Not when he had destroyed her.

Amara’s voice shattered what little resolve he had left. A whisper, strangled, broken.

— Why are you doing this to me?

Tommy closed his eyes.

He would have preferred if she hit him. If she screamed, if she cursed him, if she poured all her rage onto him. But this question… This question was worse than anything. Because there was no answer that wouldn’t hurt her even more.

What could he say? That he had never wanted it to happen this way?

Or, even worse…

That when he had slept with her, he had already known it would be easier. Because he knew that if he married Amara, it would ruin his plans. Because he knew she deserved better than a life in the shadows of crime and blood.?Better than a broken man, a ghost of himself. Because he knew that loving her was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

But all of that…

All of that, he couldn’t tell her.

So he stayed silent, unable to break what was left of her with the truth. Instead, he placed his hand on the back of her neck and stroked her gently. The gesture was instinctive, almost natural, as if it had been carved into him.

He remembered.

He remembered the first time she had rested her head against his chest.

It was on the couch in the Shelby family home. They had been sitting side by side, in a rare moment of calm, talking. He didn’t remember all the details, but he knew the conversation had been about Isaiah and Finn. They were just kids back then, caught up in a small rivalry with other boys from the neighborhood.

Amara was worried.

She was afraid they’d end up seriously hurt.

And him… With his usual indifference, he had simply told her they’d be fine.

That they were just boys with too much energy to burn. She had looked at him for a moment, thoughtful, then, without a word, had rested her head against his chest.

That was the first time.

Tommy remembered the strange shiver that had run through him at that moment. He had raised his hand, hesitated for a second, then placed it in her hair. He just wanted to feel her a little closer.

But immediately, Amara had sat up and swatted his hand away with a frown.

— Don’t put your hand in my hair, you’ll ruin my hairstyle.

He remembered the tone she had used half-serious, half-playful.

He remembered looking down at her, a little lost, before letting his hand fall to the nape of her neck instead. And that time, she hadn’t pushed him away. He had gently stroked her skin, brushing the tiny curls at the base of her neck, and she had relaxed against him.

He hadn’t realized back then how much that simple gesture would become a habit. How much it would become precious.

And now, here he was, doing the same thing.

Touching her like before, even though they were nothing to each other anymore.

Even though he was the man who had just broken her.

But Amara didn’t push him away.

Not this time. She stayed there, her face buried against him, her tears still falling silently. 

They remained like that for several minutes, trapped in a bubble where only Amara’s sobs broke the silence.

Tommy said nothing.

He didn’t know what to say.

He couldn’t give her an explanation, because no explanation would ease her pain. So he simply stayed there, motionless, his hand still resting on her neck. He felt her shiver under his fingers, her breathing still uneven against him.

Then, after a while, Amara lifted her head. Her eyes were red, swollen, filled with a depth of anguish so intense that Tommy had to look away.

— What did I ever do to you? she asked, her voice shattered.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, barely noticeable. He wanted to tell her the truth.

To tell her that she had done nothing.

That it was all him, his choices, his inability to love, to believe he deserved to be loved, to believe that a future with her was even possible.

But he couldn’t.

Instead, he let his fingers glide one last time across her neck before pulling his hand away.

He lowered his head, stared at the floor for a moment, then murmured in a hoarse voice:

— Amara, you should go home. I’ll have someone take you.

Then, before she could protest, he stood up and opened the door to his office. His eyes swept quickly across the betting shop. And there, sitting on a stool, absentmindedly playing with a coin between his fingers, was his younger brother.

Finn.

Tommy knew Amara and Finn had always gotten along.

So he called him.

— Finn.

The boy immediately looked up and approached.

— Take Amara home.

Finn frowned slightly upon seeing the state she was in but nodded without question.

Tommy, meanwhile, cast one last glance at Amara.

A look filled with pain.

With silent regrets.

With tenderness, too.

Then, without another word, he left his office, leaving behind the woman he had loved the woman he had broken.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, March 28, 1922

The morning light filtered softly through the thin kitchen curtains, casting gentle patterns across the timeworn wooden table. The slow ticking of the clock on the wall accompanied the familiar sounds of pencils scratching against paper, chairs creaking slightly, and quiet breathing. Sitting at the table, Amara watched her two nieces in silence.

In front of her, the younger of the two held a small wooden pencil between her chubby fingers. She was coloring with intense concentration, her tongue slightly sticking out between her lips, eyebrows furrowed with every clumsy slip of the hand. She had carefully lined up her other crayons beside her, like soldiers in a row, and each color change was preceded by a short moment of reflection. Next to her, her older sister was much more focused on watching her than on drawing herself. Chin resting in her hand, elbows on the table despite Amara’s repeated reminders about proper posture she cast a critical eye on the work in progress, nose scrunched in almost theatrical seriousness.

It was a simple scene, almost mundane, but to Amara, it represented the very essence of what still mattered. These two girls were her family. Her anchor. Her reason. And at times, the cause of her held-back tears.

She had watched them grow since their very first days. She still remembered the feeling of the older one’s small warm body, swaddled in a rough cotton blanket, nestled against her chest while their mother, exhausted, slept in the next room. She remembered the nights she got up to soothe their cries, the tiny hands clutching her fingers, their first teeth, their first steps, their first words. Memories so vivid they almost hurt because the girls’ mother was no longer here.

And now, the oldest was nearly eleven. Already grown in her mind, she carried herself with a kind of quiet sovereignty. A premature maturity, a regal tilt of the head. Her beauty was striking. She had inherited the deep, velvety complexion of Amara’s mother, a shade of radiant black that caught the light with majesty. Her eyes, dark and gleaming, were those of an old soul. One could believe she could read thoughts just by looking at you. Her lips were full, softly pink, always closed with a restraint that made her seem forever deep in thought. She rarely smiled, but when she did, the room lit up. Her nose fine, straight, sculpted like a promise of elegance betrayed her heritage with quiet pride. And her hair… A magnificent crown of tight curls, well-moisturized, pulled into a high bun that revealed her face. She looked like a work of art proud and fragile all at once.

The younger one, in contrast, was the sunshine of the household. A round little face, plump cheeks always ready to stretch into a wide smile. She laughed often, loudly, without restraint, and Amara still found herself moved to tears by it at times. Her skin was lighter, honey-toned like her father Jeremiah’s. Her eyes were soft, large, and bright, often wide with curiosity. Her nose was a bit broader, clearly inherited from her father, just like the famous “gap teeth” that made her beam. When she laughed and she laughed often you couldn’t help but laugh too. Even on the worst days, even in the heaviest silences. She wore her curly hair in a tight braid, decorated with colorful ribbons that her older sister deemed “too childish,” but which she refused to give up.

Amara watched them, and a knot formed in her throat. She loved them with a fierce love. But today, even as they seemed so peaceful in a morning like any other, Amara felt like a stranger in her own kitchen. As if a storm was rumbling inside her chest, threatening to burst. The memories of the previous days, Tommy’s face, his voice when he said it’s mine, the scream that had escaped her throat it all came back in waves.

And still, she remained there. Upright, dignified, silent. Because she had to. Because those two children, without knowing it, offered her the only thing that still kept her standing: hope.

Amara was almost certain that young Finn, when he’d walked her home the night before, had sensed far more than she’d let on. The walk had been silent but not empty. There had been worried glances, looks he didn’t think she’d notice, nervous hands. Finn hadn’t said a word, yet it seemed he understood that sometimes, silence was worth more than all the attempts at comfort. But Amara knew the Shelbys. She knew information spread quickly, and emotions no matter how subtle rarely escaped their watchful eyes for long.

So she wasn’t surprised not really when, at the first light of dawn, someone knocked on her door. Three discreet but firm knocks. She had gotten up reluctantly, thinking perhaps it was the neighbor, or maybe Finn checking in, or even Ada coming for tea. But when she opened the door, it was Jeremiah.

He stood there, straight as a rod, a gentle smile on his face and his two daughters flanking his legs. The eldest held the youngest’s hand and already looked impatient to come in. Jeremiah had simply said, with that slightly gruff calm he reserved for serious moments:

— It’s been a while since you’ve had a girls’ day, hasn’t it? They need it. And so do you.

He hadn’t spoken about her, hadn’t mentioned anything that might have happened the day before, but Amara saw in his eyes that he knew. That Finn had talked. Maybe to Isaiah, maybe to him directly. And Jeremiah hadn’t pushed, hadn’t pried, hadn’t imposed. He had simply acted. Like the brother he had always been.

Then he added, almost in a whisper, gently placing a hand on his sister’s shoulder:

— The older one needs to talk to a woman. She’s starting to ask questions... the kind only a woman can answer.

And Amara had nodded, a timid smile on her lips, even though her heart was still heavy. Part of her knew it was true that her niece had reached an age where a mother’s or aunt’s words became essential. But another part of her suspected that Jeremiah, wise as a father, had simply wanted to throw her a lifeline. A soft excuse. A way to be there without pushing. He offered her a bit of peace, a space, a moment of normalcy in the midst of the storm he suspected was raging inside her.

Before leaving, while the two little girls were already running toward the kitchen, curious about what they might do with their aunt that day, Jeremiah lingered a moment longer in the hallway. Then, without a word, he gently kissed Amara on the forehead. A gesture so familiar, so tender, it stirred memories of childhood, of simple comfort. It was the kind of gesture their mother used to give, back when words were not enough.

And Amara, eyes glistening but heart a little steadier, thanked him in silence with a look, with a hand briefly placed over his.

Then the door closed. And the day began.

Amara, arms crossed on the table, continued to watch the youngest, still absorbed in her coloring, when she finally felt Mary’s gaze settle on her. A hesitant look, caught between courage and silence. Amara immediately recognized that expression: the kind of look one gives when a weight is pulling at the soul, but you’re not sure if you're allowed to put it down. So, without rushing, with the tenderness she always reserved for her nieces, Amara took the lead.

— Mary... what are you thinking about? she asked softly, her voice warm as a caress.

Mary immediately lowered her eyes. She fidgeted with the corner of the tablecloth, clearly searching for her words. She threw a quick glance at her younger sister, who, intrigued by the tone of the conversation, had stopped coloring and looked up, all ears. The bright colors on the page already felt far away. It was no longer a time for rainbows and butterflies.

Mary inhaled, gathered her courage, then let out barely above a whisper a sentence that seemed to shake the very walls of the room:

— Auntie... is it true that we’re impure?

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen.

Amara’s heart clenched in her chest. She had prepared herself for many things perhaps a question about periods, or body changes, or even boys, as Jeremiah had hinted. But this? No. She hadn’t expected this. And yet... she should have. She recognized in those words the same invisible wounds she had carried as a child. Those whispered phrases in the schoolyard, those disdainful glances, those insults disguised as rumors. The cruel echoes buried deep in the hearts of little Black girls, never given the tools to unearth them.

A small, trembling whimper escaped from the youngest, who lowered her head, uneasy, as if afraid she had somehow caught that "impurity" without knowing it.

Amara slowly turned to Mary, her eyes dark and damp. She didn’t ask why she thought that. She didn’t need to. She knew. She too had carried that inherited shame, that sense of being "too much," of being "too different," "too dark," "too smart for a Black girl," "too herself."

So she asked, more calmly than she thought herself capable:

— Who told you that, sweetheart?

The answer came quickly. A bitter whisper:

— Some girls… at school.

Amara briefly closed her eyes, holding back the rising wave of anger. Not at Mary. Not at Jeremiah. But at this world still, again that insisted on breaking the children she loved with her whole soul.

Amara reached out and gently took her nieces’ hands in hers. She asked them to pull their chairs closer, until their knees almost touched. The girls obeyed without a word, their wide eyes full of anticipation. Mary, despite her unease, let herself be guided, and her sister followed silently. The soft grip of their small hands eased some of the storm brewing in Amara’s chest.

She didn’t yet know exactly what she was going to say. Maybe she’d repeat the same words her own mother had once said to her, years ago, after cruel words had shattered her heart. She only hoped that, this time, those words would carry more weight, more healing. Because deep down, even as an adult, even surrounded by love, Amara had never fully mended that crack. That quiet pain, that lack of confidence, had never left her.

She envied the other women around her for that Ada with her natural confidence, Polly with her near-mystical strength of spirit, Esme and her bold, blazing courage, even Linda and her unshakable faith in her beliefs. They walked through the world with a certainty Amara had always struggled to claim.

But today, she had to be that woman. For Mary. For her little sister. So she took a deep breath, looked each of them in the eye, and spoke with a voice soft but steady:

— We are not impure. We never have been. We just come from different roots.

She paused, reading their attentive faces. The little one frowned in concentration, while Mary slowly nodded, as if trying to absorb every word, every shade of meaning.

— And that difference… you must never be ashamed of it, Amara continued, more firmly now. Because that difference is the legacy of your ancestors. It’s proof that you come from somewhere, that your story is rich, precious, and no one can ever take that from you.

She paused again, her heart pounding. Then, to help them see how it applied to everyone, she asked:

— The kids from the street below… what do they look like?

The two girls exchanged a glance. Mary answered first, softly:

— Their eyes are kind of almond-shaped.

Amara nodded, a small encouraging smile on her lips.

— That’s right. And do you know why? Because they also carry the legacy of their ancestors. That’s what makes them beautiful. Do you think they’re worth less than you because of that?

The two girls responded in unison, without hesitation this time:

— No.

Amara felt her heart swell with warmth. There was still so much to teach them, so much to unlearn and rebuild. But for today, it was a beginning. And it was a solid one.

Amara gently nodded, affirming their answer, then spoke again with even more tenderness, her voice steady and reassuring:

— You know… you are all children of God. Them too. Every child, every person on this Earth is equally loved in His eyes. And if God sees us all as His children, then no one has the right to tell you that you are less than anyone else.

She tightened her fingers gently around their warm little hands, searching for the right words the kind that stay, the kind that heal.

— When a child says something mean to you, don’t respond. Let them think you’re weak, that you can’t defend yourself. It doesn’t matter. But never lower yourself to the level of someone who despises you. Keep your dignity. Keep your heart pure. Because you are good Christians. And a good Christian never judges someone by their appearance.

The two girls stared at her in silence, but their eyes showed they were listening. That they understood.

Amara waited a few seconds, giving them time to absorb every word. Then, slowly, she released their hands. She raised hers and gestured toward their bodies, their skin, their faces.

— All of this… it’s not what truly matters, she said gently.

Then, she placed a delicate hand over each of their chests, right where their small hearts beat.

— What matters is this. What you put in here. What you do with it.

The two girls nodded in unison, with a sincerity so raw it was almost heartbreaking. Amara couldn’t resist. She pulled them both into a full, protective hug, soft like a cocoon she’d wrapped them in with her arms.

Because these words she wasn’t just saying them for them.

She was saying them for herself too.

Because deep down, Amara felt just as illegitimate as they did. For different reasons, of course. But the feeling of being too much, of not being chosen, of having been hurt despite her loyalty… all of that still burned within her.

Because the man she loved still loved, to her dismay hadn’t chosen her. He had betrayed what they’d shared. Left her alone with her doubts, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. She should have. She knew that. But she couldn’t. And that was the hardest part.

She hated herself for having rested her head on his chest. For giving in, even briefly, to the comfort he offered. Because it had felt good. Because it had made her feel weak. Pathetic.

And she hated herself for running away from Polly. She owed her an apology. Polly hadn’t deserved that. On the contrary, she’d been there. As always. Like a pillar of strength Amara couldn’t match that day.

And now, there were her problems. Money disappearing like snow in the sun. Paperwork. Bills piling up. The emptiness in her chest. But none of that mattered more than the two girls sitting at that table.

They needed her. Today would be their day. A girls’ day. No poison, no tears. A day of laughter, of sharing, of life.

And maybe… maybe she needed it too.

Amara thought of her mother, of those childhood memories wrapped in cotton, of those tender, reassuring gestures she made after hard conversations. That had often been her balm for invisible wounds: an intimate moment between women, between generations. She was convinced the same ritual could comfort her nieces. So, with a small smile, she said:

— Come on, stand up, grab a chair, and follow me.

Mary, curious, grabbed a chair while her little sister trotted behind, intrigued. Amara led them to her bedroom. There, she placed the chair in front of a small mirror above the sink, where a few toiletries and accessories lay in familiar disarray.

— Sit here, Mary.

The girl sat with a docile excitement. Amara came up behind her and gently undid the ribbon that held her frizzy hair in a tight bun. The curls sprang free with a soft bounce, brushing her shoulders. Amara picked up her wide-toothed comb worn but reliable and began to detangle Mary’s hair with care. She started at the ends, working her way up, just as she’d been taught.

— You have your grandmother’s hair, she whispered with a smile. Thick, beautiful, strong.

With her little sister watching attentively, Mary looked at herself in the mirror. She said nothing, but her smile said it all. It wasn’t just the hairstyle it was the gesture, the tenderness, the care. A moment of transmission.

Amara continued styling, parting the hair precisely, hydrating it with oil before braiding the sides at the roots, letting the rest fall freely in a crown of curls. An elegant, natural hairstyle fit for a young girl growing up. A woman in the making.

— So, tell me, she said while braiding. School, your grades… your friends. How’s it going?

The two girls immediately came to life. They chattered about their days, their teachers, games in the schoolyard, quarrels between classmates, which friends they liked best and which were “too loud.” Amara listened with amusement, nodding, chuckling, giving little “hmms” of encouragement.

When she finished Mary’s hair, she stepped back to admire her work. Mary gazed at her reflection with stars in her eyes.

Then, an idea sparked in Amara’s mind. A little touch to mark the moment to make Mary feel even more special, more beautiful. She leaned toward a small wooden drawer and took out a little brass-latch box. Inside were simple but precious items: a slightly used lipstick, a tiny tin of black kohl, a miniature jar of tinted cream.

When Mary saw the objects, her eyes widened.

— Tata…

— Just this once, young lady, said Amara with a smile, like a mother granting a forbidden treat. You’re still too young to wear these. But… sometimes, between girls, we’re allowed a little secret.

Mary bit her lip to keep from grinning too widely, and her little sister gave a small, envious giggle.

Amara applied a bit of moisturizing balm to Mary’s lips, then a light layer of lipstick just enough to bring out their natural softness. Next, she drew a fine line along her lashes with the kohl, giving her black eyes a subtle, striking intensity.

When Mary looked in the mirror again, her eyes grew wide with wonder. It wasn’t just about the makeup. It was a new feeling that of being seen, recognized… beautiful.

And when Amara saw that little spark of joy in her eyes, her own heart warmed. Because sometimes, that’s all it took: a moment of care, a loving gesture, to glue a few broken pieces back together.

And she promised herself she would offer them more of these moments, as long as she could.

Mary gently rose from the chair, smoothing her dress nervously but her face still glowing with excitement and pride at her new appearance. She sat on Amara’s bed, her feet swinging in the air, while her little sister, Hosanna, took her place on the chair with wide, solemn eyes.

Amara gave her a tender smile before stepping closer, gently running her fingers through the youngest’s soft hair. She undid the tight braid Jeremiah had done the night before. Hosanna had finer hair than her sister, slightly shorter too, but silky and full of life. Amara took her time, moisturizing with a bit of coconut oil she kept in a small jar on the shelf, massaging the little one’s scalp gently. Hosanna closed her eyes in delight. Then, with patience and precision, Amara divided her hair into sections, braiding each into small, tight twists, forming a crown around the top of her head. She let the ends fall in loose curls at her nape and around her face. A simple but lovely hairstyle, highlighting the child’s sweet, playful features.

As she worked, the girls kept chatting cheerfully. Mary, now animated, described with gestures how Isaiah had tried cooking and turned his idea of an “improved stew” into a smoky disaster. Amara burst out laughing when she heard the smell had taken over the whole house and Jeremiah had to open all the windows despite the cold.

— And so, Mary added, laughing, we went to Aunt Polly’s and she made roast chicken with cornbread!

— It was so good, whispered Hosanna with a dreamy look.

Amara laughed out loud, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. These girls, with their innocence and spontaneity, had melted the heavy weights she carried on her shoulders. They reminded her of what truly mattered.

She finished Hosanna’s hairstyle and, just like she had with her sister, opened her little makeup box. This time, she took only a tiny brush, tapped it gently onto a bit of lipstick, and lightly brushed it over Hosanna’s lips a barely-there touch of color. It wasn’t to make her look prettier she was already beautiful in her childlike way but to make her feel included, just as much a part of this moment as her sister.

— This is just for today, Amara said, looking into her eyes. You’re still a little girl, and that’s a wonderful thing. No need to grow up too fast.

Hosanna nodded solemnly before turning to the mirror. She gave a shy smile when she saw her new hairstyle and the hint of color on her lips. Then she joined Mary on Amara’s bed, the two of them sitting side by side, legs swinging, eyes full of mischief.

Amara watched them with infinite tenderness. She thought about their father, Jeremiah, and the role he had taken on since their mother’s death. He was doing his best. And even if his hairstyling skills were limited to tight, quick buns, he loved them deeply you could see it. Amara didn’t hold it against him. These moments these simple acts of brushing hair, talking, laughing together she wanted to multiply them.

Isaiah, on the other hand, had been forced to grow up too soon. At just sixteen, he already carried the marks of responsibility, loyalty, and sacrifice. But his sisters… they still had the luxury of being children. To play, to dream, to ask silly questions, to make mistakes without consequence.

And Amara was determined to protect them from anything that might try to steal that precious childhood.

Today was for them. Just for them.

As they returned to the living room, arms linked, the laughter of the two little girls echoing through the walls, a knock on the door gently interrupted them. Amara cast a curious glance toward the entrance, set down her tea, and went to open it.

On the doorstep stood Isaiah, arms full of groceries, a small, shy smile on his lips. His coat was still half open, his hair neatly combed, and his cheeks flushed from the cold. He lowered his eyes briefly, almost embarrassed to be there, as if he never quite knew whether he belonged or was in the way.

Amara saw it instantly that subtle unease he carried like a second skin. That silent restraint. She saw it in the way he hunched his shoulders, in his careful movements, in the smile that tried to be confident but trembled just a little at the corners. The boy couldn’t find peace, couldn’t be sure she didn’t hold a grudge over his closeness with Tommy, or the fact he worked for the Peaky Blinders.

Without saying a word, she gently raised a hand and caressed his cheek. He looked at her, surprised, as she placed her warm hands on either side of his face, just like when he was a little boy she’d tuck into a blanket far too big for him. Then she kissed his forehead with quiet affection and ruffled his hair, drawing a small laugh she hadn’t heard in far too long.

— Come in, she murmured with a smile.

He obeyed in silence, carrying the groceries into the kitchen with Amara’s help.

— What’s all this for? she asked as she began to unpack.

— If you don’t mind… Jeremiah’s coming to eat here later, Isaiah replied, eyes averted, like he was afraid she might say no.

Amara simply nodded. No, she didn’t mind at all. On the contrary. She took the bags from him, set them on the counter, rolled up her sleeves, and naturally began to cook. It was what she knew, what calmed her. Preparing a meal, feeding those she loved.

Isaiah, meanwhile, walked over to the table, and when he caught sight of Mary and Hosanna, he stopped in his tracks. He blinked, then furrowed his brow.

— What’s this? he asked, his voice harsher than he intended, pointing at their makeup.

Mary straightened up, a little guilty, lowering her eyes, while Hosanna shyly hid her mouth behind her sleeve. Their hair was neatly styled, their little faces enhanced just slightly but to Isaiah, it already felt like too much. He was young, yes, but he had seen the world. He knew what it could do to young girls, especially when they caught attention too soon. He knew the thoughts teenage boys could have. And that… that he wouldn’t accept for his sisters.

But before he could say more, Amara spoke from the kitchen.

— It was me, Isaiah, she said, firm but gentle. Just a little girls’ moment, nothing more. They know it’s special. And they also know they won’t wear any of this outside the house for years right, girls?

He looked at her for a moment, then slowly nodded. He sank into the chair across from Hosanna, who immediately pulled out a colored drawing to show him proudly. He smiled tenderly, resting his chin on his hand and listening to her chatter.

He said nothing more about the makeup.

Because when he saw his little sister’s face lit up by her aunt’s attention, and Mary looking more confident than she had that morning, he understood that it wasn’t a childish whim.

It was a moment of care. Of love. Of femininity, for girls growing up in a man’s world. And joy, for their aunt.

A few hours later, Jeremiah arrived. The door opened to that quiet warmth he always brought with him. As soon as he stepped inside, the girls rushed to hug him, and Amara had discreetly wiped the makeup from their faces under Isaiah’s watchful, almost relieved gaze.

The girls didn’t protest. They had loved their reflections, but they were still young, and their delicate skin wasn’t meant for the pull of lipstick or kohl. But they kept their hairstyles with pride, holding their heads a little higher, as if that small act of beauty had given them an inner glow.

Jeremiah, gently patting Hosanna’s head, asked Amara quietly if she could braid their hair after dinner. “It’ll be easier for me,” he said with a half-smile. She nodded, agreeing without hesitation. It wasn’t much, but it was her way of helping.

When she served dinner, the smell of a slow-cooked meal filled the air warm and comforting. She stood, ladle in hand, eyes resting on the scene before her. Her family. Her little family. Gathered around this wobbly table in a living room with faded walls, thin curtains, and creaky floors. Nothing was perfect here not the furniture, not the lighting, not even the state of her heart but still, there was something precious in it.

Jeremiah laughed softly at a story Isaiah told, while the girls excitedly cut their meat and chattered about church, their friends, and what they wanted to be when they grew up. Hosanna wanted to be a singer. Mary was still torn between teacher or nurse. Amara listened with tenderness, filling plates, bringing bread, pouring water.

And in that suspended moment, there was no Tommy. No Grace. No wedding ring on his finger. No belly that would soon swell with a child that wasn’t hers. There was no lingering ache from when she laid her head on his chest, no guilt, no voice whispering that she had been foolish to believe love could be chosen over the world.

There was only this moment.

A moment where she smiled, truly.

Where she laughed a real laugh, soft and full.

A moment where she felt useful, surrounded, where she belonged. A rare and fragile moment, but one that was worth all the tears of the rest.

And as she sat down at the table, she made a promise to herself to remember it. Because that evening, even in her shabby apartment, even in her bruised life Amara had been happy.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, April 2nd, 1922

Tommy was sitting at his desk in Arrow House. The room, a far cry from the cramped and dim betting shop, exuded muted opulence. The desk, massive and carved from dark, solid wood, stood at the center like a throne in a hall of power. Behind him, tall windows framed by heavy cream curtains let in a pale light almost too soft for a place like this. It spilled over the bookcases filled with volumes Tommy had never opened, books no one ever saw in his hands. They were there for show, just like the richly upholstered leather armchairs arranged on either side of a coffee table, somewhere between comfort and facade.

He rose without hurry. His gaze, distant, seemed to drift off into the void before settling on the bottle of whiskey resting on the table. With a mechanical gesture, he poured himself a generous glass and downed it in one go. The liquid burned his throat, but not enough to awaken anything beyond that dull, constant tension in his chest.

He was waiting.

Slowly, he rolled the empty glass between his fingers, his steps carrying him back to the window where he stood still, eyes fixed on the grey, silent winter garden.

The doctor was upstairs, in the master bedroom.

With Grace.

She had been the one to insist on the consultation. She wanted to know if everything was all right. If the baby was healthy. To know exactly how far along she was, to determine the due date, to put words and numbers to what would become their future.

Tommy had agreed without argument. He had even gone so far as to ask one of the housemaids to fetch a trusted doctor, on his behalf. It wasn’t really out of care it was out of habit. He knew how to be present when needed. Or at least, how to give the illusion of it.

The pregnancy was now estimated at just over six months.

In three months, or maybe a little more, a child would be born. A child who would bear his name. His blood? Yes. His home too.

And despite that, Tommy felt nothing but an immense emptiness in his chest. As if the whiskey passed through him without touching a single piece of flesh.

He ran a hand over his face, tired. Not from lack of sleep, he was used to that but from the persistent feeling of living in a world where nothing had real weight anymore, except what had been lost.

Tommy was thinking about how he would tell the family.

There would be no celebration. No gathering over a meal or cigars in the lounge, no awkward smiles or muffled congratulations in clumsy embraces. No. He’d do it simply, without fanfare, over a drink with his brothers at the Garrison. A nearly mundane conversation, slipped between two sips of whiskey and a remark about business. Then he’d let them pass the news on to their wives, like one passes along a piece of minor information.

He would give Ada a call. Maybe take a detour to see Charlie, just so he could hear it from him in person. But that would be it.

It wasn’t that the child wasn’t wanted. That wasn’t it.

It was his child. His blood he already loved it as such. Tommy already loved the baby before it was even born. He sometimes found himself imagining its voice, its first steps, wondering if it would look like him, if it would have his eyes or Grace’s. He felt like a father. Not out of duty, but instinct.

But he didn’t want to celebrate this birth.

He didn’t want to pretend.

He would let Grace decide how she wanted to announce it to her own family. He knew exactly what they would think, those people. They’d say the child was Clive’s, not his. That didn’t bother him. He wouldn’t fight the idea. Let them think what they wanted.

He had no intention of seeing the Cavalry, the Burgess family again, except on rare occasions where his presence was absolutely required. Tommy wanted everyone to stay in their own worlds, in their silences, in their truths. He didn’t want the hypocrisy of drawing rooms, or the forced smiles of bourgeois families. Let everyone keep their theatre, their script.

It would be better that way.

For everyone.

And for him too.

Tommy was certain that the doctor upstairs, in the master bedroom, was no more competent than Polly. He looked proper, with his neatly arranged instruments, his little leather bag, and his medical terms lined up like soldiers but he lacked the essential: instinct. The sure eye and steady hand Polly had. She had never needed a diploma to know when a baby was fine, when a woman needed to lie down, or when it was time to call a midwife.

Polly had been there for their mother with every pregnancy. When their father, after planting the seed, would disappear for weeks, sometimes months, returning only long enough to gulp down whatever whiskey and bread remained before leaving again without a word. She stayed behind. Polly was the one who kept the house standing, who supported their mother, who took care of the children.

Tommy had vague memories of John’s pregnancy. He was too young to remember clearly, but he vaguely recalled the day Polly told him and Arthur it would be another boy. At the time, they had been a little disappointed. Maybe they had subconsciously hoped a girl might bring some balance to their world of boys and noise. But years later, when they were no longer a duo but a trio Arthur, Tommy, John he wouldn’t have traded that little brother for anything.

And then came Ada.

She hadn’t even been born yet, and Polly was already there, omnipresent. Their mother needed rest, and Polly had taken charge of the house. She cooked, washed, supervised homework, and rapped knuckles when needed. Tommy remembered that well. She wasn’t just an aunt anymore she was a second mother. He learned to listen to her, to respect her, sometimes even to fear her.

When Ada was born, she made her presence known from her very first cry. A strong, long, insistent wail. That baby refused to be forgotten. For months, the Shelby house didn’t sleep. Ada cried endlessly, as if she was already determined to make the world understand that she would do things her way. And in hindsight, Tommy realized she had begun distinguishing herself from her brothers very early on.

Ada had never followed anyone else’s pace. She created her own.

And maybe, deep down, that’s what Tommy feared about this future child.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to witness the birth of another being entirely their own, unpredictable, someone that love alone wouldn’t be enough to understand.

Finn had been the worst pregnancy for their mother not because the baby was particularly loud or difficult. No, Finn was the opposite. A quiet baby. Too quiet. The kind of silence that doesn’t reassure, that worries more than it soothes. He didn’t move much, didn’t kick from inside the womb. He let himself be forgotten, settling into the shadow of the Shelby household’s constant noise. And that silence, at the time, chilled more than one heart.

Tommy remembered a scene still vivid in his memory. He was a teenager. Their mother was lying in bed, dark circles under her eyes, her face pale, one hand resting on her belly. Tommy had brought her a glass of water while Polly, already well-versed in these things, gently pressed on her sister’s rounded stomach. It wasn’t a game. It was habit: provoke a little movement, feel a response, a sign of life. Usually, it worked. A flutter. A jolt. A slow roll. But that day, nothing.

Then, a few days later, there was that scene. They were all in the living room Arthur, John, Tommy, even little Ada. Laughing, teasing, as always. And then the scream. A strangled cry from upstairs, followed almost immediately by sobbing. Not the sobs of a child, but of a mother who no longer feels her baby.

They all jumped to their feet. Arthur was the first to react, running toward the stairs. Tommy, just behind, turned to Ada with a hard look: “Go get Polly. Now.” She didn’t argue; she darted off immediately.

Upstairs, their mother was in her room, sitting on the edge of the bed, her nightgown wrinkled, tears in her eyes. She was pressing all over her belly, panicked, as if desperately trying to wake a sleeper who wouldn’t stir. No movement. Total silence.

Then the sobbing intensified. Anger, fear, a silent plea to the silent baby. And then, as if he finally understood that this wasn’t a game, that his stillness was breaking something inside his mother, little Finn moved. A faint flutter, almost shy, but enough to change everything. A long sigh escaped from their lips.

A few minutes later, Polly arrived, running, Anna nestled in one arm, Michael held by the hand. Anna, fragile and delicate like a porcelain doll, always instinctively protected by Polly. Polly didn’t shout. She simply said in a firm voice, “Out.”

And they obeyed.

From the hallway, they heard Polly comforting their mother, her voice low, her gestures calm. She never raised her voice. Polly had that quiet strength, that ability to turn storms into stillness. Tommy never forgot that.

Their mother had begun to show signs of dementia during Finn’s pregnancy. At first, it was just moments of absence, lost gazes, hesitant gestures. But it became something troubling, almost tangible, like a shadow thickening in the Shelby house. Even the youngest children began to notice. At first, when they heard their mother talking alone in her room, they thought she was speaking to Finn, the baby inside her. But no. She kept repeating the same words, over and over, in a broken whisper: “Go away… Leave me alone…”

When she had enough strength to get out of bed and make them a little food, they sometimes saw her stop, hands on her head, as if to block out an unbearable noise. Then she’d gently tap her temple, like she was trying to silence something, to chase away voices. And always after that, she’d rest her hand on her belly. A reflex. Protective.

Tommy only learned the truth much later. Their mother had confided in Polly of course it was Polly. She told her she hoped she wouldn’t go completely mad before Finn was born. That she prayed she could just hold on until then, for the baby. And in that same confession, in a final burst of lucidity, she told Polly that she wanted her to take care of the children if anything happened to her. She only trusted her.

And somehow, Tommy thinks they all knew. They knew their mother didn’t have much time left. It was a gut feeling, a collective silence they never dared name. During that pregnancy, they spent nearly all their time in her room. It had become their refuge too. A room saturated with exhaustion, tenderness, and fear.

He remembered the routine. Arthur and he would get out of school and wait patiently for John and Ada to join them. And when they were in the mood or just wanted to bring some joy into the house, they’d pass by the biscuit shop. John and Ada would charm the old shopkeeper with a smile, a kind word, sometimes a well-placed compliment. Meanwhile, Tommy and Arthur would sneak around to the workshop, where the sweets were being made. They didn’t take much, just enough to fill their pockets without drawing suspicion. Then they went home.

They’d sit on their mother’s bed, the candies between them in crinkled, shiny wrappers. They shared everything. Even Finn, still in the womb, got his share. Tommy himself rarely ate any. He didn’t much care for them. It wasn’t the sugar that drew him it was the moment. The memory. The muffled laughter, the tender gestures, the warmth of their mother’s body beside them.

And maybe, yes, maybe that’s why Finn loves sweets so much today. Cakes, biscuits… especially Amara’s. Because, without knowing it, they had all stuffed their mother with candy while he was still inside her. Because, in some way, his love for sugar is the taste of silent love, of a legacy he doesn’t really know but that lives within him.

Poor Finn only knew their mother for a few months. Just a few thin months where she didn’t want to let him go, not even to Polly. Maybe, in her silent distress, their mother believed that if she spent every possible minute with him, then something of her love, of her presence, would remain in him. Maybe she hoped that her face, her scent, her voice would imprint themselves deep enough in the infant’s memory for him to hold on to something of her, even as he grew up without her.

Tommy remembered that day as if it were yesterday. A particular morning. One of those you come to cherish with bitterness afterward, when you realize too late that there was something unusual about it. That morning, their mother had gotten up earlier than usual, Finn nestled in her arms. She came downstairs to the kitchen, almost light-footed, and made them a real breakfast before school. A small feast in their childish eyes. She kissed them one by one, long and tenderly, with a warmth that bordered on goodbye. But they didn’t know it then.

Tommy and Arthur had dropped John and Ada off at school, as they often did. On the way, they talked about her. About that morning. Arthur saw it as a sign. He spoke of a miracle, of healing. He thought that maybe… maybe their mother was getting better. That they’d get her back, the way she used to be. But Tommy didn’t believe it. He wasn’t convinced. Not at all.

He had seen her eyes. And eyes, eyes never lie.

There was in her gaze a distance, a strange peace, a resolved emptiness that chilled Tommy to the bone. Even if he didn’t have the words for it then, he knew. He felt it. As if some part of him had known all along.

When they came out of school that afternoon, Charlie was waiting for them. He was holding his hat in his hands, nervously turning the brim between his fingers. His face was pale paler than usual. Charlie hadn’t found the strength to say the words. He didn’t tell them she had thrown herself into the canal, that her body had been found a few hours later. He simply said that now, it was up to them to look after their younger siblings. He didn’t need to say more. They understood.

Her body had been found further down, carried by the current to the docks where Charlie worked. The cruel irony of life: her last journey led to the very place where her children sometimes tried to scrape together a few coins from their uncle. And Tommy… Tommy was in pain. Not just from losing her. But from knowing that her body their mother had been seen, examined, judged. Like a sideshow. Just another corpse in the canal. A broken woman whose story would go untold. The mad mother of the gypsy family from Small Heath.

But he carried her. He carried that story. And every day, he tried not to let it die with her.

If Tommy and Arthur had lost their mother, so had John and Ada. But for them, the loss was even more cruel. One was just entering adolescence, the other still a little girl full of innocence and sweet dreams life would soon shatter. Grief doesn’t strike the same way at every age, but it hits just as hard.

After that long day spent at the docks with Charlie hours of talking about how, when, and especially with what  they had tried to find a way to honor their mother in the Gypsy tradition. The coffin had to be burned. Everything that belonged to her had to be burned. So her soul could leave with dignity. But they didn’t have a penny. Poverty clung to them like a second skin.

When they returned to the family home, Polly was there. Sitting on a chair with Finn in her arms. John and Ada at her feet. Michael and Anna were playing silently on the floor, as if they too understood that something serious had happened.

Polly hadn’t said a word.

Because there was nothing to say.

Because they were too old for sweet words, too damaged for phrases like “she’s in a better place now” to mean anything.

Tommy walked over to her. He held out his arms and took Finn. Then, without a word, he went upstairs to his room.

Upstairs, he laid the baby on his bed. He took off his shirt, as he did every evening, out of habit. Finn began to cry instantly, a dry, painful cry that sliced through Tommy’s chest like a blade.

So he picked him back up. He placed the infant against his bare chest, skin to skin, and gently rocked him, whispering words in Romani. The same words their mother used to whisper to them on stormy nights, on evenings without bread.

And there, in the dim light of that too-silent room, with the baby in his arms and grief too heavy to carry, Tommy cried.

Not like a child.

Not like a man, either.

Just like a son.

And that night, he made a vow.

Never again.

Never again would he cry.

Tommy was suddenly pulled from his thoughts by a light knock at his office door. He froze for a moment, waiting for the door to open, unmoving, silent. He didn’t feel like speaking to anyone. But he knew there was no point in ignoring whoever it was—especially not Grace.

The door creaked open gently and she stepped in. Grace was wearing a light satin dress, rosy in color, that flowed down to her calves, revealing her bare, slender legs. Over it, she had thrown on a long ivory knit cardigan, soft to the touch and slightly open-weave, contrasting gently with the warm tone of her skin. The dress was simple, but elegant, without too many embellishments. The cardigan was tied at the waist with a thin fabric belt, creating a soft and flowing silhouette. Her hair was styled in a straight bob, with a few loose strands framing her pale and peaceful face. Her eyes glowed with a soft light, but there was something in her step that betrayed her excitement.

She walked up to Tommy with a light step and, almost instinctively, placed her hand on his arm. The touch was gentle, but Tommy felt it instantly, like a tension rising in his muscles. He tensed without meaning to. She probably sensed the change in him, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she kept her hand on his skin a few seconds longer, saying nothing. She was waiting for him to react.

— The doctor’s gone, she said quietly, her voice calm, echoing faintly in the room. I didn’t ask him to say goodbye he was already paid in advance.

Tommy nodded without a word, his gaze still fixed on the window, where light filtered through the thick curtains. He pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it in silence, stepping slightly away from Grace. He needed this moment, a bit of space, just to clear his head.

She waited for him to take the first drag before speaking again.

— What did he say? he asked, his voice flat, emotionless.

Grace responded calmly, reassuringly:

— He said everything’s fine. The baby seems to be developing normally. He responds when I touch my belly, he moves well.

Tommy nodded slowly, not really showing any reaction. He took another drag, eyes lost in space. He felt detached more than he wanted to admit. Like he wasn’t really there.

— And how far along, exactly? he asked, still in that distant voice.

Grace answered with a faint smile, a little warmer this time:

— He confirmed I’m in my seventh month. Even though my bump isn’t that big yet, a loose dress still hides it pretty well.

He nodded again, seemingly satisfied with the answer. But part of him couldn’t help wondering if everything really was okay. It all felt too easy, too smooth. Yet he didn’t say any of this he was too tired.

Grace stepped closer again, wrapping her arms around his neck in a gesture that seemed almost comforting, and gently rested her forehead against his. The scent of her light perfume, the wool cardigan, the warmth between them it all mixed in the air. Tommy closed his eyes for a moment, something inside him still tensing.

— We really need to choose a name and tell our families… she murmured, her voice soft but full of that same gentleness Tommy couldn’t ignore.

He didn’t answer right away, only nodding slightly in response. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but the idea of having to go through all that felt more exhausting than he could admit. He wasn’t ready to celebrate this birth not yet. But he knew Grace needed it, needed to mark the moment, to make it real. For them. For the child.

She waited a moment, as if hoping he’d say something more, but when he didn’t, she continued in a quieter voice, almost a whisper:

— If it’s a girl, I was thinking… Alma.

Tommy looked at her for a moment, a faint smile touching his lips, but nothing more. He didn’t have much to say, but he couldn’t deny the name had a certain beauty.

— It’s pretty, he replied simply, his eyes locked with Grace’s.

She seemed relieved, a smile forming on her lips. Then she looked at him, as if she was still waiting for something more. “And you? If it’s a boy do you have any ideas?”

He hesitated, his gaze dimming slightly as he thought, fingers playing absently with the cigarette filter. “I’ll think about it,” he said after a pause.

She pulled a little closer to him, wrapping her arms tighter around his neck in a protective way, like she wanted to anchor him to this moment.

— I’m going to take a nap. The check-up wore me out a little.

Tommy finally looked up at her. “You’re right. Get some rest. I’ve still got work to do.”

She stroked the back of his neck tenderly, murmuring a few words he didn’t quite catch. Then she rose on tiptoe and kissed him a soft, light kiss, but for Tommy, it was full of a bitterness he could no longer tell was affection or affliction. He barely responded, just enough not to seem cold.

Grace gently pulled away, casting one last look at him as she walked to the door.

— Get some rest, Grace, he murmured once she was gone.

She turned toward him one last time, a faint smile on her lips, then disappeared behind the door. Tommy stood there for a moment, frozen in the silence of his office.

He turned his gaze toward the papers piling up on his desk. Work was waiting. But in his mind, Grace’s words still echoed. The names, the future. The baby.

A life, a legacy, a name.

He took one last drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray. The ghosts of the past wouldn’t let him go.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 6, 1922

Amara had searched every corner of her apartment. She had lifted the worn cushions of the old sofa, checked every coat pocket hanging by the door, emptied the rickety drawer of the dresser, turned her canvas bag inside out in the absurd hope that a coin had somehow gotten stuck inside. Nothing. Except for the meager pile on the kitchen table a few blackened pence, a dented half-crown she had nothing left.

She had come to the end of last month’s wages. And the worst part was, she still didn’t have a job. Not for lack of trying. She had gone to bakeries, fabric shops, grocery stores… but everywhere, it was the same story. Her skin color was a barrier. An invisible but insurmountable wall. Too Black to stand behind a counter “the customers wouldn’t understand,” some said. And not trustworthy enough to work in the back “you understand, we can’t take any chances…”

So Amara had stopped dreaming.

She had set aside her hopes of working as an accountant, of finally putting her school certificate to use, of proving her skill with numbers something she handled better than most. If they didn’t even trust her to touch the canned goods in a storeroom, no one would ever trust her with a ledger or a cash register.

She slowly sat back at the table, eyes resting on the few coins. Amara was beginning to truly worry. She had rationed the leftovers from the last meal she’d cooked for her nephews and for Jeremiah one plate shared between three, then four, then scraped clean until nothing was left. She had made sure the children had enough to eat, pretending to be full when they noticed the tiny portion on her plate, brushing off Jeremiah’s concern with a smile and a rehearsed line when he asked if she’d found a job:

— I got a few positive answers, don’t worry.

But the truth was, she hadn’t received any replies. Nothing but sidelong glances or disgusted looks, awkward silences, and polite smiles that weren’t really smiles. Nothing but the loneliness of a Black woman in a city that wanted her silent and invisible.

And now, there was nothing left. No food. No hope. Only a hollow stomach and a lump in her throat she refused to let burst.

Amara wasn’t someone who lived extravagantly. It just wasn’t in her nature. Even when she had earned a relatively comfortable salary at Shelby & Co., she had never spent lavishly. She watched every penny, every pound, every coin that passed through her hands. Her wages easily covered her monthly expenses food, rent, and everyday needs. There was even room each month to give back, to make a small donation. A portion of her salary was always set aside, not for herself, but for others. It was a habit she had inherited from her mother, a woman with an immense heart, who despite life’s hardships had always managed to preserve her generosity.

Her mother would ask her children Amara, her brothers and sisters to part with something every month. It was never anything major to Amara’s eyes, just small things: a piece of clothing they’d outgrown, some sweets they’d been gifted but hadn’t eaten, a child’s drawing made with love but without any real value. But that wasn’t what mattered. It was the gesture, the heart behind each act. Their mother always told them that even if you don’t have much, you always have something to give. “We have more than others, and we must help them,” she’d say with unwavering conviction. And Amara, though sometimes puzzled, listened, because she knew her mother spoke of what truly mattered. She taught them the value of sharing, of solidarity, of love for others even when life didn’t give them much to smile about.

Every month, Amara’s mother repeated words she said she’d never forget. A verse from the New Testament, which she would recite before they brought their little donation to the church:
— For I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you welcomed me; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick and you visited me; I was in prison and you came to me.
This verse from Matthew 25:35–36 left a deep impression on young Amara. She knew her mother wasn’t a theologian or a scholar, but her words resonated with a simple yet profound truth. They guided their actions, reminded them never to judge a gesture by its size, but by the intention behind it.

Her parents, though they had limited means, practiced their own form of generosity. Every month, a few coins were set aside directly taken from her father’s modest pay. It was his way of resisting temptation, of making sure he wouldn’t use those coins even if, at the end of the month, he came up short. There was no room for frivolity in their household, and they had learned to live modestly, but with dignity.

Still, Amara knew it wasn’t easy. Her father worked hard, but he didn’t earn a fortune. As the only one bringing in income, he had to take grueling manual jobs in the mines because, in this society, a Black man wasn’t supposed to think he was supposed to carry heavy loads and keep his head down. He had always been deemed fit for hard labor, for jobs that didn’t engage the mind. Employers at the time wouldn’t hire Black men for intellectual work. No, a Black man wasn’t meant to handle figures or strategic thinking; he was supposed to be strong and silent, to endure mistreatment, and to never complain.

Amara admired her father’s resilience, even though she knew that way of life marked by constant sacrifice left scars. Despite everything, she had never seen her father give in to anger or despair. He woke up every morning, went to work, and did his best to provide for his family. She saw in his actions a form of strength, a refusal to collapse under the weight of life. And though her mother was sick, worn down by years and trials, she had never stopped passing on her message. Even in illness, she continued to teach the value of selflessness. She taught her children that it was more important to help others than to dwell on what they didn’t have. Life’s hardships didn’t justify closing one’s heart.

And that’s exactly what Amara had done at the beginning of last month, as she had for quite some time. When she’d received her pay, she hadn’t hesitated for a second. She had set aside a portion of her income nearly half of what she earned. It had become a habit, almost a ritual, carried out without a second thought. It was her way of staying true to the values her mother had instilled in her, the principles that had shaped her.

She had divided the money into two equal parts: one for the church, the other for orphaned children. She then hurried to deliver them, as she did every month, to the priest a simple man who always welcomed her with infinite kindness. He thanked her warmly, blessing her each time, grateful for her unwavering generosity. She knew her gifts, though modest, were appreciated, even if, at times, the thought that her gestures were insignificant compared to the world’s true needs crept in.

After church, she went to the orphanage, where the sisters cared for abandoned children. There, they greeted her with grateful but distant smiles. Every coin, every note Amara brought seemed to touch them deeply. It was in that place, filled with innocent faces, that Amara found meaning in her sacrifices. The sisters always offered words of thanks, affirming that her donation would help the children, as if her gift were a great blessing. But she couldn’t help wondering once again if her help was truly enough if it really made a difference.

That month, however, everything had taken a different turn. Amara sighed deeply, her gaze lost in the dust floating through the air of her apartment. At the start of this very same month, she never could have imagined her situation would turn out like this. Hunger had come faster than she’d expected, and with it, a sense of helplessness she knew all too well. She was trapped in a vicious cycle, caught by a lack of opportunity, locked in a world where her existence seemed to matter less than others’. She remembered last month, when she was still full of hope and generously gave what she could. Back then, she had a steady paycheck, a relatively comfortable life, and hope for the future. Life finally seemed to have meaning. But now, it all felt so distant like a dream that had vanished in an instant.

The images of her childhood returned to her like shards of memories that shattered her heart.  She remembered her mother’s words those words given in love and simplicity. Her mother had taught her, and her siblings, that no matter their situation, they should always think of those who had less. Generosity was not a matter of material wealth, but of heart. And every month, Amara made sure to live by that teaching, no matter the cost. But today, it felt like everything was falling apart.

She wondered if her parents, wherever they were now, were still proud of her. Her heart told her yes. She recalled her mother’s words, always repeating: “I will always be proud of you, no matter where life takes you, Amara. Because you will have done what you could, always. And that’s what matters.” But in a corner of her mind, doubt began to gnaw at that certainty.
She had felt so strong fulfilling that monthly gesture, so grounded and faithful to her convictions, so proud to have a job she loved, so fulfilled imagining a future with… Tommy.
But today, she felt broken, abandoned by her own dreams. And what was even harder to accept was that she knew she had made choices choices that had led her to where she was now. She had made sacrifices for the future, she had believed in the promises of a better world, but now, she saw how wrong she had been.

She thought of the man she had loved… of Tommy, the one who had caused her so much pain. Why, after everything he had done to her, couldn’t she bring herself to hate him? Why, on the contrary, did she keep thinking of him, hoping he could still change, that there was still a chance? Was she broken for feeling that way? Should she hate herself for the weakness that prevented her from mourning that relationship, that past?

Doubt crept in like a disease that refused to let go. She was torn between the shame of having failed to build the life she had imagined, of having dreamed too much to the point of near-foolishness and naivety, and the uncertainty of how to move forward.

She was an adult woman, and yet she found herself asking the same existential questions she’d had as a teenager: What will the future be like?

Since she had learned of Grace’s pregnancy, Amara had almost refused to think about it. She had pushed the idea away, as if denying it could change anything. But in the solitude of her increasingly frequent alone moments, it was the one thought that kept returning. Tommy was going to be a father. He was going to be the father of a beautiful child, probably blond like his wife, and every time she imagined it, a knot formed in her throat a pain she couldn’t explain, but that brought her to tears, almost without reason.

The thought that this child existed, that Grace’s pregnancy marked the beginning of a new chapter for Tommy, was devastating to Amara. This pregnancy made official something Amara had probably always known but never wanted to admit. She was now Tommy’s past. Not that he had ever rejected or denied her, but everything in their story showed that they had never truly made their relationship official, never put words to what they were to each other.
They had never even asked each other where they stood. But to the Shelby family, it was clear they had shared something deep something beyond fleeting moments. Amara believed it had been just as clear to Tommy: the moments in Charlie’s stables, the laughter, the confidences, the tender gestures, the kisses stolen away from prying eyes. She thought all of that had meant something.
But now, thinking back, the idea that this child would take the place she once held in Tommy’s life on a whole different level felt crushing.

She wondered if Tommy had taken it all for granted, if he had, unconsciously, allowed himself to turn to other women, to live other stories. But Amara didn’t think so. That wasn’t the man she had known. She felt like she understood him better than anyone, even if she didn’t always understand him fully.
That wasn’t the man who had shared dreams with her in Charlie’s stables. That wasn’t the man she had spoken with one evening about her deep desire to become a mother. She had confided in him, there in the warmth of the stables, that she couldn’t imagine life without children that the very idea of being a mother brought her immense joy, but also fear. A visceral fear, because she knew that in this world, a child born of her body, with her skin color, wouldn’t have the same chances as others.
She had explained her fear to him that from birth, this child would be judged, rejected, that it would carry the weight of others’ stares, as she had all her life.

— Tommy… She had turned to him that day, in the intimacy of the stables, the air heavy with uncertainty. I’m afraid. Afraid of how the world will see this child. Afraid that it will never be enough for others, that they’ll look at it differently because of me.

He had looked at her for a long time, then gently placed a calming hand on her shoulder. He stroked the horse’s coat softly, as if searching for the right words.

— Amara, you don’t have to be afraid. His voice, calm and firm, resonated in the cool air of the stables. It’ll be a Shelby child. No matter what others think, they’ll never say it aloud. It will never suffer their judgment. And neither will you.

And Tommy had replied in the way that was so uniquely his with calm and quiet confidence. He had held her in his arms, and for a moment, Amara had believed his words. She had believed everything would be fine, that Tommy’s love would be enough to erase all barriers, all prejudice.

But now, with Grace’s pregnancy moving along quickly, Amara wondered if she hadn’t rushed too much into believing. Maybe Tommy hadn’t been speaking about their future children. Maybe he had just meant any child close to the clan like Isaiah, whom Tommy almost considered family, though he wasn’t his own.
But was that really the same thing? Had Amara blinded herself with hope with the idea that this man, with his tender and reassuring words, could one day build something with her? Was she lying to herself, hoping for a future she knew deep down was nearly impossible? Her doubts had grown heavier by the day, and the certainty of her past, of what she believed was her place in Tommy’s life, was shattering more and more each day.

Amara suddenly stood up from her chair, a swift movement, as if trying to shake off her dark thoughts before they consumed her entirely. She grabbed the few scattered coins on the table, slipping them into her coat pocket before stepping out of her apartment. The faulty door slammed shut with a loud thud a sharp sound that echoed through the narrow hallway like a protest. But she didn’t linger. The door was in bad shape, and she knew it was pointless to try and close it more gently. She quickly descended the building’s staircase, her steps echoing against the worn-down stairs.

Outside, the streets of Small Heath were buzzing at that hour. It was nearly noon lunch break for the workers. The noise of the market filled the air, blending with the chatter of merchants, the shouts of children running home to grab a bite before heading back to school. The voices of passersby merged in a constant hum children’s laughter, animated conversations between adults on break, heading toward the pubs. The air was thick, slightly smoky from the factories and chimneys towering against the gray sky, but it had the stifling warmth of early afternoon.

Amara crossed a few narrow streets, her footsteps ringing on the uneven cobblestones, before stopping in front of a small local bakery known as the cheapest in Small Heath. The storefront was simple, made of wood aged by time. A large window showed shelves filled with bread and pastries, their golden crusts glowing under the light. A small sign reading “Fresh Bread Daily” hung above the door, and the warmth of the bakery wafted out through the open window.
The bell above the door chimed as Amara stepped inside.
The atmosphere inside was almost intimate, filled with the smell of freshly baked bread.

Heads turned immediately toward her cold, calculating gazes. The women, especially, stared at her openly. Some looked disgusted; others simply eyed her from head to toe, as if her mere presence was an offense.

Amara stood still for a moment before the man behind the counter addressed her in a dry, colder voice than the one he had used with the previous customer.

— What do you want? he said, barely lifting his eyes from his work.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself under the gaze of a shopkeeper she had never seen before, but who, in that moment, seemed to embody the oppression of every day she endured.

— A loaf of bread, please.

He grabbed a loaf from the basket behind him and handed it to her without a word, as if the entire exchange were just a formality. When he announced the price, he didn’t even look at her. One coin. She dug into her pocket, pulled out a coin, handed it to him, took the bread, and murmured a quick “Goodbye.” The shopkeeper didn’t respond, not even bothering to meet her eyes.

As she stepped outside, Amara scanned the street, looking for something anything to focus on, to escape the gnawing unease inside her. That’s when her eyes fell on a figure nearby. On the sidewalk, she saw a prostitute leaning against a wall. Her clothes were torn, but her red dress too short and worn remained a splash of color in the surrounding grayness. Her makeup was heavy but carefully applied, with bright lipstick and dark shadows around her eyes. Her black hair was tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping around her tired face. Her gaze was empty, almost indifferent, but her movements betrayed a well-worn routine. She adjusted her dress with a weary motion, watching the passersby, ready to respond to a proposition with a mechanical smile.

Amara stared at her for a moment. She couldn’t help but wonder how many women, like her, had been trapped in the same misery, caught in a dance they no longer knew how to stop. Deep down, Amara also felt a twinge of sadness and pity.

She reached into her coat pocket, her fingers trembling at the thought of how little money she had left. When she felt the two small cold coins, she slowly pulled them out, looking at them in her palm with almost disgust. Two coins. That was all she had left everything else already spent on more urgent needs. Her mind wandered, wondering how many women like the one she’d just seen on the sidewalk had fallen into this same vicious cycle of poverty. How many had been forced to sell their bodies just to survive, simply because they had no other choice? Amara could hardly imagine such a reality for herself, but the thought of ending up in that situation terrified her. She was almost surprised she wasn’t more worried, not completely overwhelmed by fear. But in her thoughts, a familiar voice Jeremiah’s seemed to comfort her: "I’ll be there for you. I’ll never let you down." He would be there, always. That’s what he had told her when their mother died.

That’s when she sensed a presence near her. In her contemplation, she hadn’t noticed the prostitute approaching. Suddenly, they stood face-to-face. The woman was looking at her with a strange curiosity, a persistent smile on her lips. Before Amara could react, the prostitute reached out and gently lifted her chin, forcing her to look her in the eyes. Amara, frozen, felt an odd vulnerability under her touch.

The woman let her go but continued to stare, her eyes slowly scanning Amara’s body as if assessing her value in a way Amara couldn’t understand. Then, with a smile almost too confident, the prostitute spoke in a calm voice, tinged with mockery:

— You know, she said, eyeing Amara up and down, I’m sure with a body like yours, you’d have no trouble attracting clients.

Amara, cheeks burning with confusion, said nothing. The words echoed in her mind, barely real, as if reality and disbelief were merging. The prostitute stared at her a moment longer before continuing, an ironic smile on her lips:

— Men would definitely love a bit of... exoticism , she added, laughing softly, a glint in her eye.

Amara, stunned, remained silent. Her heart pounded in her chest, her breath catching with each word the woman spoke. Exoticism . She couldn’t even understand why the woman thought she might be interested, why she was speaking to her this way. Was it because she looked desperate, like she was adrift?

Then the prostitute, seemingly unaware of the impact of her words, continued in a harder voice:

— You know, most of the men who degrade you in the street because of your skin color? They’d be the first to want you in their bed.

Amara could no longer bear the way the woman spoke. The sound of her laugh shrill and grating wrapped around her like poison. She couldn’t breathe properly anymore; her heart raced, her stomach knotted. Her words carved a hollow in her chest. What if she was right? she thought, anxiety eating at her. What if I can’t find work? What if I’m pushed to that same shame just to survive? No. That couldn’t happen. She shook her head gently to chase the thought away. No. She would never fall that low. She had Jeremiah and Isaiah, she was a role model for her nieces, and she had… Tommy. Jeremiah would support her, he would help her. They loved her, and that’s what mattered. That was everything.

Her dignity, her virginity, her love of God these were too precious to ever be sacrificed. She was a good Christian, her mother had raised her that way. That thought brought her immediately back to the present. She turned away from the prostitute abruptly, closing her eyes for a moment to regain focus. She didn’t need this situation. She didn’t need this woman throwing words at her like a litany of despair. She turned away for good, her breath quickening again this time from the strength of the decision forming inside her.

She began to walk briskly, then broke into a run, the streets of Small Heath becoming a blur behind her. She didn’t look back, refusing to be swallowed by the image of the prostitute, or by the fear of ending up like her. She ran, almost without thinking, until she arrived at home, breathless, heart pounding but with the certainty that she would not fall into that trap, that she would never be reduced to that.

She paused for a moment at her door, her hand resting on the handle, then exhaled deeply, taking a moment to calm herself. Life may be hard, life may be cruel sometimes, but she had a future, a purpose, and she wouldn’t let anyone not even that woman make her forget what she was truly worth.

Amara opened the door to her apartment with a trembling hand. The damp, heavy air from the street followed her in, mixing with the smell of wood and dust inside her small space. She closed the door behind her with a thud that echoed through the empty apartment. Her eyes fell on the loaf of bread in her hand a meager consolation for the hunger that still gnawed at her. She set it gently on the kitchen table, without even looking at it.

She sat down slowly in a chair, her hands clenched on her knees. A moment of silence fell over her a kind of temporary refuge for her furious thoughts. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned toward the small wooden shelf on the wall, where an old crucifix hung, a relic from her mother. She stood and moved toward it, her silhouette faintly outlined in the light coming through the window.

She knelt, as she had done so many times before, and in silence, she whispered the opening words of the Lord’s Prayer, almost instinctively:

— Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…

The prayer seemed to bring her back to another time, another place a moment when life felt less overwhelming, simpler. She raised her eyes to the crucifix, searching for a connection, for an answer she didn’t yet know how to ask.

— Forgive me, Lord, she said softly, her voice trembling slightly, forgive me for my impure thoughts, for the doubt and fear that consume me. Forgive me for letting ideas take root that I should never have entertained.

She paused for a moment, overcome by a wave of emotion. She didn’t want to think about what she might become if she couldn’t hold onto her dignity. If one day she gave in to the temptation to do something she would regret forever.

— I also pray for the women of this city, Lord,  she continued, her voice now stronger, a little more assured. Forgive them their mistakes, their weaknesses. Give them the strength to leave that life behind, to find the power to be saved. May those who have chosen that path someday find a way out.

She thought of the prostitute, of all the women she had passed in the streets, of the misery that had pushed them there. Her heart ached for them but also for herself. She had her weaknesses, and they were becoming more and more apparent.

— And give me, Lord, the strength never to fall into that desolation. If I ever find myself in such a desperate situation, I promise You I will confide in Jeremiah but not before. I won’t hide anything. But keep me far from that path, Lord. Keep me safe.

As she prayed, a thought returned to her, clear and sharp, almost like a voice echoing through the years. Her mother’s voice gentle but firm came back to her mind, as if she were right behind her.

"Amara, my daughter, never forget what I told you: it’s better to make no promise to God than to make one you know you won’t keep."

Amara closed her eyes, listening to her mother’s words like an echo a guide who had never left her, not even in her darkest moments. She remembered the softness with which her mother had spoken about faith, inner strength, and the importance of remaining true to one’s values, no matter what.

Finally, she stood, her eyes still fixed on the crucifix, a strange calm washing over her. She ended her prayer with the sign of the cross. It hadn’t erased all her fears, but it had given her a new perspective. She felt just a bit stronger, ready to face life’s harshness for one more day. She knew that even if she was alone right now, she was never truly abandoned.

She turned away from the crucifix, walked back to the table, and picked up the loaf of bread in her hands. It wasn’t much, but for the moment, it was all she needed. She said one final prayer for inner peace, then sat down at the table in silence, her eyes lost in the void.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 10, 1922

The Garrison, in the late morning, carried the usual lingering scent of a pub still half-asleep from the night before: a stubborn blend of spilled whiskey, cold tobacco, and wax rubbed into the tables. In the private lounge, sheltered from the prying ears and curious eyes of Small Heath, the Shelby men had gathered. Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, casting bright squares on the floor, blurred by thick smoke lazily rising toward the ceiling.

Arthur, jaw clenched, eyes red and temples pounding, puffed on his cigarette with exaggerated focus. He studied his cards as if the future of the Shelby empire depended on them. Opposite him, John, far more relaxed, rocked his chair back on two legs, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He held his cards in one hand while flipping a coin between the fingers of the other, wearing the smug grin of a man with nothing to lose, but everything to prove.

— You’ve got no bloody chance, Arthur, he said, slapping his bet down on the table. Your eyebrows twitch when you bluff. It’s written all over your face.

— Shut it, Johnny, Arthur growled. You say that every round, and you’ve still lost three out of four.

Finn, younger and more nervous, smoked a cigarette that seemed to burn faster than he did. He glanced between his cards and his older brothers, trying to follow without getting trampled. He laughed awkwardly at every jab thrown, just happy to be part of this brotherly gathering.

Michael, meanwhile, wasn’t playing. He sat back, a little removed, leaning against the sofa with a bottle of beer in hand. He observed the game like an analyst, occasionally throwing in a biting or admiring comment.

— You should switch careers, John. Maybe become a croupier. With that intuition of yours, he said sarcastically.

But Tommy didn’t join in the banter. Sitting on the leather bench, legs crossed, a glass of whiskey in hand, he seemed almost detached from the scene. His gaze rarely settled on the cards or his brothers. He was elsewhere. Absorbed.

That very morning, just before leaving Arrow House, he had made a phone call.

He had walked over to the telephone in the hallway, that shiny black handset sitting like a sentry on its wooden table. He dialed the London number Ada’s apartment. He knew exactly why he was calling.

It rang twice. Then a man’s voice answered.

— Hello? Who is this?

Tommy narrowed his eyes. The voice wasn’t familiar. Neither was the tone.

— Thomas Shelby. I want to speak to Ada.

— Uh… one moment. I’ll go get her.

After a few moments, Ada finally picked up.

— What do you want, Tommy? she asked with her usual sharp tone that defensive irony she reserved for her brothers when she sensed a serious conversation coming.

— I wanted to know how you were doing.

There was a brief silence just long enough to mark her surprise.

— What do you want, Tommy? An honest answer or a polite lie?

— The truth.

— I’m alright. As well as can be.

—Why did a man answer?

She sighed, her tone less cutting.

— He’s a lodger. I don’t like living alone. I grew up in a house full of brothers making a mess from dawn to dusk. Silence drives me mad you should know that.

Tommy nodded softly, his gaze lost in the reflection of the window in front of him. Then he dropped the news, plainly, without hesitation.

— Grace is pregnant.

The silence that followed was longer. Heavier… loaded.

— You’re going to be a father , Ada said coldly.

— Yes.

That was all he could say and all she said, too.

Back in the Garrison’s private lounge, his brothers’ voices rose and fell, punctuated by bursts of laughter, mild arguments, and teasing jabs between men who shared a heavy past and a fragile present.

But Tommy remained still. The news of Grace’s pregnancy hadn’t yet settled in his mind. He knew what it meant: a family, an heir, a new life. But none of it had yet taken form. It was still just a word.

He hadn’t told anyone not even Arthur. Not yet. He was holding onto that information like one holds a secret too precious, or perhaps too fragile.

His gaze lingered on the amber at the bottom of his glass. Becoming a father. The word burned. And in a corner of his mind, there was a silhouette. The memory of Amara. And the way she had once spoken about wanting to be a mother.

And he… what had he said that day in Charlie’s stables?

He brought the glass to his lips, hoping the fire of the whiskey would drown the burn of his thoughts.

And after leaving Arrow House, Thomas hadn’t gone straight to the Garrison. His instinct or maybe an old reflex he had never quite shaken had taken him to the docks. To Charlie’s stables, that place thick with memories and familiar smells, where the world always seemed to move just a little more slowly.

He had found his uncle inside, deep in conversation with Curly. Both were crouched beside a nervous young mare. Curly, all smiles, looked up at the sound of Tommy’s footsteps.

— Morning, Mr. Shelby! he called out cheerfully . Saphir’s doing fine! She’s got her appetite back you should see her eat, it’s a real show.

Then, with a disjointed little laugh, he added that he had to feed the other animals before they “started discussing going on strike,” and disappeared into a corner of the stable.

Tommy barely responded just a nod of the head as a greeting. He glanced around the stalls, the hanging saddles, the air thick with straw and dust. But he didn’t want to talk there. Not in that space. Not between those walls that too vividly reminded him of another conversation, another confession Amara’s, made one day in that very stable.

No, he couldn’t tell Charlie what he had to say in there. Not in that place that still bore Amara’s imprint.

— Let’s go outside, he simply told his uncle.

Charlie nodded and followed him, leaving the shadows of the stable to walk by his side along the canal. The air was damp, heavy with soot and metal, and the distant hum of the city echoed in the silence between them.

They stopped a few meters from the water. Tommy looked at the murky surface of the canal, the distorted reflections of barges, the abandoned burlap sacks, the half-sunken boats.

Then, in a calm voice, almost devoid of emotion:

— Grace is pregnant.

He didn’t take his eyes off the water. Nor did he try to gauge Charlie’s reaction. It was a blunt statement, unadorned, like laying an irrefutable fact on the table.

Charlie remained silent for a moment, arms crossed over his chest, lips pressed into a tight line.

Then he gave his nephew a rough, sincere pat on the shoulder:

— Good luck, Tommy.

No congratulations. Just that. And it was enough.

Tommy gave a brief nod. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a precise flick, then took a slow drag, as if sealing something in the smoke.

He saluted his uncle with a simple tilt of his head and walked off without another word, his coat flapping against his legs as he disappeared into Birmingham’s grayness, heading toward the Garrison.

While his brothers laughed and shouted especially Arthur, who had just lost a hand and was loudly cursing everyone else's luck Tommy remained silent. The noise around him felt distant, muffled, like it belonged to another world. His thoughts had taken him back to the canal’s edge, to Ada’s voice, to Charlie’s eyes… to Amara.

Then, as if trying to snap himself out of that haze, he lifted his head slightly, his cold eyes sweeping across the room without truly seeing it. And in a loud, clear, steady voice, almost solemn, he declared:

— Grace is pregnant.

The words dropped into the room like a blade. Silence was instant. Cards were laid down, cigars frozen in mid-air, cigarettes paused between breaths. Even the creak of boots on the floorboards and the clink of glass on wood seemed to vanish.

Tommy didn’t seek anyone’s gaze. He didn’t want applause or exclamations. He simply brought his glass to his lips and took a slow, controlled sip, as if closing a deal.

Arthur was the first to react. Without a word, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured another round for everyone. A generous serving for John, an equally large one for Michael, a bit more for himself… and a tiny splash for Finn, who didn’t even flinch.

John slowly removed the cigar from his mouth, a crooked smile on his face, and said in a tone that was mocking, yet almost affectionate:

— Congrats, Tommy… and welcome to the club. You’ll see, there are days you won’t even want to go home with all the screaming.

He chuckled softly, but his laugh was more subdued than usual. He didn’t quite know what tone to take with this news. Normally, he’d have cracked dirty jokes, made comments about trendy baby names, or started betting on the baby’s gender. But now… he could tell something was different. That Tommy wasn’t really there.

Arthur, for his part, raised his glass without much ceremony.

— To the child, he said simply.

They all toasted, even Finn, who still hadn’t lifted his eyes from his glass. His face was frozen, almost closed off. No teasing, no remarks about the small pour nothing. Just a strange silence that clashed with his usual behavior.

Michael stepped a little closer to Tommy and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, like a colleague reacting to good news he didn’t quite know how to feel about.

Tommy appreciated the silence. That brief, muted moment without celebration. He didn’t want a party. No shouting. No endless toasts or forced laughter. He didn’t want to hear their voices rise in cheer for something that, truthfully, unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

He just wanted them to move on.

After the announcement, the card game resumed, almost mechanically, as if to fill the void left by Tommy’s words. No one said anything more. John, Arthur, and Michael returned to playing, seemingly focused, but Tommy knew each of them was thinking about Amara.

They liked her. More than Grace, probably. Amara had been around for a while. They had worked alongside her, seen her calm demeanor, her kindness, her loyalty. She had never tried to stand out always discreet but present, effective, respectful. Too good for this world, Arthur often thought. And even if no one said it aloud, it was obvious in their eyes: the news of Grace’s pregnancy had stirred something heavy. A thought they wouldn’t dare voice to Tommy. Because when Tommy decided, when he spoke, there was no room for objections. You nodded. You accepted. That was how it was with him.

Finn, for his part, gave up after two rounds. His mind was elsewhere. His gaze wandered, his hands moved aimlessly, and he bet at random. It wasn’t a game anymore. So, without a word, he gave up his seat to Michael and went to sit off to the side.

Since then, he hadn’t taken his eyes off Tommy.

He stared at him intently, not with aggression, but with palpable tension. Several times his lips parted, ready to say something, but he closed them again immediately. He doubted. He hesitated. He weighed every thought, every word he might speak. This clearly wasn’t the right moment. Not after that announcement. Not in front of the others. What he had to say to Tommy… he wasn’t sure it was wise. And even less sure it would be welcome.

But the urgency he felt the weight in his chest was growing stronger than his doubts.

Finally, after several long minutes, he broke the silence between them:

— Tommy…

His voice was low, but enough to draw the attention of the head of the family. Tommy looked up at him, his piercing gaze settling intensely on his youngest brother.

— What? he asked, in that neutral but focused tone he reserved for serious matters.

Finn looked down at the table for a moment, then lifted his eyes again. His hesitation was clear—almost painful to witness.

— I need to talk to you. Alone. After.

A silence followed. Even the cards stopped moving for a beat.

Tommy raised an eyebrow, surprised. Finn wasn’t the type to ask him for something like that. In fact, he never had. That wasn’t how things worked between them. For a while now, Tommy knew, he’d grown distant from his youngest brother. He was always with Arthur, John, sometimes Michael. But Finn… he didn’t really talk to him anymore. He still looked out for him, of course. Made sure he wasn’t dragged too deep into dirty business too fast, that he didn’t feel left out either. He tried to maintain a balance a difficult one. But honest, man-to-man talks? No. Those had never happened.

Tommy watched him for a second, analyzing the request, then gave a simple nod.

He turned his attention back to his glass. But something dark and heavy had settled in the back of his mind.

John ruffled Finn’s hair with a teasing grin, his laughter echoing around the room.

— What’s so secret you can’t say it in front of us, eh? Got yourself a girlfriend or what?

He leaned in closer, clearly enjoying the opportunity to poke fun.

— And if you need advice, kid, better ask me or Arthur… don’t go asking Tommy how to fuck a woman!

He burst into louder laughter, looking to Arthur for backup, who gave a half-smile and nodded, amused.

Finn pulled away from John’s hand, a little red in the face, and ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it back, visibly embarrassed by the sudden attention and the jokes.

Tommy, still silent, calmly pulled a cigarette from his pocket and reached for his coat, folded neatly on the bench. He shrugged it on with precise movements and simply said:

— Come on.

He was speaking to Finn, without looking back. Then he stepped out of the Garrison’s private room, and out of the pub, into the cold streets of Small Heath.

Outside, Birmingham’s chill slapped them like a jolt back to reality. The city’s noises came rushing in again: the distant clatter of factories, the sharp voices of workers, boots clacking on wet cobblestones, children’s laughter, and the steady breath of wind threading between the buildings.

Tommy lit his cigarette with a smooth motion, giving Finn time. He took a slow drag, then turned toward him.

— So? What’s so important you couldn’t say it in front of the others, Finn?

His tone was direct, but not aggressive. Curious, but cautious. He knew that if Finn had asked for a private conversation, it meant something.

Finn walked beside him, hands in his pockets, gaze drifting. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, hesitating.

He almost regretted bringing it up. But now, there was no going back.

— It’s… it’s about Amara.

Tommy froze mid-step. He turned slowly toward Finn, the cigarette hanging between his fingers, his ice-blue eyes locked on his younger brother’s face. His expression gave nothing away, but Finn could feel it something in Tommy had gone still.

His mind raced. There were things he would rather never hear. Was this about the time he’d asked Finn to walk Amara home after that panic attack in his office? Had something happened? Had she said something? Cried? Revealed something he didn’t yet know? Something important?

His heart ticked a little faster. But his body didn’t move. Only his eyes, if one looked closely, betrayed a ripple of unease.

— What exactly? he asked, his voice lower now, tenser than he’d intended.

Finn swallowed hard.

— She didn’t ask me to say anything. It’s just… I saw something. And I think you should know…

The silence between them thickened. Tommy took another drag from his cigarette, longer this time. Waiting.

Finn started walking again, a bit quicker now, shoulders tight, hands shoved deep in his coat. Tommy followed without a word, watching the tension in his brother’s body, the silence hanging like a curtain about to be pulled back on an uncomfortable truth.

Finn needed the movement to manage his nerves, to keep his thoughts from spiraling. He was picking his words carefully too carefully. They had to sound true, but not too true. They had to shift Tommy’s focus without lighting a fire he couldn’t put out.

After a few steps, Finn exhaled slowly and finally said, voice uncertain:

— It was… it was the other day. I was out getting cake for the lads you know, from old Patel’s shop by the laundry.

He paused, staring at the pavement as if he might find the right words written there.

— And I saw her… Amara. She was outside, near the old bakery. She was talking to a… to a whore.

He stopped walking, barely daring to glance at Tommy.

The silence that followed said more than any reaction could. Tommy had slowed his pace.

His brows drew together immediately. That word whore hit him like a slap. He couldn’t make sense of it. Amara wasn’t that kind of woman. She had nothing in common with street girls. She was gentle, reserved, devout. She prayed. She had pride. She loved God.

So why… why would she be speaking with a prostitute? What could possibly connect them?

Tommy felt a twinge of panic in his chest. And suddenly, like lightning, a string of forgotten details came rushing back. She hadn’t been coming to the office. She’d vanished from the betting shop. Her desk was empty. Her last paycheck had been over a month ago. He didn’t even know if she’d found work since then. And if he didn’t know…

Maybe she hadn’t.

And maybe there was nothing left to put on the table. Maybe she didn’t have a choice. Maybe that world the world of desperation and vice had found its way to her.

He felt his pulse quicken, his throat tighten, a cold shiver crawling down his neck. The mere thought that it might be possible shook him.

Not her. Not Amara. It couldn’t be.

Meanwhile, Finn kept his eyes locked on the sidewalk, his heart pounding but not for the same reasons as Tommy.

Because he knew. He knew the story was true… more or less. He really had seen Amara talking to a prostitute. She was there, standing tall despite her worn coat, still beautiful. And that gaudy-dressed woman had approached her like she was sizing her up.

But Finn hadn’t seen anything while going to get a cake. He wasn’t there for a snack. He had slipped into that street because he wanted to quietly reach the brothel not far from where the prostitute had come. He hoped to go unnoticed. But instead, he ran into Amara. And shame had swallowed him whole. He hoped she hadn’t seen him.

So now, he was lying. Not to hurt anyone. He just wanted to protect his own dignity.

And above all… he hoped Tommy wouldn’t see through him.

Finn had wanted to feel like his brothers.

That desire, he never voiced aloud not even to Isaiah, his closest friend. It was a quiet fire, buried beneath appearances. There was nothing shameful about wanting to grow up, to prove you weren’t a kid anymore. But what he felt went deeper than that. It was a constant tug-of-war between the admiration he felt for his brothers and the complex he harbored in their shadow.

He looked at John with his charming nonchalance, his confidence with Esme, his jokes filled with innuendo. Arthur, despite his excesses, had that brutal strength, that animal magnetism that commanded respect. And Tommy… Tommy was the image of control, of power, of mystery. Even Michael, with his calm demeanor and London manners, seemed to belong to a more adult world than Finn’s.

Finn was in-between. No longer a child, but not yet with the presence, the stature the other Shelby men carried. He had grown in their footsteps, under their gazes, and sometimes under their silence. He wanted to prove himself, to show them he was one of them. Not just "little Finn," the baby of the family, still half-protected.

And then there was Isaiah.

Isaiah, with his loud laughter, broad shoulders, and steady gaze. Girls circled him openly. Some wanted him just for the thrill, to defy convention. But many genuinely loved him. He had that something extra the way he talked, walked, seduced. He was a man. Not a boy. Beside him, Finn felt tiny. Insignificant. Invisible.

He’d never admit it, but sometimes, he was jealous. Jealous of what Isaiah represented. Jealous of what he couldn’t yet be.

So that day, wandering the streets of Small Heath, he found himself in front of the building he’d only ever watched from afar: the brothel. He’d thought about it more than once. Walking in, proving something to himself. Becoming a man, like the others.

His heart was beating so hard it hurt his chest. But he pushed the door open. The air inside was warm, saturated with sweet perfume, smoke, and whispers. He felt like he was trespassing in a forbidden sanctuary, stepping into a world that wasn’t meant for him.

He walked toward the front counter, throat tight. He asked, almost in a whisper:

— I’d like to spend some time… with one of them.

His hands were clammy. He didn’t dare look at them. He felt the eyes on him, silent judgments. The women said nothing, but their eyes spoke. They sized him up. And he knew. He knew they didn’t really respect him. They respected his name. The only shield between him and ridicule.

Without that name, he’d have been just a lost boy. Too young. Too nervous.

A woman nodded toward the back hallway. He moved forward. The walls seemed to close in around him, and his footsteps echoed far too loudly. In front of the indicated door, he stopped. His hand trembled on the handle. He told himself: You can do this. You HAVE to do this. But he didn’t move.

He stayed like that for long minutes. His breath quickened. His heart pounded.

And then… he glanced out the hallway window, almost by reflex, as if to escape his own fear.

And that’s when he saw her.

Amara.

She was standing across the street, in front of the old bakery. She was talking to a prostitute. He couldn’t hear anything, but the contact between them seemed strange almost intimate. The prostitute touched her face, spoke with a smile… and Amara didn’t pull away.

Finn’s heart clenched.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand.

Why was Amara talking to a woman like that? What did it mean? Was she… was she…?

He refused to think it. It was impossible. Not her. Amara was upright. Proud. Dignified. He had seen her cry in Tommy’s office, had seen her fragile, human but never weak.

And yet, there, on that sidewalk, she seemed to belong to a world he thought far removed from her.

At that moment, he felt ashamed.

Not for her. For himself. For what he was about to do. For what he had come there to prove.

He wasn’t a man. Not yet. And he knew that it wouldn’t be that room, or the woman behind that door, that would change him. Yet he wanted it to.

He left without a word. Without a glance back. And since then, that moment had stuck in his throat like a confession he couldn’t voice.

And now, walking beside Tommy, he felt that weight return.

But how could he say it?

How could he confess all of this without betraying his own shame?

So he half-lied. Twisted the truth. Chose his words like tools, careful not to shatter everything at once.

But deep down, he was still that kid in the hallway, trembling hand on the doorknob, paralyzed by his own fear.

A part of Finn wondered… if Amara hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t been standing at that exact moment outside the bakery, would he really have gone into that room at the end of the hallway?

The voice inside him the one that craved legitimacy, that wanted to belong to that brotherhood of strong, confident men said yes. He would have walked in. He would have done what needed to be done. He would have grown up, finally. Proved he was a Shelby.

But if Finn forced himself to be brutally honest if he dug deep down he knew the answer was no.

He never would have gone in. He couldn’t.

He had been too scared. Not of the woman behind the door. Not even of the act itself. But of what it would reveal about him. He had wondered, with a chill, what state she would be in. Already naked? In lingerie? Would she be waiting for him, stretched out on those worn sheets, with a bored or mocking look? Or would he be the one expected to undress, awkwardly, fingers trembling on a corset button or a too-tight hem?

Would he have known what to do? Would he have had the courage to go through with it?

The answer hurt.

He didn’t have that confidence. Not that night. Maybe not ever.

And what if she had laughed?
What if she had mocked his discomfort, his silence, the way he stammered while staring at the ground instead of her eyes? What if she had immediately seen that he wasn’t like his brothers that he only bore the name by blood, not by stature?

That name he carried like a burden: Shelby.

He had run. He had run because, in that hallway, there were no cards to play, no gun to hold, no gang to lead. There was only him Finn alone with his reflection in a mirror he didn’t want to face.

Snapped out of his thoughts, he turned his eyes back to Tommy. He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice a little steadier:

— I came out of the bakery and… I just left. I didn’t see where she went.

Tommy didn’t respond. He remained still, eyes fixed on some vague point down the street.

But inside him, something was twisting.

A cold, visceral fear older than the war, yet completely new. A fear that rooted itself in his chest, climbing up into his throat. He imagined against his will he saw Amara. Her bare body. Offered to a stranger. In a bed that wasn’t hers. For a bit of money, for a meal, for a roof over her head.

He knew she was proud too proud to ask for help, too dignified to complain. He had convinced himself Jeremiah wouldn’t let her fall. That if she really hit rock bottom, she’d go to him. But now…

The image haunted him.
The idea that his Amara the one who prayed every night, who spoke to him with softness, with a sacred kind of restraint might have sold the part of herself she protected so carefully… it tore him apart inside.

She had confided in him how important her virginity was, her chastity, the idea of marriage as the only key to that part of her. He remembered it clearly. He clung to it. He was still clinging to it, like a man falling off a rooftop clutching at a ledge too smooth to hold.

But a prostitute doesn’t talk to you for nothing.

Either you’re a client… Or you’re a colleague.

And that thought, Tommy couldn’t bear. Especially if he held any part of the blame for it.

The rest of the walk unfolded in heavy silence. No words, only the sound of their footsteps on the damp cobblestones of Small Heath. Each of them locked in their own storm. Finn had his hands in his pockets, head down, like he wanted to disappear into his collar. Tommy walked straight, but his eyes were distant, fixed on some dark, invisible point ahead.

When they reached the family house, they pushed open the door without a word. The familiar smell of stale tobacco, soup simmering on the stove, and damp laundry enveloped them at once. Polly was in the kitchen, pouring black tea into a mug. Finn barely acknowledged her a hurried mumble before darting upstairs, two steps at a time. He needed to be alone. He’d been avoiding Polly since that night. Since he came back from the brothel, ashamed, unable to meet her gaze. That evening, she had stared at him, her face marked with worry, and simply asked: “What did you do, Finn?” He hadn’t answered. He had run to his room, just as he had been running from everything since.

Even if the guilt was eating him alive, he would say nothing. That was his burden to carry, not theirs.

Tommy, for his part, walked through the house without even glancing at Polly. He didn’t greet her. He couldn’t. Not now.

He went straight to the betting office, opened a drawer, pulled out a blank envelope and moved to the cash boxes. The day’s takings were there, neatly counted by Michael earlier. Tommy took a large portion of the sum the amount that matched Amara’s wages for the days she had still been working, before… before he told her he was going to marry Grace.

With a swift motion, he scribbled the transaction in the accounting book. Michael would know. He was methodical, precise. Nothing escaped him.

Then, envelope in hand, Tommy returned to the kitchen. Polly was already looking up at him, face hard and questioning.

He placed the envelope on the wooden table and slid it toward her.

— Give her this. Tell her it’s her pay for the days she worked.

Polly didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need to. It was about Amara. And Polly respected and loved that girl, maybe more than Tommy realized. She nodded slowly, like a silent promise. She would go see her gladly.

Tommy added, without raising his eyes:

— Take Ada with you.

But Polly ignored the instruction. She stared at him for a long moment, then said in a sharp, almost mocking tone:

— So… you broke the news like it was bad news, didn’t you?

Tommy understood immediately. She meant the pregnancy. The announcement.

He didn’t try to deny it.

— Yeah, Polly.

She nodded again, slowly, scanning him from head to toe as if trying to read right through him.

— It’s a boy, she declared confidently, her voice full of that mystical certainty she had always carried.

Tommy nodded. He knew. Polly never got those things wrong. Not her. Her gypsy instinct had never failed. He was going to have a son.

Polly stared at him intently, then said, her voice laced with biting irony:

— I hope you’ll at least teach him Romani. That you won’t raise him to speak like the fucking Irish that make up your wife’s family.

Tommy said nothing. Not a word. Polly’s words were needles, but he was too tired to defend himself. And the truth was, he didn’t even want to defend Grace not while his gut was still twisted with fear for Amara.

He simply grabbed his coat, slung it over his shoulder, and said:

— I’ve got a meeting.

And he left the house, without looking back.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 11, 1922

Amara stared at the loaf of bread as if it were capable of answering her. Five days had passed since she’d bought it, and yet, more than half of it still remained. She had rationed it with almost military precision, cutting each portion methodically, as if the tiniest crumb could make a difference. Two pennies. That was all she had left. Two miserable pennies, lost in the corner of a dress pocket barely enough for another piece of bread, certainly not enough for a real meal.

She ate only a small piece every other day, accompanied by a sugar cube that she let melt slowly on her tongue to prolong the illusion of sweetness, of comfort. But the illusion no longer held. For the past two days, her stomach had been tugging at her, twisting, growling like a wounded beast. A dull and constant pain had settled in her belly, sometimes rising to her chest, accompanied by a throbbing headache that grew stronger with every sudden movement. At times, her vision blurred, as if the world were pulling away from her, as if her body couldn’t keep up anymore. Her energy was fading slowly, minute by minute. She was hungry. Truly hungry. Dangerously hungry.

But more than the hunger, it was the fear that kept her awake. The fear of that loaf disappearing. The fear of having to finish it, of being left with only those two pennies with nothing. So she postponed eating for as long as she could, counted the hours, distracted her thoughts, kept her hands and mind busy to silence the screaming of her body. She imposed this cruel discipline on herself as a punishment, perhaps, or as a form of control in a world where she had none left.

A sigh escaped her, and with a tired gesture, she wiped away the tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. Not again. But the loneliness, the hunger, the exhaustion made the tears come closer than usual. And there was the shame, clinging to her like a second skin. A thick, stubborn shame she couldn’t wash away. She felt pathetic. Crying in front of a loaf of bread. Crying over an empty stomach. Crying over what she had thought that day. Crying for Tommy... for her love.

That prostitute. Ever since she’d spoken to her, Amara couldn’t stop thinking about it. It wasn’t admiration. She didn’t envy her she pitied her. What she had felt was fear. A cold shiver the realization that she could, one day, end up like her. A woman alone, starving, willing to accept anything even to sell her body for a roof, a meal, a semblance of safety. It wasn’t something Amara had seriously considered, but a fleeting image, a wave of despair that had surged through her for just a moment. And that moment had suffocated her. Had disgusted her.

She had felt ashamed. Ashamed for even thinking it might have been an option. Ashamed for understanding why some women did it. Ashamed because she believed herself stronger, more righteous, more faithful. And yet, in that look the prostitute had given her, there had been a kind of silent recognition. As if she had seen in Amara that fear, that emptiness, that despair. Amara couldn’t forget that.

Since that day, she hadn’t stopped asking for forgiveness. Again and again. Every morning, every night sometimes in a whisper, sometimes in silence. But she could never feel forgiven. And yet she knew. She knew what Jeremiah had taught her. That it was normal. That sometimes the human heart is slow to heal. That God’s forgiveness wasn’t a matter of feeling but of truth. That God, He, forgives even when our emotions cannot catch up. She knew this, but she couldn’t believe it deep down.

If God could forget her thoughts, she couldn’t. She replayed them over and over, like a sentence. She had done nothing. Nothing dishonorable. Nothing shameful in action. But she felt dirty. Stained by her own thoughts, by that brief weakness. She felt unworthy. Weak. And yet, she continued to pray. To beg. Because she didn’t know what else to do.

She was a good Christian, just as her mother had taught her to be. Amara felt her heart beating faster. She tried to fix her mind on a voice familiar and comforting her mother’s voice, reciting one of her favorite verses in a soft, faith-filled tone:

“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)

She repeated those words inwardly, like a prayer. She let them echo through the silence of the room, hoping they would drive out, even for a few minutes, the shame and doubt that had taken root in her.

That verse clung to her skin. Amara could hear nothing but those words echoing in her mind, like a soft but persistent incantation. “If we confess our sins…” She couldn’t let go of it. The words had nestled deep inside her, becoming almost as painful as her hunger. It wasn’t the first time this verse had taken hold of her so intensely. Even as a child, she hadn’t fully grasped its true meaning. She read it, memorized it, recited it even without fully understanding what it meant to forgive , what it truly meant to cleanse .

So, that day, she had gone to see Jeremiah.

Among her brothers and sisters, Amara had never made distinctions. She loved them all with equal fervor. But Jeremiah… Jeremiah was different. He was the eldest of the siblings, and she, the youngest. Maybe that’s what connected them. Or maybe it was the gentleness in his voice, the patience in his gestures, the solid and peaceful faith he embodied better than anyone.

That day, she had approached the room he shared with Ezekiel, timidly. Ezekiel was out, and the slightly ajar door let through a narrow stream of light. Amara raised her hand and knocked softly. Three little taps.

A few seconds later, Jeremiah opened the door, his brows furrowed in surprise at being disturbed then immediately relaxed when he saw his little sister on the threshold. He gave her a tender smile and whispered:

— What do you need, my love?

— I’d like to talk to you, she replied in a small voice.

Worry briefly crossed Jeremiah’s face. He opened the door wider to let her in, then sat on his bed, finally noticing the family Bible in Amara’s hands. A look of relief spread across his face. He relaxed.

Amara remained standing, hesitant, her fingers clenched around the worn leather cover of the Bible. Jeremiah reached out to her, gently pulled her close, and lifted her onto his lap, like he used to when she was younger. He took the Bible from her hands, opening it instinctively.

— Do you want us to read a passage together? he had offered, his voice gentle.

Amara shook her head. No, that wasn’t it.

— I have a question, she whispered.

Jeremiah softly closed the book and looked her in the eyes.

— Tell me, my love.

She took the Bible back, carefully opening it to the page marked with a folded corner. She placed her finger on a verse highlighted in faded ink and read it aloud, quietly:

— If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

Jeremiah nodded slowly, waiting for her to go on.

— How does He know if it’s sincere? she asked, her eyes fixed on the words. And… how can I be sure He really forgives me?

Jeremiah let out a soft sigh. It wouldn’t be easy to explain to a child. He kissed the top of Amara’s head gently, then ran his fingers through the thick curls of her afro to tidy them, as he often did, with an almost fatherly tenderness. Then he looked into his little sister’s eyes, his tone becoming sincere, almost solemn.

— Are you asking me that because you’ve done something you regret, or just because you don’t understand it all yet?"

Amara didn’t look away. She took a moment before answering, but when she did, it was with disarming honesty.

— I don’t understand… It’s like when Jesus talks in parables… I read it, but I don’t always get what He’s trying to say.

Jeremiah chuckled gently, touched and amused by her innocent sincerity. Then he grew a bit more serious, adjusting the Bible on his lap.

— You know, even if you're lost, even if you doubt, even if you do things clumsily or fall into the same mistakes again… God sees your heart, Amara. When you sin, He doesn’t just look at the act. He sees your intent, your inner struggle. He sees whether you truly want to change.

He paused, giving her time to truly listen.

— Sincerity doesn’t mean being perfect. It means having your heart turned toward Him, even when it’s hard. That’s what matters most.

Amara nodded slowly, absorbing every word. She wanted to understand. She needed to understand. Jeremiah, seeing her face still unsure, continued:

— Forgiveness is a gift, not a reward. It’s not, if you try hard enough, God will forgive you. It’s: If you come to Him with a sincere heart, then He’s already forgiven you.

He tilted his head slightly to meet her gaze.

— Do you understand, my love?

Amara nodded again, a little faster this time. She thought she understood, but Jeremiah could still see the doubt lingering in her eyes. Patiently, he went on:

— God is faithful, which means He keeps His promises. And He is just, because He doesn’t play favorites. He forgets no one. He always acts in accordance with His love and justice.

This time, Amara smiled softly. She understood. The weight of her doubt had eased, if only a little. She loved the Bible with a sincere fervor, and it was unbearable to recite words she didn’t grasp. Now, she could carry that verse in her heart with peace.

— Thank you, Jeremiah, she whispered .

She slid off his knees and left the room almost running. A few minutes later, she returned, carefully holding a small cake in her hands. It was a rare treat, a luxury in their modest home. She held it out to Jeremiah. A gift. A real one. A sign of gratitude.

Jeremiah smiled, moved, and raised his hand to decline.

— Keep it for yourself, my beautiful one.

But Amara insisted. And when he still hesitated, she carefully cut the cake in half, gave him one piece, and ran off laughing before he could protest or give it back.

Jeremiah stayed there, half of the cake in his hand, his heart full. His little sister had understood something essential that day not just a verse, but the true nature of forgiveness.

And yet, Amara wished so much that Jeremiah were there. That he could hold her, sit her on his lap like when she was a child, speak to her gently with that reassuring voice so full of certainty. That he would repeat to her what she already knew, what she had learned through the years and through trials. She knew that verse by heart now. She understood what it truly meant, what it meant when it spoke of forgiveness, of a broken heart, of the sincere return to God after a fall or after what felt like a fall. She knew that shame often came more from our own hearts than from our actions.

But still, she wished she could hear it again. From his mouth. From her brother.

She remembered that promise she had made to God that day, standing before the crucifix, hands trembling: that she would tell Jeremiah if it ever became too hard. If she ever felt like she couldn’t go on. If she couldn’t find her way out. But she couldn’t yet. She wasn’t ready. It wasn’t time. She couldn’t tell him that not now. She hadn’t hit rock bottom yet. Not as long as she still had more than half a loaf of bread. It could wait. She could wait.

What hurt her most wasn’t just the passing weakness, the fear eating at her. It was the thought that if she called Jeremiah, his children would understand. And that, that she couldn’t bear.

Hosanna was probably too young to grasp the full situation. But Mary, Mary would see. She’d sense that something was wrong. She’d feel it, like children always do. She’d ask questions not out loud, maybe, but with her eyes. And Amara… Amara couldn’t bear for those eyes, so full of admiration, to fill with pity.

She was their role model. She was the strong one, the upright one, the woman they hoped to become. She couldn’t be weak in front of them. She couldn’t shatter their dream.

And Isaiah… her sweet, precious Isaiah. He would understand immediately. He would read it on her face, in her eyes everything she was going through. And he would blame himself. He’d feel guilty for not knowing, for not seeing. He already carried too much guilt. And Amara couldn’t bear to be one more burden, one more weight, one more sorrow in the life of a boy who had already lost so much.

A pressure suddenly rose in her chest.

Her heart started racing without warning. Her hand instinctively pressed against her chest. Her breathing quickened. She tried to regain control, to calm down, to slow herself. But nothing worked. Her breath became short, jagged. It felt like her ribcage was tightening. The air wouldn’t come. Or came too fast. Her chest rose at an unnatural, erratic pace. She jumped to her feet, her gaze fixed, dazed. It felt like her heart would burst from her body, pounding against her skin, her ribs, everything she was trying to hold in.

She tried to sit down, to focus, to pray. But the words were lost in the noise of her own body. She placed one hand on the table for balance, the other still on her chest. She felt the panic rise cold and burning at once. Her vision blurred. She knew she needed to calm down. But she couldn’t.

Everything was too heavy. Too vast. Too empty.

Amara felt bile rise in her throat. It was sudden, brutal. Her body was revolting, rejecting what it could… even though, in truth, there was nothing left to reject. She stood up abruptly, her legs barely holding her weight, and every movement intensified the pain in her head. She rushed to the small sink in her room, gripped it, and threw up.

But it was only water. Acidic, burning. Her stomach was empty. Nothing for two days. Just a small sugar cube, barely enough to trick the emptiness. Her body was at its limit, and it was making that clear.

The nausea didn’t subside, even after. Her heart was still racing, like a frantic bird beating against the walls of a cage. She tried to stand up straight, but her strength failed her. She slowly slid to the floor, collapsing against the wall, her back hitting the wood, her head striking the edge of the faucet with a dull thud. The pain was sharp, but distant. As if her body wasn’t reacting normally anymore.

She didn’t know if she was bleeding. She didn’t have the strength to check. She just wanted her heart to slow down. For her body to calm. For her mind to stop running in every direction. She wanted everything to stop. Just for a moment.

She tried to anchor herself to her surroundings the cracked pane above the sink, the sound of the wind through the poorly insulated window. The feel of the cold wood against her skin. Her fingers clenched tightly to the floor. But nothing could stop the wild beating in her chest. Nothing brought her back. Nothing… until she thought of him.

Tommy.

The thought surfaced on its own. Uncontrollable. Sweet and painful at once. Tommy.

She saw herself again breathless, frightened, hands trembling like now. And him, calm, composed, so calm. His hand resting on hers, guiding her, helping her sync her breath with his. Amara’s fingers stretched unconsciously into the air, searching for that lost contact, that old gesture, as if Tommy might still appear, place his hand over hers, and bring her heart back to reason.

She placed her hand on her chest, where he would have placed his. She closed her eyes, teeth clenched, tears rising beneath her lids. She tried to imagine the warmth of his chest against her cheek. His deep, steady breathing. The comforting rhythm he gave her without ever forcing her. His hand, gently stroking the back of her neck until the world slowed down.

Little by little, that image, that memory, soothed her.

Her breath remained fast, but a little less erratic. Her chest still rose with effort, but now more mechanically, as if her body was slowly regaining control. She wasn’t calm yet. Far from it. But it was better.

Her nails scratched the wooden floorboards unconsciously, trying to channel what remained of the anxiety. She clung to that like a lifeline. She had to hold on. She had to calm down.

She thought of warmth. Of that hand on her neck. Of that soft voice saying, “Breathe, Amara.” And even though that voice now existed only in her memory, she made it her own. She repeated it silently, again and again. Until the panic faded.

Amara stayed there on the floor for several more minutes, unable to move, unable to get up. But she was breathing.

That was something.

She remained frozen, seated on the cold floor, incapable of movement. The minutes stretched out like hours. She was elsewhere, so far gone that the first knocks on the door didn’t even register. Three at first short and spaced the discreet code of someone waiting. Then more, urgent, insistent. As if the person outside was worried. But Amara didn’t move, oblivious to the outside world, absorbed in her inner chaos.

Eventually, silence returned. And after a few moments, she heard the muffled sound of something being set down on the ground. A package? She almost thought she imagined it. The product of an exhausted, starved, emptied mind. She wasn’t expecting anything. She never received anything. Mail, rare as it was, only came from her siblings, and even they had stopped writing often each busy with their own family life. A package? Unlikely.

Amara closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough strength to stand. She managed, after a few hesitant attempts, shaky, legs weak. She had to hold on to the sink to avoid collapsing. She told herself she would eat a small piece of bread today. Just a little from that rationed loaf to regain a bit of strength. Just enough to stay on her feet.

She lifted her eyes to the mirror and saw herself.

The sight hit her like a blow. The cheeks that had never stopped being full since childhood had sunken in, now marked by subtle but visible hollows. Her eyes were ringed, her skin ashen. But what caught her attention was the thin red line running slowly down her neck.

She froze, as if the blood didn’t belong to her.

Then slowly, she brought her hand to the back of her head, where the dull pain had settled. Her fingers touched the wound, still slightly open, and she winced. The cut wasn’t deep, but deep enough to bleed.

She grabbed the old white glove near the sink, ran it under cold water, and gently pressed it to her temple. The fabric quickly turned a dirty pink, fragile. A pale little stain, a quiet witness of her fall.

Amara looked down at the glove. She felt pathetic. And yet, even in that moment of silent humiliation, her mind found a way to drift.

She thought of Grace.

Of her figure seen from afar at the wedding. Her light dress, cheeks flushed with pregnancy, her graceful posture. Radiant. Motherhood suited her so well. She had that natural glow that nothing seemed to dim. Even from a distance, even through a crowd, she shone. Amara remembered it with painful clarity.

She lifted her eyes to the mirror again. What she saw was nothing like her.

She was far from that. Far from that peaceful image, that quiet grace. If Grace was naturally pale, Amara was too now but not the same kind of pale. Not the one of nobility or delicacy. This was the pale of lack. Of exhaustion. Of emptiness.

And then, without knowing why, she wondered if Tommy would see her like this… would he still find her beautiful? Would he even be able to look at her in this state?

A bitter laugh escaped her, barely a breath.

Misery… could it be beautiful?

She leaned over the glove again, rinsed it gently, and wiped her neck. A tear fell, discreet, almost ashamed. She didn’t know if it was from pain, or fatigue, or just weariness.

Then she looked toward the front door. The package.

Maybe it was real, after all.

Amara walked slowly through the room, then the small kitchen. Each step felt heavier than the last. She reached the front door and opened it, cautiously this time, as if the outside world might burst in uninvited. She looked down at the ground, the damp doorstep still wet from the night.

There, very real, neatly placed in front of her door, was a small brown envelope. The paper was slightly warped by moisture, but not damaged. She could already make out irregular shapes through the paper something hard, metallic. Coins, probably.

Amara bent down slowly. A violent wave of dizziness knocked the breath from her lungs. The room spun for a moment around her and, in a brief flash of panic, she thought she might collapse again. Darkness clouded her vision, a ringing filled her ears, but she forced herself to breathe through her nose, deeply. She grabbed the envelope, straightened up with difficulty, and closed the door behind her.

She went to sit at the kitchen table. Her movements were slow, guided by something mechanical, like a wind-up doll set on a path. She pushed aside the loaf of bread she had left there earlier still untouched, still weighing on her conscience. Then she placed the envelope in front of her, as one would set down a riddle.

She stared at it for a long moment, silent. She knew this type of envelope well. She had counted, sorted, and filed dozens just like it back when she worked. It was a pay envelope.

A faint breath escaped her, barely audible. She reached out with both hands and gently tore the top open, pulling out a small, yellowed sheet of paper. The handwriting was hurried, done in pencil, the letters slightly slanted. She recognized the hand before reading the words.

Hello Amara,
I was hoping to see you, but it seems you weren’t in.
Here’s your pay for the days you worked with us at the company last month.

It was Polly.

The phrasing, the restraint, that direct yet courteous tone… it was unmistakably her. Polly had come. Something loosened in Amara’s chest, a knot gently unraveling.

Amara hadn’t even known that Shelby & Co. gave partial pay for casual jobs or resignations. In fact, she was sure they didn’t. It wasn’t official policy. She had never seen any other employees receive it. Polly… or maybe Tommy… must have done this of their own accord.

With trembling fingers, Amara flipped the envelope and poured its contents onto the table. A soft clinking sound followed. A few crumpled bills, some coins of varying sizes. She stared at the money for a long while, as if it might vanish.

Then her accountant’s reflexes kicked in almost involuntarily. Her hands began sorting, arranging, counting. The world suddenly took a shape she recognized. Within seconds, she had the exact total.

Nearly her full paycheck.

The amount was precise. Exact. Maybe even rounded up a little. Amara raised a hand to her mouth. Her eyes welled up not with shame this time, or anger but quiet tears. The kind that came with relief.

She could pay her rent.

She could buy enough food for the whole next month.

She would be okay… at least for a while.

And that, already, was everything.

Amara picked up the note again, her fingers brushing over the yellowed paper. She hadn’t noticed there was more written at the bottom, a small message scribbled in the corner, in that same slanted handwriting.

There will be a women’s gathering at Esmee’s this Sunday. Just tea, nothing formal, but we hope to see you there.
Ada will be there. She’s coming all the way from London. For you.

A strange shiver ran down Amara’s spine. Ada… She hadn’t seen Ada in weeks. Not since… since the wedding announcement.

She placed the letter back down on the table with care, as if afraid to wrinkle the words she had just read.

Her eyes drifted to the loaf of bread. She reached for it with both hands, holding it like something precious. She cut two slices a gesture she hadn’t dared make in two days. Her stomach growled, startled by the sudden generosity.

She brought the slices to her mouth with almost solemn reverence. The bread was a little dry, but she had never tasted anything so good. The crumb stuck slightly to the roof of her mouth, and still, it felt like a feast.

This meager pleasure was nothing… and everything all at once.

She even allowed herself a sigh this time not of pain, but of release. For one very brief moment, she was no longer the girl frozen by shame, no longer the woman trembling from hunger before a loaf of bread.

She was simply Amara.

And she was eating.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, April 15, 1922

Tommy had arrived in front of Arrow House. The car engine died with a muffled sigh as he turned off the ignition. He sat there for a few seconds, hands on the wheel, eyes blank, lost somewhere between memory and silence. He had no desire to go home.

Home.

Arrow House. His estate. His empire. An imposing manor that many men would dream of owning. And yet, Tommy saw it only as a gilded cage. A place too vast, too empty. Every wall seemed steeped in a silence that screamed. Every step echoed like an accusation.

He remembered the feeling. It went back to childhood, in a house far too small to contain a man’s shouts and his children’s cries. Every time Arthur Senior walked through the door, heartbeats quickened, stomachs clenched. He always came at the worst time. Just when you hoped he was gone for good, he returned. And took everything with him.

Tommy had never forgotten that taste in his mouth the taste of lack. Lack of food, of peace, of love. He could still see his mother, thin, hollow-eyed, always carrying something, her voice exhausted. And his father... His father who drank away their money, shouted louder than the hunger, and left behind children he would never look in the eye.

Tommy clenched his jaw. He remembered himself as a teenager, rifling through his own father's pockets while the man lay in his own vomit. He and Arthur, kneeling by the sofa, searching for coins, a bundle, anything. Not to buy cigarettes no. To buy bread. To not have to steal this time. To feed the younger ones without facing the judgmental eyes of the shopkeepers who knew.

And now... now he had everything. And still, the emptiness had caught up with him.

Tommy finally stepped out of the car. He closed the door with a sharp thud, slipped his hands into his coat pockets, and stared at the front door of Arrow House. There it stood massive, black, intimidating as if to remind him: You’ll never truly escape who you are.

He climbed the steps slowly, like one approaches a coffin. That strange heaviness returned to his stomach, a weight he knew too well. The world could fear him, respect him, beg him it was all just a backdrop. A theatre. And tonight, he didn’t have the strength to play the part.

Tommy thought that maybe Polly had been right. Maybe all of it the business, the war, even Grace had changed him. And not for the better. Each thing had torn a piece from him, slowly, until he no longer knew what remained inside. A man of power? Yes. But at what cost?

Amara.

Amara had changed him. Not like the others. Not like the war, not like business, not like politics or guns. She hadn’t transformed him. She had reminded him.

When he was with her in her cramped office at the betting shop, in Charlie’s stables where the smell of hay mingled with their shared silences, on the docks when she scribbled numbers while walking briskly, or at the Garrison, in the private room between glasses of whiskey and orange juice and sidelong glances he became someone else. Or maybe, simply, he became himself again.

The man he had been before the trenches. Before the smell of burnt flesh. Before the sound of shovels in tunnels the sound that still woke him in the night. Before he had to build a mask so solid that he no longer knew how to take it off.

He shook his head distractedly, running a hand over his tired face. The war crept back into his thoughts, like a stubborn old lover. The sound of shovels, the sweat sticking to skin, the grip of wet earth against his ribs, the fear, the damp, the closeness. It all came rushing back. Stronger lately. Since he had been sleeping in that marital bed too big, too cold, despite Grace’s warmth.

He let out a long sigh. Sometimes he told himself that if he hadn’t been him, if he didn’t have that twisted brain and that knack for calculating, he would’ve ended up like Curly. A simple stablehand. A good man. A man no one feared, no one envied. Maybe even a happy man.

Tommy had deep respect for Curly. He wasn’t sharp like Arthur or cunning like John, but he knew horses better than any bookmaker and more importantly, he loved them. Truly. Deeply. More than he ever loved people.

Tommy would probably have had a crappy boss. One of those men who spit on the ground when you talk to them, who treat their workers like tools especially if they’re from a gypsy family. He would’ve been the one shouted at for dirtying the yard, the one ignored even when he said hello. The guy people tolerated because he did the dirty work. The one no one really looked at. The one who deserved nothing better, because he was born on the wrong side of the fence. Because he was one of them.

A gypsy. Only good for shoveling shit.

And deep down... had he really escaped that? Or had he just swapped the stirrups for corpses, the muddy boots for polished shoes, and the filth of the stables for that of the betting office?

Tommy sighed as he stared at the front door, his fingers tightening on the handle. He hoped Grace was already asleep. Maybe tired, passed out on the couch, or better yet, in bed, peaceful, worn out by the baby. He didn’t want to face her gaze not yet. He needed a moment. A breath. Silence.

The baby. Their son.

Tommy hadn’t said anything to Grace yet. Polly had read it in the tea leaves, in the signs, in the gestures of life at the wedding, as she put it. She had declared it would be a boy. And Polly, when she said that kind of thing, she was rarely wrong.

But he hadn’t shared the news. He had just nodded, glanced away. Grace would see soon enough. She’d find out when the baby arrived. If she asked, he would probably lie. Say he didn’t know. Or that he’d just found out himself, wanted to surprise her, tell her at the perfect moment over dinner, with candles, a bit of wine or some juice for her. He’d make something up.

He wasn’t ready for the truth. Not this one. Not yet.

He hadn’t even picked a name, despite Grace asking him, with that light tone that sometimes masked real hope.

He knew one thing: it wouldn’t be Arthur. Never. Arthur Senior, his father, had given him nothing. Taught him nothing good. Only left him rage, the bitter taste of abandonment, and a few tricks to roll cigarettes with shaking fingers. He didn’t deserve to live on in a name. Least of all in his son’s name.

But Charlie...

Charlie was different.

Charlie had been there. Not always perfect, not always sober, but present. He had taught them how to ride, how to bet without losing, how to read a horse by its eyes alone. He had reached out to them when their world collapsed. He had no children of his own. His wife had died too young, taken by some stupid illness, and Charlie had never looked at another woman since. He had chosen to be alone. But he had been a father, in his own way, to them.

Tommy had caught himself thinking about it more than once, though he never admitted it to anyone. If anyone deserved to be honored with a name, it was him.

His son would be called Charles.

Tommy finally opened the front door and stepped into Arrow House. The cool outside air lingered for a moment in the hallway before fading. He closed the door gently, almost silently, as if he didn’t want to wake anyone. He took off his coat, shook it slightly, and hung it on the coat rack by the entrance. A heavy silence filled the house one he welcomed with relief. No laughter, no hurried footsteps. No music, no voices. Grace must be upstairs, perhaps lying down. Tommy sighed inwardly. He would have a moment of peace. Just enough to pour himself a drink, sit in his office, stare into the flames in the fireplace, and quiet the drums in his skull.

He walked toward his study with slow steps, already imagining the taste of whisky on his tongue, but just as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard footsteps behind him light, dragging from the staircase. He closed his eyes briefly.

Grace was coming down. And she was smiling.

She had that smile the one of a woman who had been waiting, patiently, tenderly, for her husband to return. She must have heard him in the driveway. Perhaps she had even been hoping for it.

— Tommy, you're back, she said softly.

He turned to her only then. She was wearing her dressing gown, a pale, flowing silk, lightly wrinkled, that did nothing to hide the new curve of her belly. Her body bore the signs of the life they had created, but Tommy looked away. He refused to look for too long. To see.

Yes, her belly had grown. And he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t want to notice.

— I just got here, he replied flatly no warmth, but no hostility either. Just a plain statement.

Grace smiled a little more, as if that simple sentence was enough to please her. She descended the last few steps, barefoot on the wood, and walked toward him.

She took his hand, with a softness that made him almost shiver not from pleasure, but from tension. Her palm against his, her skin soft, familiar, and yet so foreign. She caressed his fingers, slid slowly up his arm in a slow, almost ritualistic gesture. Like a woman in love. Like a wife.

Tommy sighed. A discreet sigh, a breath held in.

Not because it felt good.

Because he wished she’d let go of his hand.

Because he couldn’t shake the tightness in his shoulders, the knot in his throat, the sense that he was wearing a suit too tight, that he was a man living a life that wasn’t his own.

But he said nothing.

He made no sudden moves. He let her touch him.

As he did every day since they got married.

As if he still believed it might heal him, that he might one day get used to it.

Grace slowly slid her hand back down to his, her fingers curling around his with a tenderness she believed was shared. Then, with a light step, she began to walk, gently pulling him with her, still hand in hand, toward the living room.

But Tommy resisted, his arm staying behind and lightly tugging her back. She turned around, surprised, one eyebrow raised gently.

— I wanted us to sit down for a while, she said with a soft little pout.

— I’m just going to get a glass of whisky first, Tommy replied, his voice calm but firm.

Grace looked at him for a second, as if trying to understand whether there was more to that answer than he let on, then nodded, resigned.

— Alright. I’ll wait for you in the living room then, she said with a small smile.

She turned away, her hands lightly brushing her belly as she walked, and she let out a soft laugh as she sat down on the couch, as if her laugh could lighten the air between them.

Tommy watched her walk away, and as soon as she disappeared from view, he let out a sigh almost a muted groan and finally opened the door to his study.

He slipped inside as if plunging into water, closing the door behind him with a precise gesture. He didn’t waste a second. He walked in a straight line to the silver tray on the sideboard, where a nearly full bottle of whisky and two cut crystal glasses stood.

He grabbed one of the glasses, then the bottle, and poured the amber liquid all the way to the brim, without delicacy.

The sound of whisky splashing into the glass was the only noise in the room.

He raised the glass to his lips and drank it in several gulps, without even breathing, as if the alcohol could extinguish the fire burning in his gut.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

So he did it again. Same motion, same amount. He poured another generous, harsh serving. And again, he downed it as though his throat had never known anything softer.

He wanted it to burn. He wanted it to put out the fire inside.

He slammed the glass down on the desk. The dull sound echoed through the room. Had it been a lesser glass, it would have shattered under the force of his hand.

But the crystal held strong.

Tommy wasn’t sure he would.

He stood there for a moment, his fingers clenched on the edge of the desk, his gaze lost through the window that looked out over the grounds. The sky was low, grey, and the lands of Arrow House stretched endlessly, like a lifeless empire.

He inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower.

He needed those seconds. To collect himself. To calm his nerves. To calm his thoughts. The voices. The memories. And the truth.

Before rejoining her in that living room, in that house, in that life.

After a few minutes, Tommy finally left the study. The desire, the fire, the energy all of it had stayed behind that door, drowned in two glasses. But he couldn’t keep Grace waiting forever or rather, he didn’t want to spark another conversation, another tension, another silence.

So he walked slowly toward the living room.

The Arrow House living room was vast, bathed in a soft light filtering through large windows framed by heavy cream curtains. The dark, perfectly polished wood floor creaked barely under his feet. Paintings English landscapes and frozen portraits covered the walls with the pretension of an established family. Heavy wooden furniture with severe lines stood proudly a large dresser, a carved buffet, a low table between the sofas. It was a room made to impress, not to relax.

There were three sofas. Two facing each other, and another, with its back to him, turned toward the windows. That’s where Grace must have been. He couldn’t see her, but he could guess her figure lying on the couch. A part of him hoped, almost sincerely, that she had fallen asleep there, that the sun had lulled her, that the quiet of the house had drained her energy. That would be simpler.

But when he slowly rounded the couch, the scene that met his eyes took him by surprise.

Grace was indeed lying there. But she was no longer in her dressing gown. She now wore only a delicate nightdress, almost transparent, so pale it nearly vanished against her skin. Through the fabric, her bare breasts were visible without shame, the pink peaks rising beneath the fine silk. A pair of white lace panties completed the fragile outfit. An image, no doubt, meant to seduce.

She sat up with a wide smile as she saw him approach. And before he could react, she walked toward him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rose up on her toes, pressing her body against his.

— I got a little warm… waiting for you, she whispered in his ear, her honeyed voice stretching like a ribbon.

Tommy remained still. He didn’t answer right away. He let her speak, let her breathe against him, press herself to him like a scent he didn’t want to wear. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Grace like this naked, offering herself. But nothing ever stayed. No image, no memory, no desire ever left a mark on him only the weight. The weight of regret. Of guilt. Of betrayal.

What he felt wasn’t excitement. It was remorse. A kind of silent guilt. A strange, lingering sense that he was betraying someone. Betraying something.

And it wasn’t Grace.

What stood before him this too-pale skin, this too-confident smile, this overly-revealed body evoked nothing but absence. A gaping emptiness.

The woman in front of him should have had dark skin, warm, radiant. She should’ve had thick, wild hair, a natural crown around a face that caught every light. Her curves would have been wrapped in fabric, in mystery never offered so easily. Just glimpsed. Never owned.

Amara.

She surfaced in his mind without invitation.

And suddenly, Grace in her carefully crafted nakedness looked dull. So flat. Almost fragile.

And all Tommy felt in that precise moment was grief. The grief of having lost the one who made his heart beat even in silence, even in absence.

Tommy didn’t know what to say to Grace and that was rare. Far too rare. Tommy always had the words. A clear directive, a sharp remark, a strategic dodge, even a calculated lie. In every situation, he had something. But now nothing.

So he just gave her a faint smile. Barely a twitch of the lips. But Grace saw it, and it was enough. She saw in it what she wanted to see: surprise, approval, a flicker of desire. It was enough.

She leaned in and kissed him. Deeply. Her arms still around his neck, her body wrapped around his as if it belonged to her. Tommy let her, for a moment, but pulled back too quickly or not slowly enough to seem natural. Still, Grace smiled, mistaking his retreat for breathlessness.

Then, with that same persistent smile, she took his hand and led him to the sofa. Tommy sat down, obedient, like someone taking their place in a play they didn’t want to act in. His eyes were already drifting. He avoided Grace’s body, her smile, her skin, her gestures. He stared out the tall windows, at the filtered sunlight, the barely-moving leaves in the garden.

And then he heard it the slide of fabric. That distinct, delicate sound.

He turned his eyes, against his will.

Grace had taken off her nightdress. She was standing there, almost naked, save for a thin pair of lace panties that hid nothing. She stepped closer, like in a hazy dream, and straddled him, her round belly pressing against his shirt. She took his hands and placed them on her breasts.

Tommy barely touched them. The contact burned his skin not with heat, but with discomfort. It wasn’t a living warmth. It was pain, dissonance.

He wasn’t seeing Grace. Not really.

He was seeing Amara.

He saw her curls, her dark skin, her silences more expressive than any word. He remembered the way she looked at him like she saw him. Not as a Shelby, not as a businessman or gang leader, but as a man. A man alone, wounded, broken. A man she’d chosen to see without mask, without armor.

But here, now, it was Grace. His wife. Nearly naked on his lap. And all he could feel was a tearing sensation.

Since Finn had told him about that scene Amara speaking to a prostitute in an alley his mind hadn’t stopped replaying it, stretching it, distorting it. And now, sitting here, hands on a body he didn’t want, the image came back with unbearable force.

He saw her, Amara in a narrow room, a shabby brothel, unmade sheets, vacant eyes. He imagined her with men he couldn’t even describe, lining up for a few bills, for a moment with her. The thought sickened him, crushed him from the inside. He couldn’t imagine Amara like that and yet, he couldn’t stop.

It twisted his stomach. So much that he forgot where he was. Forgot who he was with. His breathing shortened.

And all he wanted, right then, was to disappear. Or scream.

Tommy remained frozen, eyes blank, while his body became the stage for a scene his mind refused to enter. He imagined Amara on other men’s laps, in the same position Grace now held. Bare breasts. Vacant gaze. Tense, pained body. An offering without desire. A silent coercion. An Amara he refused to believe in yet one his tortured thoughts painted against his will.

And in that confusion, in that mute violence, he heard Grace moan.

With pleasure. With want. With expectation.

Soft, stifled, almost grateful moans born of a touch he barely gave. Sounds meant to ignite desire, but they irritated him. No worse. They angered him. They hit his ears like a slap he didn’t want to receive. He didn’t want to hear them. Not from her. Not now. Not here.

Then he felt her hands. Soft, nimble, sliding down to his pants. She was fumbling with his belt, trying to undo it. And Tommy... he let her.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he wanted to escape. Escape his thoughts, his rage, his memories. Escape the image of Amara, fleeing too, slipping through shadows in an alley or someone else’s bed. He wished he could stop thinking. Wished something anything would drown out the noise in his head.

So he let Grace continue, even though every brush of her hands pushed him further from himself. He wanted to forget just for a moment. But he couldn’t.

Because even here, in this stolen moment, Amara haunted him.

She was everywhere.

Everywhere but here.

And that was what was killing him.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 16, 1922

Amara stood in front of Esme and John’s house, motionless, as if frozen in a suspended moment. Her right hand trembled slightly, raised halfway, hesitating between knocking or stepping back. There was a strange feeling in her chest, a mix of nervousness, restrained shame, and a desperate need for normalcy. She could still turn away. Walk back home, take off the dress, remove her makeup, become invisible again. No one would know she had been there. No one would have to witness the effort it had taken just to be here.

But a part of her wanted to go inside. To sit at a table where there would be hot tea, sugar in a porcelain jar, little biscuits Polly had surely baked herself. She wanted to hear Esme’s outbursts, Linda’s blunt remarks, Ada’s meaningful silences, Polly’s judgmental but affectionate glances. For a moment, she wanted to be something other than an empty body in a freezing apartment.

So she had prepared herself. Carefully. Slowly.

She wore a navy blue dress, slightly loose, flowing, made of light fabric but lined for opacity. The discreetly vintage cut hugged her shoulders and arms, then fell softly along her figure, hiding the hollows left by hunger. The long sleeves ended in gentle ruffles at her wrists, and the waist, cinched with a side-tied fabric belt, gently lied about the truth. The neckline was round, simple, almost demure. A dress for Sundays and visits.

Amara had applied her makeup sparingly. A light powder to chase away the grey tone of her skin, a touch of kohl to bring out her tired eyes, and a pale coral lipstick just enough to pretend she was fine. She hadn’t worn perfume. She had none left. She’d thought of borrowing some soap from a neighbor but chose instead to rely on what she had: lukewarm water, a bar of hard soap, and a lot of determination.

Her hair had taken the most time. She had washed it gently, detangled it patiently, nourished it with what was left of her shea butter. She let her afro return to its natural shape round, soft, controlled. It was a crown. A way of saying I’m still here, even though everything in her screamed the opposite.

She wore earrings. Small, gold, simple. A reminder of another time, another Amara.

And now, she stood there, upright, dignified. As if she hadn’t spent half the week counting coins to buy bread. As if she hadn’t cried herself to sleep the night before in a bed that was far too big.

She turned her head toward the street, and her gaze fell on a house she knew almost as well as her own. The Shelby house. Massive, cold, imposing. Just a few houses away, and yet the distance felt infinite. She could also see, next to the main house, the front window of the betting shop. Closed. Everything seemed quiet. Too quiet.

A memory crossed her mind. A laugh. A hand in hers. Footsteps in the backyard. She closed her eyes. Breathed.

That time is gone.

She looked back at Esme’s door. She could still leave. Run away.

But at that moment, a loud voice echoed inside. Esme, surely, scolding someone or something probably one of the children. The clatter of dishes, a laugh, the scrape of a chair across the floor.

Life, in its purest form.

Then, almost solemnly, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

A faint chime echoed inside the house.

Amara heard rushed footsteps behind the door. Tiny feet, many of them, running frantically across the wooden floor. Then Esme’s voice sharp, loud, but familiar. She was scolding someone, clearly. Amara didn’t even need to make out the words to recognize the tone. She had known that music once. Warnings not to run, not to shout, not to open the door without permission. But it was always in vain. The Shelby children had always been hard to contain, even more so when they sensed someone standing behind the door. They threw themselves at it as if the simple act of it opening could change their day. Not because they wanted to go out no. Because every time, they hoped to see their father appear. John. Tall, strong, self-assured. The smell of cold tobacco and leather on his clothes. The kind of man you admire before you start to understand his complexities.

Amara smiled softly. She had looked after those children. She knew them. Not all of them, of course not the two youngest. But the first four, she had cradled them, sometimes fed them, often scolded them when they misbehaved. Before Esme. Back then, it was chaos but a chaos she understood, even managed a little.

Then, the door flung open abruptly, as if pulled by someone whose hands were already full. It was Esme. She was holding little Joseph, wrapped in a beige blanket. The baby was fast asleep, his face nestled between his mother’s shoulder and the soft swell of her pregnant belly, which Esme bore with the quiet pride of women used to giving birth. He was going to have a sister, Polly had said. A little girl. Esme’s first, John’s second. And even if she never said it aloud, Amara knew Esme must be hoping this one might be a little like her. Less chaos, maybe.

At first, Esme’s brow was furrowed, expecting to have to separate two boys fighting in the hallway. But as soon as she saw Amara, her face softened. A smile spread genuine, surprised. There was warmth in her eyes, a kind of silent respect. She clearly hadn’t expected to see her. And she wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d chosen not to come. But here she was. Standing tall, proud despite everything. Despite the dark circles hidden beneath a touch of makeup, despite the elegant but slightly loose dress chosen carefully to conceal a body grown too thin. But Amara hadn’t come to seek pity. She had come to avoid causing it.

Esme didn’t comment on her appearance, and that alone was already a gift. Amara could tell the woman before her noticed the changes the slimmer figure, the paler skin, the lack of sparkle in her eyes but she said nothing. She didn’t ask if she was okay. Not now. Not on the doorstep.

— I’m glad to see you, Esme simply said, a soft smile on her lips as her free hand adjusted Joseph’s blanket.

Amara nodded, her lips stretched into a faint smile.

— I’m glad too, she murmured, not quite sure whether she meant seeing her again or simply being welcomed without questions.

Esmee tilted her head slightly, her gaze playful, almost conspiratorial, and added:

— But you won’t get much rest here. I won’t be the only one happy to see you, you know.

She was talking about the children. Amara knew it. Not Polly, nor Ada, nor Linda not even the porcelain teacups or the pies she had surely baked. No. Esmee was talking about her kids, the ones Amara had looked after like they were her own, like nephews. The ones who, despite the years, had kept in some corner of their memory her laugh, her voice, the warmth of her arms.

Then, without waiting for a response, Esmee stepped aside slightly, still holding her baby, and gestured for her to come in:

— Go on, come in. I’m warning you, it’s still a mess.

Amara drew a discreet breath, a mixture of relief and apprehension, and stepped over the threshold.

The familiar scent of the house hit her immediately. Soap, warm bread, a bit of spilled milk, and dried herbs in a kitchen corner. Laughter, joyful shouting. And somewhere, the aroma of steeping black tea. Life. A loud, imperfect chaos, but alive. Real.

And for the first time in days, Amara felt something in her chest besides pain. She felt warmth. Something that resembled a happy memory.

She walked slowly, cautiously, behind Esmee, who moved with confidence despite the baby on her hip and her round belly. The floorboards creaked under their feet, the voices grew clearer, the laughter closer. A shaft of light streamed through the large bay window in the living room, bathing the room in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of tea mingled with that of a cake fresh from the oven, and the more subtle but unmistakable scent of lavender coming, most likely, from a little sachet hanging on a doorknob.

As soon as she entered the living room, Amara politely greeted the women already seated there with a slight nod and a soft smile: Polly, regal in a corner of the sofa, a porcelain teacup in hand; Ada, legs crossed, eyes sharp and amused; Linda, sitting straight—almost too straight—in the worn floral armchair, her hands clasped on her knees. All three had turned their heads when they heard the door, greeting her with a mixture of genuine surprise and reserved warmth.

But Amara didn’t have time to dwell on their faces. Three little whirlwinds rushed at her legs in a heartbeat, nearly knocking her over. She let out a small cry of surprise, then laughed softly. The children. Their cries of joy, their clumsy yet tight hugs, their voices all calling her name at once. She gave a light, almost astonished laugh at the sincerity of their welcome, and in the background, she heard the women in the room burst into laughter too.

She recognized the three boys immediately, even though they’d grown. James, the eldest, was still gentle. He hugged her tenderly, without roughness, then, true to form, quickly drifted away, already drawn to a game left on the coffee table.

Clyde took his place, grinning from ear to ear, hugging her tightly and planting a loud kiss on her cheek. He smelled of sweat, soap, and a bit of dirt. A true Shelby kid.

Then came Jesse, the youngest of the three, already full of fire. He clung to her as if refusing to let her go, burying his face in her chest. Amara tried gently to loosen his grip, but he only held on tighter.

So, in a gesture that came back naturally despite the years, she wrapped her arms around him and hoisted him onto her hip. His little body was solid, dense, heavy for his age. She felt her arms tremble slightly under the effort but held on. She silently thanked the two slices of bread she’d eaten that morning and her daily sugar cube she never skipped upon waking. Without those, she knew, she wouldn’t have been able to lift Jesse without staggering.

She walked slowly into the room, arms wrapped around the little boy who had already calmed down, as if his place had always been there, nestled against her. Passing by Karl, sitting cross-legged on the rug, focused on making a small wooden horse gallop between his fingers, she reached out a hand and gently stroked his hair. The boy looked up at her, offered a shy smile, then dove back into his imaginary world.

Amara then made her way to one of the two empty armchairs, her heart a little tight with emotion. Jesse was heavier than she’d expected, and her tired arms wouldn’t hold out much longer. She settled into the chair slowly, carefully, leaning back against the cushion with a discreet sigh. Jesse nestled against her immediately, his small fingers gripping the fabric of her dress.

All around her, the room seemed to breathe with the warmth of a lived-in home. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, the curtains let in the fading daylight, and the women’s voices resumed their rhythm, as if her presence had naturally blended into the scene.

Amara, in that chair, her body still tense but her heart a little lighter, felt a strange peace wash over her. She wasn’t home, but she wasn’t a stranger here either.

Linda was the first to break the light silence that had settled since Amara sat down. She gave her a smile a bit stiff, maybe strained by unspoken discomfort and said in a tone both teasing and slightly sharp:

— Well, it looks like you’ve got yourself a very loyal audience.

Amara nodded gently, a sincere smile curving her lips, as she instinctively tightened her arms around Jesse, still perched on her hip. The little one was half-asleep, his head resting on her shoulder.

— They give quite the welcome, she replied softly.

Esmee immediately chimed in, her voice bright with the candid boldness she was known for, laughter bubbling in her throat:

— Oh, just wait until Maggie comes down and finds you here then you’ll know what a royal welcome really looks like.

Amara burst into a full laugh, the kind that, for the first time in a long while, didn’t feel forced. A laugh born of a real memory, a real bond.

Maggie. Little Maggie.

She had always loved her, even if the beginning hadn’t been easy. Amara remembered well the first few weeks she’d started looking after John’s children, just after their mother died. Maggie, then just a little older than Clyde, had watched her in silence, a bit withdrawn, her big worried eyes fixed on her every move, every word. She must have thought Amara had come to replace her mother. And in some way, that was true Amara would never replace the woman who had passed, but she had gently stepped into the space left behind, with care and respect.

She remembered the long afternoons spent in John’s tiny kitchen, trying to cook simple, comforting meals the kids would enjoy. Meals that didn’t resemble Polly’s too spicy, too grown-up but ones that felt like family dinners, even in the chaos.

Maggie always wanted to help. Amara never had the heart to turn her away. So she’d hand her a wooden spoon, a mixing bowl, a pinch of salt, and say, “Go on, taste it. Tell me if it’s good.” It was their little ritual. Maggie would nod, focused like a grown-up, and sometimes say, “Not sweet enough!” or “Too much pepper!” which always made Amara laugh out loud.

Little by little, the distance had faded, melted into the warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of pots, the smell of rising bread. Eventually, Maggie started holding her hand in the street, climbing into her lap during bedtime stories, falling asleep against her on the couch like Jesse was doing now.

— Maggie’s crazy about you, Esmee added with a softer smile this time, almost conspiratorial.

When John married Esmee or rather, when Tommy arranged the marriage, he spoke to Amara about it almost like a confession, between two heavy silences. He hadn’t really asked for her opinion Tommy didn’t do that, at least not directly. But he had wanted to hear what she thought, which, coming from him, was a sincere form of respect.

Amara had simply replied that John’s children deserved a woman who would see them as her own, not as a burden inherited from another woman, not as imposed responsibilities. A woman who would care for them with the same love, the same patience, as if she had carried them herself. And she had added that, even if John had his flaws and God knew he did, he remained a man deeply scarred by Martha’s death. John never spoke of it, but Amara knew. She had seen the pain in his silences, in the nights he spent staring into the void while smoking, in the way he had thrown himself into his work, his children, the fights anything to forget.

So Tommy had nodded. And he had promised to ensure the woman he chose would be up to the task. A rare promise... but one he had kept.

Esmee had been that woman.

Amara remembered that at first, she had been afraid. Not for herself, but for the children. She feared that her closeness to them might create tension. That the children would call for “Amara” instead of “Mum.” That this new woman, young and vibrant, would feel threatened by another female figure who had already found a place in the hearts of the little ones.

But Esmee had never shown the slightest hostility. On the contrary. She had found her place naturally. She had even turned to Amara, sometimes, to ask for advice when one of the children was throwing a tantrum or refusing to eat, when she didn’t understand what was upsetting them. That’s when Amara had known that Esmee wasn’t just John’s wife, but a true mother at heart one who had chosen to love without distinction.

She had felt closer to Esmee than she would have imagined. Maybe because she had known her for a long time. Or maybe because Esmee was honest. Blunt, at times rough, and her words could hurt those who didn’t know her. But Amara had always preferred honest roughness over false gentleness.

With Esmee, you always knew where you stood. If she didn’t like you, she simply ignored you. But if she cared about you, she welcomed you into her home, her table, and her tenderness without reservation. That kind of transparency was rare. And precious.

Linda, on the other hand… Amara wouldn’t say she disliked her. But she had never felt entirely comfortable around her. Linda, with her pinched expressions, her ladylike airs, her attitudes borrowed from a bourgeoisie she desperately wanted to belong to, always seemed to be playing a role. A bit too smooth, a bit too perfect. Behind her polite smiles and sugary words, Amara sensed tension, an invisible barrier.

And yet, she and Linda had a lot in common. Both came from devout Catholic families. Both were attached to their faith, to their upbringing. But that had never been enough to bridge the distance.

Still, Amara could only be grateful for what Linda had done for Arthur. She had helped him really helped him get back on his feet, fight his battle with alcohol, and reclaim his dignity. That alone earned her immense respect. Because helping Arthur was an act of love and of courage.

So yes, Amara respected her. Even if she didn’t like her deeply, even if she didn’t fully trust her. She respected her devotion, her efforts, her commitment to a man many would’ve given up on.

And maybe, in the end, that was enough.

Despite the light laughter floating in the room, the familiar faces, and the warm atmosphere, Amara couldn’t shake a tight feeling in her chest. She loved these women, in their own ways. Each of them represented a pillar of the unique Shelby world: Esmee’s bluntness, Linda’s rigid piety, Ada’s modern fire, Polly’s steady strength. And for a time, Amara had found her place among them. Like a sister at heart. A friend. A confidante. A… sister-in-law.

But that sense of belonging, though still present, now felt tainted with illegitimacy. She wasn’t “the wife of.” She wasn’t anything anymore, officially. Just a guest. A ghost from the past slipping into a living room that no longer belonged to her.

That place, by all logic, belonged to Grace.

And that thought still hurt. Amara knew it wasn’t Grace’s fault. It was just… how things had turned out. Grace was now Tommy’s wife. The one he had married. The one carrying his child.

Not her.

Amara lowered her eyes slightly, heart heavy with that silent truth. She wasn’t trying to steal that place she had never wanted it that way. She had once thought it would be hers, officially. But knowing that it never would be, even after so many years of closeness, even after so many memories, remained a quiet ache she carried in silence.

That’s when she felt eyes on her. She looked up gently. Polly.

Polly was staring at her, her gaze sharp as a blade but filled with genuine concern. She had seen it. She had recognized the shadow that passed over her face. Polly knew women too well not to read their silences, their sudden absences. Amara tried a smile. One of those light, reassuring ones. She hoped it would be enough.

Polly, however, didn’t look away right away. But she said nothing. She understood that some wounds aren’t meant to be shared aloud especially not in a room full of laughter.

The conversation had resumed. Ada had just asked how Esmee’s pregnancy was going.

— Calmer than with Joseph, Esmee replied, shrugging. She moves less. I think it’s a polite little girl. I just hope she stays that way once she’s out.

The room burst into laughter.

— Let’s hope she has more of your blood than Shelby’s one, Polly teased with a smirk.

— Oh God yes, Esmee sighed. Joseph definitely has his father’s blood. Doesn’t sleep, screams the second he’s got nothing in his hands…

— I was spoiled, Ada said proudly. Karl slept like a little prince.

Linda, upright in her armchair, held a teacup like it was a sacred relic.

— And you? Esmee asked, turning to her. You and Arthur… planning to have a child soon?

Linda lifted her chin slightly, as if the question triggered some well-rehearsed mechanism.

— Of course, she said, without a second of hesitation. But we’re waiting to be married before God first. Once that’s done, then yes. We will have a child.

Esmee nodded, respectful despite the hint of irony in her smile. Amara did the same, in silence. She admired Linda’s resolve.

A brief silence followed Linda’s answer. Amara felt the weight of the child on her hip again and absentmindedly stroked James’s cheek still clinging to her like a little monkey. He was half asleep, calmed by her presence. She leaned down slightly and kissed his hair.

And despite everything she was feeling despite that persistent sense of not quite belonging she thought that maybe… she still had a place here. Even if it wasn’t official.

The conversation flowed on in a warm, familiar cacophony typical of gatherings among women, where topics collided and overlapped without clear logic but always with heart: they talked about men and their flaws, about alcohol and its damage, the latest news on horse racing, tensions at the gypsy camps, recipes to try and comfort food to make. Laughter was frequent sometimes loud, sometimes soft and knowing glances passed from armchair to sofa.

Then, light, hurried footsteps echoed from the staircase. A few seconds later, a joyful cry pierced the cheerful atmosphere of the living room:

— AMARA!

The shout was followed by a brown-haired whirlwind that launched itself at her, arms outstretched, heart pounding, grin from ear to ear. Maggie had seen her and, without the slightest hesitation, had thrown herself into her arms with all the affection and innocence of her age.

Caught by surprise, Amara barely managed to shift one arm so as not to wake Jesse, who was still peacefully sleeping against her. The little boy didn’t stir, deeply anchored in sleep despite the commotion. He had, after all, been born into chaos shouts, hurried footsteps, laughter… it had all become a familiar lullaby.

The other women reacted with amused exclamations. Ada clapped softly, Esmee laughed heartily, and even Linda offered a tender smile. Maggie had that gift of spreading joy around her, like a little, unpredictable sun.

Amara wrapped her arms around the girl, held her tight, then, with the same gesture as in the past, gently cupped her face in her hands and kissed her forehead. Then, with playful tenderness, she showered Maggie with quick kisses on her cheeks, her neck, her temples right where she knew it would make her laugh. And, as expected, Maggie burst into giggles, squirming in her arms, trying to escape but not really wanting to.

— You always do that! she protested through laughter.

— And you always laugh, Amara replied with a wink.

She gently ran her fingers through the girl's thick curls, then gave her an amused smile.

— Your aunt told me you wanted to have hair like mine.

Maggie’s eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and she let out a little squeal of surprise.

— And will you tell me your secret?! Please, Amara, tell me!

Amara glanced at the other women in the room, then leaned toward Maggie, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

— I can’t tell you like this... too many ears around here.

Maggie, fully into the game, spun around toward the room and shouted commandingly:

— You all have to cover your ears! It’s a secret for magic hair!

Laughter burst out all around, but they all played along, covering their ears with big smiles. Polly was the last to comply, shaking her head with amusement. She watched the scene with a certain fondness in her eyes. She recognized John’s stubborn streak in his daughter that way of wanting things her own way, no matter what. Determination dressed in a little girl’s frock.

Amara leaned in close to Maggie, wearing a very serious expression, and whispered as if passing on an ancient spell:

— You’re still a bit young to drink it, but one day, I’ll make a special potion just for you. And when you’re ready, your hair will become just as strong and beautiful as mine.

Maggie, wide-eyed and speechless, let out a little gasp of wonder worthy of a fairy tale. Then, without a word, she threw herself back into Amara’s arms with touching intensity, pressing her small head against her neck.

Amara held her tight, closing her eyes for a moment. She inhaled the scent of the child’s hair that soft soap, clean laundry, childhood scent. She felt whole. Children did her good they soothed her wounded heart.

When the hug ended, Maggie slid to the floor beside Amara’s armchair, as if her mere presence there was enough to reassure her. She played with a ribbon in her hair, swaying gently, legs crossed.

Even though the warmth of children always comforted Amara, she couldn’t escape that dull ache in her chest. That soft, muffled sadness that didn’t scream, but settled in. She’d never pressured herself before. There had been time. She had had Tommy. She’d held onto the comforting illusion that her future children would be theirs. She had pictured it clearly: a church wedding, simple but sincere vows, children with dark curls and fierce eyes, running through a garden.

But she was getting older. Time was moving on. And still, no children.

Tommy was going to have one. But not with her.

Amara felt movement around her but didn’t pay attention, lost in her thoughts until a light hand rested on her shoulder. She looked up: it was Ada. Her gaze was soft, attentive, and her voice was almost a whisper.

— I’m going out for a smoke… Want to come with me?

Amara nodded without a word. She glanced at little Jesse, still asleep against her, and gently laid him on the armchair so he wouldn’t wake. He let out a soft sigh, rolled slightly onto his side, and continued sleeping.

Maggie, curious, looked up.

— Where are you going?

Amara gently stroked her hair and smiled.

— I’ll be right back, sweetheart.

Then she followed Ada in silence toward the kitchen. There, in the more subdued calm of the room, Ada sat at the small round wooden table, worn by time and knife marks. She pulled out a cigarette, held it between her lips, and struck a match. A brief flame, a slow exhale.

She took the first drag, then looked Amara straight in the eye.

— How are you, really?

And there it was. Exactly why Amara had hesitated to follow her.

She’d known the question would come. And she wasn’t sure she was ready to answer it.

She stayed silent for a moment, searching for words, then let out a quiet sigh, eyes fixed on the table’s worn wood.

— I’m fine, she said, barely above a whisper.

But Ada immediately frowned. She didn’t even need to look for long.

— Amara… I know you. I don’t need to hear those kinds of answers. That’s not you.

Silence fell again. Amara lowered her head, unable to meet her gaze. She felt the tears rising that familiar burn in her throat, the sting at the corners of her eyes. She tried to push them down. This wasn’t the time. Not the place.

But without her noticing, Ada had slid her chair closer. She held the cigarette loosely in one hand and, with the other, gently touched Amara’s chin firmly enough to make her lift her head.

And when their eyes met, Ada saw it.

She saw the tear-filled eyes, the hidden pain, the almost heroic effort Amara was making not to fall apart.

Ada sighed, her gaze softening with a wave of tenderness.

— You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. With everything you’re going through… it’s okay to cry. It’s even healthy, you know.

Amara closed her eyes. Ada didn’t know everything. She knew about Tommy. But she didn’t know what starvation had done to her. She didn’t know about the prostitute. She didn’t know about the shame.

Ada only knew a quarter of it. And still, that fraction alone was enough to shake her.

And so the tears came. Slowly. Silently.

Before Amara could even wipe them away, Ada pulled her into a hug.

No words. Just a firm embrace. Steady. Comforting.

Amara let her head fall onto Ada’s shoulder, holding back a sob. She didn’t want to fall apart. Not completely. But part of her needed this tenderness, this presence.

She didn’t cry loudly.

But she cried honestly.

For a few minutes, Amara wept against Ada’s shoulder, as quietly as she could. Each sob carried the weight she’d borne for too long, each tear a release of pain she had locked away. In Ada’s arms, everything broke down the sorrow, the loneliness, the memories... She didn’t want the other women or the children to hear her grief. She didn’t want them to witness the fragility she tried so hard to conceal.

Ada remained calm, her arm wrapped around Amara, offering silence as comfort. She didn’t push her to talk, but the intensity in her eyes showed she understood. Then, after a moment, she gently pulled away from the hug, not abruptly, and Amara lifted her gaze to meet hers red-rimmed, tired, heavy with pain and gratitude.

Ada didn’t speak right away. She slipped a hand under her dress, reaching into her bodice. Amara didn’t understand at first, but she froze when she saw Ada take out a small piece of stiff paper. The gesture was discreet but meaningful, and it grabbed her full attention. Ada laid the paper on the table between them, sliding it slowly toward Amara.

A train ticket.

Amara didn’t move, her eyes locked on the ticket, her mind racing to grasp what was happening. A ticket to London. She looked up at Ada, who explained gently, her voice calm but insistent:

— I bought it for you. Because I knew that if I just asked you to come, you’d say no. You never would’ve accepted I know you too well, Amara.

The words struck deep. Ada was right. She would have said no. She would’ve made excuses, found a thousand reasons not to go, a thousand justifications to stay in Birmingham, trapped by her own choices. Because she didn’t like asking for help. She’d always been the one holding others up, never the one taking a hand. She was already running from too much.

Lost in thought, Amara murmured softly, almost to herself:

— I can’t…

But Ada didn’t let her slip away. She pressed in gently, with soft but unrelenting determination.

— Yes, you can. The train leaves in a few days. You’ve got time to tell Jeremiah, to pack, to prepare. And when you get to London, I’ll be there at the station, with Karl. I’ll be waiting on the platform.

Ada’s words settled into Amara like a promise. And yet, the gratitude tangled with anxiety. Taking that ticket meant accepting escape. Running from everything she knew, everything she’d chosen to endure. And then… there was the money. A ticket to London wasn’t cheap. Ada had spent a significant sum on her without hesitation, without question. That touched her deeply, but it also made her feel guilty. Ada shouldn’t have to do that for her.

Ada’s eyes didn’t leave hers. She was waiting for a reaction, a sign that Amara would accept, even if it felt impossible. And Amara just sat there, frozen, staring at the ticket, thinking of everything it represented.

Seeing the turmoil in her friend’s eyes, Ada added, her voice filled with boundless tenderness:

— I know you’re thinking about Jeremiah, Isaiah, the children… But you deserve to breathe too. To escape, even just a little. Take the ticket as a gift. As a chance to step away. And if you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Because I miss my friend. I miss you.

Ada’s words hit Amara right in the heart. A warm, aching feeling spread through her chest. Ada’s truth slipped past her defenses. She knew she would never have accepted if Ada had simply asked. Her pride would have stopped her. But now, in this quiet gesture, Ada was gently pushing her to say yes. She was ready to welcome her no strings attached, no judgments. And Amara, despite everything holding her back, felt she couldn’t refuse.

Suddenly, a sob escaped her. Louder, more broken than all the others. This time, it wasn’t Ada pulling her close Amara collapsed into her arms. She cried, not just for herself, but for all the weeks spent hiding her pain. Fighting alone. Pretending she was fine. Never asking for help, even when she needed it most.

She wept against Ada, who held her tightly, whispering softly into her ear:

— Come, Amara. Come with me. I’ll be there for you. Everything’s going to be okay. You don’t have to face it all alone.

And with a final breath, a sigh of release, Amara’s voice finally emerged.

— I’ll think about it, Ada. Maybe London… maybe a few days…

Ada smiled gently, content. She didn’t need a promise. She knew that the fact Amara was even considering it that was already a victory.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 20, 1922

Thomas walked with measured steps through the grimy, gray streets of Small Heath, his shoulders tense beneath his dark wool coat. The morning air was heavy with moisture, a light mist still hovered just above the ground, clinging to the wet cobblestones, blackened bricks, and corrugated iron rooftops. Chimneys vomited acrid smoke that curled through the narrow alleys, blending the smell of burning coal with that of grease, soot, metal, and spilled entrails in front of butcher shops.

Children in rags chased dogs through the gutters, their faces smeared with dirt. Women with drawn features hung damp laundry on lines stretched between crumbling walls. The steady clatter of horses’ hooves echoed on the cobblestones, punctuated by snatches of conversation, drunkards’ shouts, and the distant whistle of a train. This was where it had all started. And it was here that everything continued.

Thomas had business to attend to.

Papers to sign. A delivery contract had just been finalized a new smuggling route to bring alcohol into America, in collaboration with a contact in Boston. At the same time, he was finalizing the purchase of an abandoned property near Digbeth, along with an old foundry to be repurposed. Lately, the Shelby Company Limited had adopted a new strategy: laundering money from gambling and shady dealings through real estate and heavy industry. It was legal on paper. Clean. Defensible. Coal plants, foundries, warehouses… all offered solid fronts for underground dealings. Crime painted in the colors of progress.

That morning, he had left Arrow House early. The gray dawn light barely filtered through the heavy curtains when Tommy slipped out of bed. The silence of the room had been broken only by the rustle of fabric as he pulled on his shirt. Grace was still asleep. Half-asleep, at least. Lying on her side, her nightgown had ridden up slightly over her hips, revealing the lower part of her bare stomach, her breasts with pink nipples visible through the thin cloth. A vision of desire. An invitation to pleasure. But in Thomas’s mind, the image no longer sparked lust only bitterness.

He felt guilty. Not toward Grace. But toward Amara.

He didn’t really understand what it was. A ghost? An absence? A one-sided betrayal? He didn’t know. But she wouldn’t leave him. Her name, her face, her silences, her hands, her glances they were all still there, everywhere. Even in this bed that wasn’t hers. In this body he slept beside, that wasn’t the one he desired.

He had tried to be discreet, to not wake Grace. He didn’t want to hear her voice. He didn’t want to speak. He didn’t want to lie… again. But despite everything, she had woken up.

She had smiled at him, like every morning, sweet, docile, attentive. She had asked if he had slept well.

He had said yes.

A lie. Another one.

Like every night, he had woken with a start, heart pounding at the sound of shovels in the mud, the stomp of boots on wet earth, the muffled cries in the fog of the Somme. The nightmares didn’t go away. They never would. He hadn’t truly slept since 1916.

Lying had become a habit. A survival mechanism.

This marriage too, was just a well-crafted lie.

So no, he didn’t feel guilty for lying. If it spared him questions. If it saved him from Grace’s worried gaze or endless talks about their future. He had simply told her he needed to go to Birmingham for "important papers." She had nodded. As always. She never asked too many questions. She wanted to believe in what she saw. In what he allowed her to see.

And he wanted to believe that was enough.

But right now, as he moved away from the industrial mist of Small Heath, every step he took, every cobblestone beneath his feet, seemed to lead him back to Amara.

And nothing in this damned neighborhood, in this damned city, seemed able to steer him away.

After a few more minutes of walking, Tommy arrived at the Shelby family home. From the outside, it hadn’t changed. The red bricks had blackened over time and too many long winters, the windows still rattled when a train passed in the distance, and the front door still creaked a little when pushed open. But inside, everything had changed.

"Family home" the words now rang almost hollow.

Once, they had all lived there. Crowded, but close. At a time when the nights were cold, but the laughter was plenty. Arthur and he had shared the same bedroom upstairs to give Ada the privacy a girl deserved among four brothers. They often slept head-to-foot in the bed, fighting over the blanket, confiding in the dark. When Finn was old enough to leave the cradle, they had put him in John’s room, hoping he wouldn’t cry too loud at night and disturb his sleep.

But that time was long gone.

Today, the room he once shared with Arthur held only one bed, his bed, the one he used when he still stayed here before marrying Grace. John’s had been converted for Finn. One single bed, a wardrobe, a few neatly arranged belongings. Ada’s room remained untouched, frozen in time, as if she might one day return and lie down in it. Polly now slept in their mother’s old room. A symbol, maybe. Or just a need to keep some part of her alive within these walls.

Finn and Polly were the only ones still living here full-time.

Arthur and John dropped by often for a meal, for a word, for the warmth of a memory. And most of all, for Polly’s cooking, which remained a blessing in a world of blood, whiskey, and bets.

Tommy hadn’t spent the night here in weeks. This house smelled too much of the past. Too much of the war. Too much of the before. Too much… of Amara.

He found himself staring at the windows in silence, as if just standing on the pavement was enough to bring all the buried memories flooding back. And as he placed his hand on the door handle, a thought struck him, out of nowhere.

He had never really wondered what it had been like for Finn.

The youngest.

The one who, as the years passed, had watched each of his siblings leave the house one by one. John, first, for his marriage. Then Ada. Then himself, swept away by the war, then by Grace, then by business. And Arthur, who even when he slept here now and then was never really present. Not fully.

Finn had stayed.

Alone.

With Polly. And the ghosts.

Tommy frowned slightly. He had never known that feeling himself. He had always been surrounded. Even in the trenches, there had always been Arthur, John, or a fellow soldier sleeping beside him. He had never had to hear a house go quiet, room by room.

Had Finn felt lonely?

Did he still feel lonely now, despite the bustle, despite the responsibilities they gave him to make him a man?

Thomas gripped the door handle a little tighter.

He had never asked him.

Maybe he should have.

Finn was a complicated subject not just for Tommy, but for all the Shelbys.

For once, they had all agreed. Even Arthur, even John. And especially Polly. During a family meeting held in the back room of the Garrison, between drinks and a few tense silences, they had decided that Finn was too young to be involved in the illegal business. Too young to carry a gun. Too young to see the things they had seen.

It was one of the only times almost the only time there had been unanimity at the Shelby table.

But Finn hadn’t accepted it.

He had stood up, his eyes hurt, pride stung. His voice tight with anger, he’d snapped that each of them had already done “things” at his age. He’d added that John had nearly had a kid at his age, and Arthur was breaking jaws in the streets for a few shillings.

John had just laughed. A short, mocking laugh, but not unkind.

— Have a kid, Finn, and maybe then you can work with us.

Finn hadn’t answered. He had clenched his fists, clenched his jaw, and walked out without another word, slamming the door behind him. A heavy silence had followed his departure. Tommy had leaned back, his gaze clouded by a deep weariness. He had sighed long and hard, rubbing his eyes as if trying to erase a fatigue he had carried for far too many years.

He had known it would be hard with Finn. He had known it since the day the boy, only eleven years old, had tried to imitate him. He had snuck into his car just to “be like him.” That day, someone had planted a bomb under the seat. Tommy had reacted in time, throwing it out of the car just before it exploded. But he could’ve died. Finn could’ve been blown to pieces like those men in France, scattered by shells, unrecognizable.

He had never really recovered from that fear.

Yes, Finn was legitimate. He was a Shelby. He had the name, the blood. And he wanted in. He wanted to prove he was like his brothers. That he deserved his place. But he wasn’t like them. Maybe he never would be.

Finn was… different.

He was more human. More tender. Less broken.

He hadn’t known the war. Not the trenches, not the smell of blood, not the freezing mud clinging to your skin. He hadn’t known the nights without bread, or the fists of their drunken father. He didn’t even really remember Arthur Senior. And Tommy was almost certain: if Finn ever crossed paths with their father in the street, neither of them would recognize the other.

They had all protected him. Together. Like an unspoken promise.

They had preserved his childhood like a precious thing. Something they themselves had never had. They had let him grow up. Let him dream. Let him make mistakes without blood on his hands. Because they knew too well what it meant to grow up too fast. To have to kill to survive.

And deep down, Tommy knew: it wasn’t a gift Finn had asked for but it was a gift all the same.

A gift his brothers and Polly had fought to give him, in their own clumsy way.

Tommy sighed. A long, hollow sigh. He finally opened the family home’s door and stepped inside, leaving behind the cold air and the weight of memory.

The interior hadn’t changed. The smell of old wood, over-steeped tea, and cigarette smoke still lingered in the air. He crossed the kitchen slowly, hands in his pockets, without stopping. He glanced toward the table: Polly was there, sitting upright as always, a cigarette smoking between her fingers, an untouched cup of tea in front of her. She said nothing. She just stared at him, eyes as sharp as blades.

She took a long, silent drag from her cigarette, then exhaled the smoke slowly into the air, as if trying to drown in tobacco what she was about to say.

— Good morning, Polly, Tommy said in a neutral voice, without slowing his step.

He was just about to cross the threshold into the betting office when she spoke.

— She’s leaving, Tommy.

Three words. Simple. Sharp. Inevitable.

He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen like a statue. She didn’t need to say her name. He knew. He knew who she was talking about. He had known from the first word.

She’s leaving.

She’s leaving…

She’s leaving…

The words ricocheted in his mind like a poorly aimed bullet. He stood there for a moment, still facing away from Polly. He heard her take another drag, the crackle of burning tobacco oddly loud in the tense silence of the kitchen.

Then, slowly, he turned around.

Outwardly, he appeared composed. His face revealed nothing, his eyes were calm, almost empty. But inside, it was a storm. A whirlwind of questions. Where? With whom? Why? How? For how long?

He already saw her. He saw her leaving. A suitcase in hand, her gaze resolute. He saw her on a platform, a crumpled ticket in her pocket, her coat pulled tight around her. He saw her far away from him.

Maybe in France…

A memory, stronger than the rest, overtook him. That night. At the Garrison. She was wearing that cream dress she rarely took out. He had drunk too much, more than he should have. He remembered it like it was yesterday.

— Do you know what my mother dreamed of doing before she died? Amara had said, leaning on the table, her gaze a bit distant, her voice soft, almost childlike.

Tommy had lifted his eyes from his glass.

— No. What?

— Going to the south of France , she’d answered with a nostalgic smile. She said it was always sunny there, that the houses were colorful, with blue or green shutters. That there were flowers everywhere, warm bread on every corner, little markets with smiling people.

She had slowly turned her glass of juice between her fingers, then set it down.

— She used to tell me: "Amara, one day, go there for me. Breathe that air. Go see the churches on the hilltops. Pray in a language you don’t understand. And eat tomatoes that have seen the sun."

She had laughed softly. A sad laugh.

— She also said that people there have an accent. That even when they yell, it sounds like a song. I’ve always wanted to hear that.

Tommy had looked at her for a long time, then had murmured:

— I knew a guy during the war. From the South, actually. Near Marseille. He spoke with that kind of accent. It always sounded like he was telling stories.

Amara had looked at him, her eyes glowing with a soft fire.

— Do you think I’ll make it there one day?

He hadn’t answered right away. He took a sip from his glass, then leaned a little closer. And then, more softly, almost to himself:

— I can picture you there. In a light dress, feet in the water, a glass of red wine in your hand. Hair in the wind.

Amara had smiled at him that night, when he told her he could see her there. It wasn’t a mocking or uncertain smile no, it was a soft, real smile, like a light in her eyes. A smile of a woman allowing herself, for once, to dream out loud. And he didn’t regret saying it. No. But he was afraid.

Fear was silent, creeping. The fear that she would actually make it. That she would live that life without him. That she would leave for good. And that he would never witness anything again.

France was too far.

If she went there, he’d have no way to know how she was doing. No way to watch over her, to protect her, to feel her presence just a few streets away. She would become a living memory he could no longer reach.

A bitter taste rose in his throat.

He hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t seen it coming. He’d been absent, blind, caught up in business, contracts, weapons, Grace, the baby, the silence. He had let the shadows settle around her. He had left her alone.

And now, another thought, darker still, sank into his chest: if Amara had gone to speak with that prostitute… if she had ended up there, on the sidewalks, even just one night, even just for a moment… how would he live with that?

The thought chilled him to the bone.

It wasn’t just the shame. It wasn’t just the guilt. It was a kind of vertigo. The realization that maybe she had been pushed so far she’d considered selling the most intimate, the most sacred part of herself just to survive. And that he, Thomas Shelby, hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t stopped it. He felt responsible. Not directly, no. But as one of the reasons. One of the weights that had crushed her.

He raised his eyes to Polly. His voice was low, but hard as stone.

— Where?

She took a slow drag from her cigarette. The smoke rose between them like a veil. Then she answered simply:

— London. Ada bought her a ticket so she could stay with her.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

London.

Not France.

Not Italy. Not Spain. Not the other side of the world.

Not a place she’d never come back from.

A breath escaped his lips, so faint it was almost nothing. As if a giant, invisible weight had slipped from his chest. Not completely. But enough. Just enough to breathe.

London wasn’t that far. He could go there. He could send someone. He could… keep watch. Even from a distance.

But the thought didn’t soothe him entirely.

She was leaving. And that meant she needed to. Needed to get away from this city, from its memories, from him.

It meant he had hurt her, in some way. And he knew it.

He knew he wasn’t an easy man. He knew he carried the war behind him like a leaden shroud, that his nights were filled with screams, shovels, blood. He knew he wasn’t gentle, or stable, or safe. He hadn’t given her what she deserved.

And yet, the thought of her leaving, turning her back on this house, on this street, on him even just for a few days pierced him.

Because it meant she was starting to do it.

To forget him.

To leave him behind.

He finally asked, his voice lower now, almost broken beneath the mask of neutrality:

— How long?

Polly barely shrugged. Her gaze was kind, but firm.

— I don’t know. A few days, maybe. Maybe more.

He just nodded.

A few days.

But in his mind, it was forever.

Because Thomas Shelby didn’t know what to do when you love someone… and you have to let them go.

But Tommy knew he wouldn’t go see her.

He’d wanted to fiercely, brutally, almost painfully the moment Polly said the word “London.” But he knew. He knew he wouldn’t. That he shouldn’t. That he had no right.

He hadn’t seen her since that day in his office. Since she had panicked, suffocated, broken under the invisible weight when she’d found out about Grace’s pregnancy. She had collapsed there, inside his walls, like a bird that had flown too close to fire. He was the fire.

And he had done nothing. Nothing but watch her fall.

He couldn’t see her again.

Not because he didn’t want to but precisely because he desperately did.

Because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the mask on. He didn’t know if he could maintain that cold facade, that distance he’d carefully built brick by brick, word by word. That distance he enforced so she wouldn’t get too close. So she wouldn’t see what was left of the old Tommy. The one she had loved.

Because if he saw her again… if he met her eyes one more time… he knew it would only take one word, one gesture, one tender look and he’d let it all go.

And he mustn't. He couldn’t.

She had to hate him.

It had to be easier for her to hate him.

It was the only way she would make it through. The only way she could survive what he had become.

He thought back to the last time. To his own words. To his mouth forming dry, harsh, cold sentences. He’d done it on purpose. He wanted her to hurt when he told her he was getting married, when he confirmed he was going to be a father. Not out of cruelty. But so she would leave. So she would understand. So she would walk away from him.

And now, she was doing it. She was leaving. For a few days. Just a few days.

But he was the one falling apart.

Because despite all his efforts to forget her, to push her from his mind, she kept coming back. Always. Like a bittersweet obsession. Like a wound he had never tried to heal.

And the worst part was: he knew. He knew that all of it was on him.

His decisions. His fault.

He was the one who had chosen to marry Grace. The one who had slept with her, even though Amara still existed in his arms, in his mind, in his heart. He had made that choice. For business. For strategy. Out of fear. Out of cowardice.

He had destroyed everything. Broken everything.

He had no right to suffer. No right to feel this emptiness. And yet, knowing that Amara was leaving even for a few days, even just a two-hour train ride away twisted his insides.

It wasn’t a void. It was an absence. A hole he had dug himself, shovelful by shovelful, word by word, silence by silence.

So he turned away.

Without another word.

— Have a good day, Polly.

He didn’t even look at her.

His steps were quick, almost harsh. As if he were running from something. Or someone.

He walked down the hallway. Closed the office door behind him.

And in the silence that followed, he inhaled slowly, painfully like a man learning to live with a bullet lodged in his chest.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 23, 1922

Amara stood on the platform of Birmingham station, upright despite the biting morning cold, her feet planted firmly on the damp cobblestones. A light mist hung in the air, suspended between the steel rails and the station’s massive roofs. The time-blackened stone columns loomed over her with silent weight. Around her, the platform bustled with mechanical urgency: hastily dragged suitcases, locomotive whistles, exhausted children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, final kisses stolen before departure.

The sky above her was neither blue nor grey just a flat, almost white veil that blended into the thick smoke from the trains. The air smelled of coal, hot oil, and rust, a scent of metal and fatigue that clung to the skin. The worn leather of the suitcase she held gave off a pungent, familiar scent almost comforting. She clutched it tightly, like an anchor.

It was an old suitcase, frayed at the corners, the handle threatening to give out. Too heavy for her thin arms. It wasn’t even hers it belonged to Jeremiah, her brother. Inside, Amara had packed a few dresses, carefully folded, enough for a few days. She had also slipped in a few makeup items: a cracked hand mirror, a worn-out brush, a lipstick worn down to its base, kept like a relic. Her Bible. Nothing excessive. Just enough to keep up appearances, if needed.

She had never travelled before. Just being there, among strangers with darting eyes, the coming jolt of the train in her gut, gave her an odd, almost unreal feeling. A quiet, numb fear.

It wasn’t the departure that scared her. It was the destination.

She knew Ada. And she knew perfectly well that Ada wouldn’t just welcome her with a cup of tea on a couch. Ada would want to show her London the real one, the vibrant, noisy one. Its elegant bars where jazz vibrated under smoky chandeliers, its nocturnal corners where people danced until tomorrow vanished, its circles of well-dressed women laughing too loudly. Even if Amara had no desire for any of it. No desire to smile, no desire to shine. She just wanted to breathe. Just to stand. Not to feel weak and pathetic. To forget.

She had spent over an hour standing in front of her wardrobe, frozen. Arms crossed, she looked at her clothes as one looks at the ruins of a house long abandoned. Nothing seemed right. Nothing felt like her. She touched the fabrics as if they belonged to another version of herself. A version from before.

In the end, she made a choice. She packed everyday dresses long, loose, in dark fabrics. Cuts wide enough to hide her thinned waist, her arms grown too slender. Clothes that revealed nothing no shape, no frailty. And then, after some hesitation, she added one more elegant dress. Just one.

It was a secondhand dress. Found months earlier in a dusty little shop run by an old woman with ink-stained fingers. The dress wasn’t new, nor fashionable. But it had the discreet charm of something once loved. Slightly yellowed cotton, cream-colored, embroidered with tiny flowers along the collar. The waist was shaped without being tight, the puffed sleeves fell to the elbows. The hem, hand-sewn, stopped just below the ankles. There was nothing spectacular about it. It wasn’t a London dress. But it was the best Amara could offer her reflection.

A few days earlier, she had stopped by Jeremiah’s. As every year, they had gathered for Easter not to celebrate joyfully, but to commemorate, in silence, the death of Christ. A childhood tradition, kept alive over the years. A way to remember, to come together. Jeremiah, his children, and her gathered around a modest meal, loud prayers, and a fervent faith.

Before going, Amara had set aside some money. A portion of the wages Polly had given her. It wasn’t much. Maybe the equivalent of three or four slices of bread. And in her situation, it was a lot. She still hadn’t found work. She lived day to day, in survival mode. But she had told herself it was worth it to go without a few meals, just to see her nephews’ eyes light up.

She wanted to give them something. A treat, a memory, a spark of tenderness in a life often too hard.

She had arrived at Jeremiah’s with two small bags of chocolate. Nothing fancy, but enough to feel magical.

For Hosanna, the youngest, she had chosen little chocolates shaped like rabbits, wrapped in shiny golden foil. The little girl had thrown herself into Amara’s arms with all the strength of her tiny body, and later, she had returned with a drawing, quickly sketched on a school sheet. It was Amara, drawn as a princess. A huge dress, an oversized crown, and above all, a massive ball of black hair around her head, her afro, exaggerated like a halo. Amara had smiled, her eyes stinging.

— It’s the most beautiful drawing I’ve ever been given, she had said.

Hosanna had handed her the paper with a disarming seriousness, then ran off. Amara had folded it gently between two shirts in her suitcase, a fragile treasure.

For Mary, Hosanna’s older sister, she had brought small colored eggs. A little less childish, but still tinged with innocence. Mary was changing. She was between two ages. Drifting from childhood, but not far enough not to delight in a kind gesture. She had thanked Amara with a soft, almost shy hug but sincere.

And for Isaiah, who had become a teenager without warning, Amara had chosen a bar of dark chocolate. A simple, grown-up choice. Isaiah no longer liked bunnies or eggs. He hardly spoke anymore. But he had smiled. And, without a word, he had kissed Amara on the forehead.

A silent gesture. Just like she used to do for him, when he was little, waking up in tears.

Amara carried that moment with her, just as she carried the drawing. Heavier than her suitcase. And now, on the platform of that grey station, at the threshold of an unknown city, they were all she had.

All she wanted to protect.

Despite everything she had lost, despite the silences, the war, Tommy, the days without food, the wounds she bore like invisible scars, she still had them: her family. Her roots. The beating heart of what remained solid in her world.

The dinner they had shared still echoed within her, a warm reverberation in the cold of that departure morning. Around the table, they had laughed, talked loudly, eaten together in a simple, tender atmosphere. Jeremiah, true to his habits, had given his sermon like their father once did. His voice rose, gentle but firm telling with passion the story of Christ, his crucifixion, and what it meant for them for those who listened, believers or not.

It had become a tradition, almost a ceremony. A silent ritual not to forget who they were. The memory of their father hovered in the room, in the way Jeremiah spoke, in how he laid his hand on his daughters’ shoulders when he talked, in the respect his children had for him.

The meal had nothing extravagant. No roast turkey, no white tablecloths. But there had been a special dish, like every Easter, something rare, a meal they didn’t often have. A Jamaican dish their mother used to make with whatever she could find in English shops, replacing ingredients with cheap substitutes, juggling their meager budget. But she put all her love into it, and they ate without complaint, in quiet gratitude.

Amara remembered: children’s voices around the table, hands clasped before eating, and their father telling, year after year, the story of Jesus’ sacrifice. He always said, with that calm conviction, that Christ, without sin, had resisted temptation and still gave himself up for the forgiveness of everyone else’s faults. Of ours. Of the poor sinners we were.

That night, after dinner, while Hosanna and Mary had retreated to the living room to play, draw, or read, and Isaiah had put on his coat to go out and meet some companions at the Garrison, Peaky Blinders, although Isaiah hadn't dared to say it in front of his aunt, she had suspected it. Amara had stayed in the kitchen for a while with Jeremiah.

She had spoken to him. At first gently, as if hesitant to break the peace of the moment. She told him that Ada had bought her a ticket to London. She didn’t know how to present it, or even what she was hoping for by saying it. She just needed to tell someone. To him.

Jeremiah had nodded slowly. He understood, without needing further explanation. He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the fear too. So he had simply asked:

— And you, Amara, what do you want to do?

She hadn’t known how to answer. She shrugged, almost ashamed of not having any certainty to offer. She murmured that she didn’t know. That everything was blurry.

Then Jeremiah had placed his hand on hers. A solid hand, calloused, full of life. He said, softly:

— My sister, go. Enjoy. Go see something else. Think about something else. You deserve it. And it can only do you good.

His words were simple, without much rhetoric. But they hit home.

Amara nodded silently. Not entirely convinced, but touched by his kindness. Then, with a half-smile, she had asked him:

— Do you think you’ll manage with the kids?

Jeremiah burst into a soft laugh, both tender and mocking.

— You think I’m a bad father now?

Beneath his teasing, she sensed the raw truth: his remark had struck him. He knew how much Amara loved her nephews, how much she had been involved in their lives. He had never forgotten what she had done for them for him after his wife’s death. When he came back from the war, broken, disoriented, unable even to handle the simplest tasks, like changing a diaper or braiding a crying little girl's hair.

Amara had been there. Always. In the shadows, but present. And Jeremiah, though he rarely spoke of it, would be forever grateful.

So, she had listened to her brother.

She still didn’t know if it was the best thing to do, but she had followed his words like one follows a light in the dark. Now she stood there, motionless on the platform, still hesitant, her heart beating out of sync with the world around her. She wanted to turn back, to go home, but it was too late: the train was pulling into the station.

A deep rumble could be heard in the distance, at first muffled, like an animal approaching. Then came the screech of metal, the vibrations under her feet, and finally, the hot, heavy breath of the iron beast slowing down before her. The locomotive, black and steaming, spat out one last puff of steam that swept over the platform. Passengers straightened up, children jumped. All around, the activity quickened.

The station agents, dressed in their impeccable uniforms, began opening the train doors. Their movements were mechanical, precise, almost military. Lines formed immediately, well-ordered, each person holding their ticket, eyes fixed on the officers tasked with checking them.

Amara, for her part, moved forward slowly, cautiously. As if the slightest step could trigger something too big for her. She slipped into one of the lines, silently, her suitcase in hand, her eyes cast downward.

She waited.

A long time. The minutes seemed to stretch like molasses. Five, maybe ten. Maybe more. The wind picked up. Her scarf lifted slightly from her hair. She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle.

Then it was her turn.

She found herself face to face with the officer. A white man, stiff as a pole, with a closed expression. He looked her up and down slowly, with a barely concealed look of disgust in his eyes. His thin lips tightened further when he asked, in a dry voice:

— Your ticket.

Amara handed him the paper, wordlessly. The man pinched the farthest edge, as if avoiding a soiled object, as though the mere touch could contaminate him. Contaminated by what? She didn’t know. The darkness of her skin? Her origins? Her history? Human stupidity seemed not to scare him he was already saturated with it.

She didn’t respond. She didn’t have the strength. She didn’t want to. She was tired. Tired of these looks, these silent judgments, this daily violence that no longer needed words to hurt. She knew this scene too well. She had lived it a thousand times.

But this time, something changed.

The man inspected her ticket. He squinted, surprised. A wrinkle of disbelief crossed his forehead. He looked up again, scrutinizing her once more always from bottom to top and his expression grew harder, more perplexed, almost accusatory.

Then, with a brusque gesture, he returned the ticket to her. Or rather, he almost dropped it between his fingers. He muttered a few words, cold and casual:

— An officer will escort you to first class. Next!

Amara stood frozen for a moment. First class?

She furrowed her brows, her heart pounding faster. First class? She couldn’t even remember seeing that on the ticket. Ada hadn’t mentioned it. A simple ticket to London already cost a small fortune, so… first class?

She climbed aboard the train, still stunned by what she had just heard. The officer, a young man with a neutral expression, was waiting for her at the door of the carriage and gestured for her to follow. She walked down the silent corridor, crossing the curious or hostile gazes of a few passengers already seated.

Her seat was in a quiet compartment, furnished with velvet chairs, polished wood with refined details, and a comfortable silence she had never known in a train. Everything seemed too beautiful, too clean, too soft.

Ada must have spent quite a sum. A sum Amara would probably never be able to repay. A dull shame rose within her. And at the same time, a silent gratitude.

She was almost relieved to have listened to Jeremiah. If she had refused to come, if she had given up… Ada would have wasted that money for nothing. And Amara would never have forgiven herself for that.

After a few minutes, a long, almost solemn whistle split the air. It was followed by a series of dull, metallic noises, repeated like a mechanical choir. The station agents had begun locking the train doors one by one, with confident, sharp gestures. Each click sounded like a bolt turning on an old life. There was no escape. No turning back.

Amara remained still in her seat for a while, upright, her hands on her knees, her gaze lost. The cabin was silent, empty, and she felt a strange sense of relief. No one had come to sit across from her since she had found her place. It was almost miraculous. She wouldn’t have had the strength to bear a curious glance, a too-strong perfume, a polite question to which she wouldn’t have known how to respond.

This solitude was given to her like a balm.

The train trembled gently beneath her. A vibration, first imperceptible, then clearer, more grounded, traveling up through the floor, rising along her legs, lodging in her stomach. The wheels screeched on the tracks with a long, painful groan, the carriage seemed to tense, ready to spring, and suddenly, it lurched. Slowly, massively, as though all its weight was being set in motion against the flow of time.

The departure

The ground vibrated regularly, almost reassuringly, like a deep breath. Every metallic click, every jolt was a pulse, a beat. Amara felt her body sway ever so slightly with each turn, each acceleration. The chair creaked faintly beneath her, and her fingers still trembled a little despite her efforts to keep them still.

She slowly turned her head toward the window.

The landscape blurred, slid, and fled.

First, it was the station itself, with its black iron pillars, the travelers left on the platform, their bags at their feet, hands raised. Then the crumbling walls, the bricks blackened by soot, the flat roofs of the industrial warehouses. Then the first houses. Then the trees, bare, spindly, twisted by the wind. And finally, after a few minutes, the wide, flat fields, soaked by the rain from the past few days.

She was leaving Birmingham.

Birmingham. Her city. Her whole world, always. She was born there, grew up there, loved there, suffered there, survived there. Every street had a voice. Every sidewalk had a story. She had never had the chance, nor the means, to go far. Only a few steps beyond the city's limits when she went on errands for her mother or took walks with her father and siblings. Never further.

And now, she was leaving. Alone. For a city she had never seen. For London.

She wished her first trip had a different taste. The taste of lightness, of freedom.

She had imagined this departure so many times. A dreamt journey, a reward for hard work, for a disciplined life. She had seen it in the intimacy of her small apartment, through thoughts she never shared with anyone, not even Ada.

She had imagined herself walking the streets of London, arm in arm with Tommy. That Tommy from before, the one who still dreamed a little, who believed he could build something solid after the war. That Tommy who smiled in the intimacy of the betting office. That Tommy who, sometimes, when he was in the mood, looked at her as if there were no one else in the room.

She remembered that evening on Charlie’s docks. It was cold. He lit a cigarette. She joined him, took his arm, silently. They walked slowly.

— How was London? she asked, her voice barely audible.

He took a long drag, then sighed, absentminded.

— It’s... different. The buildings are white, clean. Columns like in Greek temples. Cut stone. The hotels have balconies. People... they’re elegant. Too elegant.

She listened in silence, nodding.

— It sounds beautiful.

He didn’t answer. But his gaze softened for just a moment.

She never told him that she dreamed of visiting London with him. Of spending a few days in one of those columned hotels, in a room with a balcony. She would wake up early, watch the city from above. And he would be there, beside her, maybe smoking, but present.

That dream stayed where it was: in silence. In the space between her actions. In her silences, in everything she had never said.

And now, reality was quite different. She was leaving alone, in a first-class carriage she hadn’t even seen coming. For a city that wasn’t waiting for her.

But she was going anyway.

Not for Tommy. Not really for a vacation. Not in a hotel with a balcony. But for Ada.

She was going because Jeremiah told her to go. Because he placed his hand on hers and said, "Go. See something else."

And because, deep down, she had nothing left to lose. She had lost so much.

Only a little bit of hope. And maybe, at the end of the line, something to rebuild. Even though she wasn’t sure of that.

Minutes passed. Perhaps an entire hour, maybe more Amara didn’t know. Time in this train seemed to have its own breath, diluted, uncertain, suspended between what she was fleeing and what she was about to face. She sat still, almost motionless, arms crossed against herself, her gaze lost in the blurry landscapes sliding outside.

The green of the fields, the dry-stone walls, the scattered farms seemed to belong to another world, too vast, too peaceful. A world that had nothing to do with her.

Then suddenly, she felt a shiver. A familiar, insidious sensation the feeling of being watched. Her gaze slowly drifted toward the aisle of the carriage. A man had just passed in front of her cabin. He stopped for a moment, right there, in the frame of the sliding door, half-open. He was staring at her.

He didn’t seem hostile. Not exactly. His gaze didn’t have the same icy harshness as the station officer’s, nor that open contempt, those raised eyebrows in disgust. No, this look was... curious. A bit incredulous. As if he was trying to understand. To fit a missing piece into a puzzle that, for him, didn’t make sense.

Amara wondered what made him so curious. Was it the fact that he was seeing a woman traveling alone in first class? Or was it simply seeing a black woman on this train? Or perhaps, the most disturbing thing for him and maybe for many others was seeing a black woman, alone, in a train, in first class? She didn’t know. And neither did he, probably. But the mix of surprise, polite suspicion, and doubt she read in his eyes was familiar. Too familiar.

Amara didn’t move. She met his gaze with studied neutrality. Neither docile nor closed. Just... there. Present.

The man a railway company employee judging by his well-pressed uniform, immaculate gloves, and shiny badge slightly squinted, furrowed his brow. He didn’t say anything, as if he was evaluating something. Then finally, his voice rose, low, calm, a bit hesitant, as if he feared saying something foolish.

— Miss... Do you know you're entitled to a meal tray? And tea, if you request it from one of our attendants?

He looked away toward the window as he said this, as if not wanting to look directly at her. As if he wanted to maintain a sense of politeness, of respectful distance or perhaps discomfort he didn’t know how to hide.

Amara stayed silent for a moment. She nodded politely, almost imperceptibly.

— Thank you... but I’m not hungry, she said softly.

It wasn’t a lie. Her stomach was twisted. Knotted so tightly it felt like she had swallowed stones. She wished she could believe it was just motion sickness, the subtle rocking of the train that sometimes rocked too harshly. But no. She knew. It was something else. It was anxiety, that dull apprehension that had been weighing on her shoulders since she passed through the station doors.

She was there, sitting in a first-class carriage, dressed simply, hands folded, invisible yet too visible. She felt out of place. Illegitimate. Like she was occupying a space that wasn’t meant for her. Like at any moment, someone would appear, ask her what she was doing there, tell her it was a mistake. That this wasn’t her place.

She had declined the tea and the tray not just because she wasn’t hungry, but because she didn’t feel entitled to it.

She turned her eyes away, returning to the window, hoping the man would leave without insisting further. He did, after a few seconds, without another word.

Silence fell again.

And Amara went back to thinking.

In just over two hours, she would be in London. Ada would probably be waiting for her on the platform. Amara could already picture her: standing tall, elegant, always a little proud in her posture, wearing a light dress with soft fabric, a well-fitting hat, one of those that only confident women can wear without looking overdressed. Holding Karl’s hand firmly. She knew her well enough to know he’d be impatient, curious, perhaps a little too agitated. But Ada would keep him in check. As always.

Amara could already see her smile. Big, warm. Genuine.

Ada smiled with her whole face. With her eyes, with her voice. She had that way of opening her arms even before she reached you. A generous hug. Maybe even a laugh. And those simple words she’d likely say: "You’re here..."

And she, Amara, would be there. Physically. But her heart would still be floating somewhere between the shadow of Birmingham and the uncertain light of London.

She didn’t regret it. Not really. But she wished time could slow down. Even reverse. Not because she didn’t want to see Ada. Quite the opposite. She longed to hold her, to hear her, to anchor herself to her presence. But she dreaded the moment when everything would become real. When this journey would leave the realm of possibility and enter the realm of the tangible.

And the tangible was frightening.

Because once in London, nothing would be the same as before.

And maybe... that was exactly what she needed.

Chapter Text

London, April 25, 1922

Amara sat in a London pub, nestled on a plush bottle-green velvet bench across from Ada. The place mirrored the city itself refined, theatrical, disorienting. The walls were adorned with Art Deco patterns, delicate gilding tracing the moldings, and antique mirrors lined up in succession, reflecting a thousandfold the dim glow of the blown-glass pendant lights. Above the bar, a massive circular shelf displayed bottles from all over the world, their illustrated labels like works of art, the liquids inside catching the light like gemstones.

This pub was nothing like the Garrison.

Here, the workers in overalls, hands stained with coal and sweat, had been replaced by men in well-tailored suits, ties knotted with precision, and wrists graced by gleaming watches. On their arms, women with elaborate chignons draped in silk or velvet dresses, lips painted in vibrant reds or deep browns. The laughter was quieter, almost muffled, and the alcohol didn’t flow in rough pints but in finely crafted cocktails, served in varied glassware, adorned with fruit, mint leaves, or orange zest.

The harsh whisky of Birmingham seemed to have evaporated, replaced by elegant, sweet liquids. And instead of shouts, bawdy songs, or the crash of broken glass, soft music floated in the air: a jazz band played in the background from a small elevated stage, their silhouettes bathed in golden light. A saxophone trailed languid notes, accompanied by the precise keys of a piano and a discreet drum set.

Amara took in her surroundings with the strange sensation of being a stranger in a world too smooth. It felt like she’d stepped through a mirror, unprepared for what she’d find on the other side. Everything seemed unreal. Too elegant, too quiet, too perfect. She sat upright, hands resting on her knees, like a student mistakenly placed in the wrong class. She didn’t feel like she belonged. Not worthy enough. Not bright enough.

This pub reeked of London bourgeoisie. Even the air felt different as if it had been filtered not to disturb the expensive perfumes, delicate fabrics, or powdered skin.

And yet, here she was. Because Ada had wanted it.

Ada had mentioned this pub in their very first conversation in London. She’d pitched it as a hidden gem, “the best in the whole city,” she’d said with that unmistakably Shelby assurance that ability to turn any place into a symbol. Amara had shrugged, hesitated, protested, even refused. She’d told herself she wouldn’t stand the stares, that she had no business being there, that it wasn’t her world.

But Ada had insisted. As only Ada could.

And Amara had eventually relented. Not because she wanted to, but because she recognized Shelby-level stubbornness. And none of them ever let go until they got what they wanted. Ada wouldn’t have backed down. She would’ve argued, pleaded, shouted if she had to. So Amara had simply said yes.

And here she was now, sitting across from Ada, in the midst of this polished, perfumed crowd.

Ada, for her part, looked perfectly in her element. Her cream-colored dress with a V-neckline highlighted the curve of her shoulders, a delicate gold necklace resting on her collarbone, and a small beige hat with a black veil perched on her sleek hair. She held her drink with effortless grace, as if she had always belonged in this setting. Her lipstick matched her nails, her skin lightly powdered, and she smiled at Amara with genuine warmth, entirely unbothered by anything around them.

Amara suddenly felt childish. Like a girl in her Sunday best, trying to blend in with the elegant ladies at the ball.

But Ada was speaking. And her laughter melted a bit of Amara’s tension. Her words flowed like balm full of memories, tenderness, little stories about Karl, about the neighbors, about London.

Amara had been right.

When the train had come to a halt at the station, her eyes had immediately scanned the bustling platform. And there, just as she had predicted, stood Ada, tall and straight, a wide smile lighting up her face, her eyes gleaming with simple, sincere joy. Next to her, Karl held her hand, dressed in a neatly tailored little coat and a beret tilted to the side. He waved eagerly as the train approached, clearly excited to meet the woman his mother had spoken of so often.

No sooner had Amara stepped onto the platform than Ada had rushed to embrace her tightly, as if the hug alone could erase the distance, the silences, the years. Amara had let herself be wrapped up in it, moved. She had imagined that hug. And now it was here real, warm, alive.

Ada had immediately tried to take her suitcase, but Amara politely declined with a raised hand. They had walked then, Karl trotting ahead of them, hopping on the wet cobblestones. After a few streets, they had left the noise of the station behind and entered an upscale neighborhood, lined with rows of elegant homes buildings aligned like pearls on a necklace, all in a Victorian style with red brick façades, white cornices, and small wrought-iron fences.

Amara had paused in front of Ada’s home, surprised by its elegance. The house was beautiful imposing without being ostentatious, with a glossy black door and a finely engraved brass knocker. But it was inside that Amara had truly been struck.

The living room opened onto a bright space with high ceilings and delicate moldings running along the cornices. The furniture seemed carefully chosen: forest green velvet sofas, an antique dark wood writing desk polished to a shine, a large bookshelf filled with gold-embossed books, modern artwork, and neatly framed old prints. On the floor, richly colored oriental rugs softened every step, and on the windowsills, potted plants orchids and ferns brought a touch of life to the space.

Amara had thought, almost involuntarily: this house looks like Ada. Feminine, cultured, upright and strong, with that subtle blend of quiet charm and character. A space in her image.

Ada had left her there for a few minutes to wash Karl, then led her to an upstairs bedroom, asking her to make herself comfortable.

The room was strikingly peaceful.

Tall windows let in a gentle light, filtered through cream-colored curtains. A four-poster bed, simple yet majestic, stood at the center, covered with a white duvet trimmed in lace. A brown leather armchair sat by the fireplace, unlit but adorned with candles and books. On the wall, a large antique mirror danced with the light on the polished parquet floor. Amara felt like she was in a luxury hotel, not just someone’s home. She had never slept anywhere so refined.

Out of habit more than intention, she had left the door ajar. Kneeling before her suitcase at the foot of the bed, she began to unpack her carefully folded dresses, her toiletries, and finally, her Bible. She held it in her hands, about to place it on the small mahogany bedside table… when she felt a presence.

A shadow passed by the doorway. It paused, and then a man appeared.

Amara startled, letting out a small gasp. The man perhaps in his thirties, with dark, thick brows and a sharply shaven angular face immediately furrowed his brows, clearly just as surprised as she was. But when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost courteous:

— Who are you?

He didn’t seem threatening. More intrigued, like a roommate caught off guard.

Amara didn’t have time to answer.

Rushed footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Ada appeared in the doorway, her face caught between amusement and embarrassment. She froze at the sight, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

— Amara, meet James , she said, catching her breath. James, this is Amara a friend who’ll be staying with us for a few days.

Amara, still standing by the bed, wore a confused expression. Her eyes shifted from the man, to Ada, then back to James. She blinked. A man? In Ada’s home? The very idea seemed strange. Ada had always been fiercely independent, and since Freddie’s death, she had never hinted that another man might share her daily life.

Her gaze betrayed her thoughts, and Ada never one to miss such things burst out laughing when she saw her expression.

— Oh Amara, don’t worry, she said with a wink. James isn’t interested in me. He’s not the kind of man who’s into women.

James immediately looked away, visibly caught off guard. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, and he cleared his throat quietly, as if trying to hide his discomfort with a mundane gesture. He avoided Amara’s eyes and took a step back, his hands clasped behind his back.

Amara froze for a moment, perplexed caught between surprise and confusion.

— Pardon? she whispered softly.

Ada stepped closer, a gentler smile on her lips now, and placed a light hand on her arm.

— James prefers men , she murmured, almost like a confession meant only for a friend.

James glanced at Amara briefly, offering a polite but slightly tense smile—closer to a grimace, really. He seemed to brace himself, as if he had seen too many reactions before, not all of them kind.

But Amara, though surprised, showed no sign of judgment. She simply nodded slowly, then extended her hand.

— Nice to meet you, James , she said softly.

His shoulders relaxed slightly as he stepped forward again and shook her hand with quiet gratitude.

— Welcome to London, he replied in a near whisper.

Amara had never met someone like him before. She had never had the chance—never been that close. Of course, she’d heard of it everyone had. Whispers in the streets, occasional articles in the papers, or sermons from the pulpit where certain verses were spoken with more fire than grace.

She knew that men like James and women too, sometimes ended up in prison, or worse, if they were reported. Their names dragged through the mud, their families disowning them. It was the law, and it was fear. One of those things everyone knew but no one said aloud.

The first time she had heard anything about it, Amara had been a child too young to really understand what the Bible meant about “those people.” She had opened the Scriptures during one of her quiet reading moments and come across a passage that unsettled her. She had then gone to her mother, Bible in her small hands, and asked in an innocent voice what the passage in Romans, chapter 1, verses 26 and 27 meant:

"Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones. In the same way, the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another..."

Her mother had sighed gently. Not in frustration, but with a heaviness that seemed to signal this would be a difficult, yet important conversation.

She had placed a hand on Amara’s shoulder and led her to the kitchen, to the slightly wobbly wooden table where they ate all their meals. The late afternoon light streamed through the white curtains, and the air smelled of soap and cooling soup.

Seated across from her, her mother had opened the Bible carefully and started explaining, with simple and sincere words, that sometimes men and women loved each other, like Amara’s parents. But sometimes, she said, men loved other men, and women loved other women. That it existed. That it had always existed.

Amara had nodded, her young mind weighed down by this new idea. Then she had asked, very softly:

— Are they impure, Mama?

Her mother had smiled with tenderness, gently stroking her cheek the way she always did when Amara couldn’t sleep.

— They are sinners, just like we are, she had answered. And so are you, and me, and your father and your brothers and sister. We all have our weaknesses. But the role of a good Christian, my daughter, is not to judge. Judgment belongs to God alone. Our role is to love the sinner… not the sin. Just as Christ loves us all, without exception.

Those words had stayed with her.

But over the years, Amara had learned as she had with the color of her skin that not everyone thought like her mother. That in the streets, in the churches, in the trains or bourgeois parlors, very few people lived their faith with that quiet grace. Judgment came faster than compassion. Stares cut deeper than words.

So even if James surprised her, even if she’d never known a man like him, she showed nothing but kindness. She offered him what she herself had so often looked for in others’ eyes: a little peace.

She knew those curious stares far too well those that examined you as though you didn’t belong. She knew what it felt like to be watched, scrutinized, as if your very presence disrupted the established order.

James, whether he knew it or not, was a brother in difference.

Ada gently touched her arm to catch her attention. Amara turned her head, but her eyes first fell on Ada’s gin and tonic, the ice clinking softly in the elegant glass. The contrast between that clear liquid and the golden shimmer of the bar seemed to symbolize everything that separated them at that moment. Amara had simply ordered her usual: fresh orange juice, served in a plain, straight glass.

— So? Ada asked gently, her voice soft but just loud enough to rise above the hum of conversation and the slow melody of the musicians on stage. Do you like the bar?

Amara hesitated. She could have lied said it was “charming” or “very lovely, ” like the women of this world would have done, the ones with glittering dresses and pearl necklaces. But her eyes, briefly wandering, returned to Ada’s.

— It’s pleasant, she said simply.

Ada smiled faintly and let out a barely audible sigh. She shook her head slightly before murmuring:

— I told you, Amara. I know you too well for you to lie to me.

Amara looked down, a hint of shame forming in her throat like a weight. It had been so long since she’d spoken honestly with Ada. Their bond had survived time and silence, but honesty… honesty had been left behind on the platforms of Birmingham, years ago.

— I don’t dislike it, she finally admitted. It’s just… different.

Ada nodded gently, as if she had expected as much. She placed her hand over Amara’s a warm, reassuring touch, without pressure.

— Seeing different things, it does some good sometimes. It feels strange at first, but then... you learn to breathe differently. Me too, you know, it felt odd when I first got here.

Amara studied Ada for a few seconds. It was hard for her to imagine this elegant, confident woman, sitting across from her in this upscale bar, ever feeling disoriented by London. Ada looked like she had been born here, in this world of soft music and luxurious clothes. She moved through it with natural ease, as if she had always belonged in that setting. Amara, on the other hand, felt like a painting hung on the wrong wall.

— You seem... perfectly at home, she murmured.

Ada gave a soft smile, almost sad.

— That’s because I fought for it to be true.

Amara said nothing. Her gaze drifted somewhere beyond Ada’s shoulder, focusing on an invisible point in the air heavy with perfume and conversation. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know how she truly felt.

Ada, ever attentive, tilted her head slightly.

— Is there something you’re missing? she asked gently.

Amara let out a faint, humorless chuckle. A sound light, but bitter. She picked up her glass of orange juice and took a sip, the cold liquid sliding down her throat without soothing anything inside.

— I don’t know, she replied. Probably. But... there’s nothing left for me in Birmingham, you know. Except Jeremiah... and the kids.

A pause. Then, with a faraway look:

— But they’re doing well. Really. They’re perfectly fine.

She had no more ties, no more chains. And yet, something still tugged at her, deep in her chest. An invisible thread that held on, even though everything else had let go.

Ada didn’t respond right away. She simply gave Amara’s hand a gentle squeeze, then took another sip of her gin and tonic, her eyes still fixed on her friend, as if trying to read what she wasn’t yet ready to say.

Amara had realized, during the long journey from Birmingham to London, that there was truly nothing holding her back anymore. A slow, painful realization, but irreversible. There had once been Tommy. His dark gaze, his quiet need, that way he relied on her without ever saying it aloud. But Tommy had Grace now. And a child on the way. A new family. A future to build without her.

Her job? That already belonged to the past. Shelby & Co wasn’t waiting for her return. They had surely found another accountant competent, perhaps more obedient, or simply present. Her chair was likely taken, her desk emptied, her name forgotten.

Her nephews? They were growing up well. Strong, joyful, grounded. Their father had come back from the war years ago and taken his place firmly and gently. Jeremiah was giving them the stable, warm life they had never had as children. They didn’t need Amara like they used to. She wasn’t the only adult figure in their lives anymore. She was no longer essential.

And that, deep down, was what hurt the most. The emptiness. That creeping feeling of no longer being needed, eating away at every ounce of meaning she thought she had.

She wished she could explain it to Ada. Let those thoughts finally escape their inner prison. But she didn’t know how to shape them. She didn’t know if Ada could understand—if she could hear, beyond words, the invisible loss tightening her chest.

So she spoke, at first in a whisper, a fragile murmur only Ada’s closeness could catch.

— I feel like... like I’m not useful anymore.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass. She looked down, unable to meet Ada’s gaze.

— It’s like everything that used to keep me standing there is gone... the kids are grown, they have their dad... Tommy doesn’t need me, not really, and work...

She stopped. Her throat tightened. She took a slow breath, then went on:

— I wake up, and I don’t know why. I don’t know who for.

Silence fell between them. Not awkward, not empty. A silence heavy with everything Amara had just said, and all that she hadn’t.

Ada didn’t speak immediately. She simply looked at her, attentive, present. Like only an old friend could.

— I feel hollow, Ada. Truly hollow. I wake up in the morning, and... there’s nothing. No responsibilities, no job, not even a place I need to be. No one who’s waiting for me anymore. I spent so many years making sure everyone else was okay, being there, helping, loving. Now... my hands are free, and I don’t know what to do with them.

She looked down at her glass again, gently swirling the orange liquid between her fingers.

— And Tommy... he has his life now. His family. Grace. A baby on the way. That’s normal. That’s good. But it still hurts. Because I thought, deep down, that I had a place somewhere in his heart. Even a tiny one. A future. But now I realize that even that place... it doesn’t exist anymore.

Amara looked up, her gaze locking with Ada’s shaky but steady.

— And then there were the kids, Jeremiah, the job... Shelby & Co wasn’t just numbers, it was my every day, it was... me, in a way. Now all of that continues without me. They don’t need me anymore. Jeremiah’s managing it all. The kids are happy. I’m proud of him. But I’m not essential anymore. I’m... extra.

She breathed in slowly, like each word took more effort than the last.

— I think that’s the worst part. Not being needed. Not being expected. It’s like floating with no compass, no land in sight. Sometimes I just want to scream. Just to hear my voice. Just to be sure it still exists.

She shook her head slightly and added in a whisper:

— I need something to wake me up. Something to remind me I’m still alive. Because right now, Ada, I think I’m slowly disappearing... and no one’s noticing.

She let out a long breath. Then lifted her shoulders a bit, like she had just laid a heavy burden down on the table between them.

— Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the evening.

She tried to smile again. A little more real this time. Fragile, but real.

Ada remained silent for a long moment, her fingers still gently resting on Amara’s hand. Her eyes stayed fixed on her, with a kind of softness she reserved only for the people she truly loved. The noise of the bar seemed to fade around them, as if the world had paused leaving only the intimate conversation of two friends sharing pieces of their hearts. When Ada finally spoke, her voice was low, but filled with a tenderness full of truth.

— Amara, I understand what you’re feeling. Truly, I do. When I lost Freddie, I felt that same emptiness, like a chasm had opened beneath my feet, and I didn’t know how to climb out. I was in London, far from everything I knew, in this big, shiny city but I’d never felt lonelier. And there was Karl, but even he... wasn’t enough to fill that void. I didn’t know where I belonged anymore, or where my place was.

She paused, as if searching for the right words. Then, with a soft sigh, she continued:

— And I often told myself that maybe… maybe I wasn’t made for Small Heath anymore. That maybe I’d never go back to that life. But you know what? There’s no going back. It’s like a chain of small events, changes, pains that shape you. But it’s not an end it’s a beginning.

She tightened her grip slightly, her eyes locked with Amara’s.

— You see, I was scared too. Scared of losing myself when Freddie died. I didn’t really have a family anymore, no role to play in that little Small Heath community. But little by little, I understood that the emptiness I was feeling wasn’t the end. It was just… the start of something else. A new way of living. And here I am, in London, and yes it’s strange, disorienting but it’s also… freeing. I made choices. I gave myself the chance to grow. And I think that’s what you need too, Amara.

She let her words settle between them, then continued, more serious now, more resolute.

— And you know… Tommy. Tommy is my brother. I love him deeply, but I see the truth. And the truth is he doesn’t deserve you. He never did. He made his choices, he chose Grace, he chose his own family, and he left you behind. Not because you didn’t matter, but because he’s… Tommy. He’s selfish in the way he thinks. He wants everything, but he can’t keep it all. Not like that.

Ada shook her head, a flicker of sadness in her eyes, but also a quiet certainty.

— He destroyed the most precious thing he had, and he proved it to you again and again. Do you think he’s changed? Maybe. A little. But Tommy will always be a man who runs from responsibility when it gets too heavy. And he didn’t choose you, Amara. You weren’t his priority. And you have to accept that. It’s not your fault. But you can’t live waiting for him to wake up. Because he won’t not in the way you’re hoping. And deep down, you know it.

Ada clenched her hand around her gin and tonic, but her gaze didn’t waver. It stayed fixed on Amara.

— So yes, you have to move forward, Amara. Because in the end, only you can take that first step. You’ve lived in the shadow of everything he did his mistakes, his absences. But you don’t have to stay there. You have so much more to give. And you deserve so much better. Maybe it’s hard to turn the page. But it’s necessary. If you wait for him to come back, you’ll exhaust yourself waiting for something that might never happen. And I want you to be happy. But to get there, you need to stand back up. You need to claim your place in this world not next to him, not in his past, but in your future. Because it’s you who chooses your path. Not him. Not Tommy. He already makes enough decisions for the whole family.

Ada leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to share a secret.

— And I know it’s hard but you’re not alone in this. Even if I don’t understand everything you’re feeling, I’m here for you. I love you, Amara. You’re my friend. And that’s something nothing will ever change.

Ada’s words hurt. They hurt deeply. Each one felt like a gentle but sharp blade slicing through the thick layer of silence and pretense Amara had wrapped around her heart. But the truth wounds—and Amara knew it. She didn’t look away, didn’t protest. Because Ada was right. In every word. And that’s exactly why it hurt so much.

She hadn’t even noticed the tears at first. They slid silently down her cheeks, unstoppable, like a tap left running. She wasn’t sobbing not yet but her shoulders had slumped, her face undone, vulnerable. Her fingers clung to her glass of orange juice like an anchor, something to keep her from capsizing.

And there, in that dim pub, wrapped in the soft hum of music and murmured conversations, she opened the floodgates. It all poured out. The weight of that night. The wedding. The mud. The cold. The loneliness. The senseless walk back to Small Heath in the dark, the emptiness between her ribs, the knot in her throat.

She spoke of the church, of Polly, of the icy shock of Grace’s pregnancy, of fleeing through the streets, her legs giving out, hunger gnawing at her, and shame clawing at her heart. She spoke of the betting office, of Tommy’s chest where she had collapsed, of her panic, her despair. She spoke of that prostitute and most of all, of the words she never forgot. That look in her eyes. The look of someone who no longer knew how to go on living.

She told Ada all of it. Because she couldn’t tell Jeremiah. Or her nephews. Or anyone else. Ada was the only one. The only one who could truly hear.

And Ada had listened. Without interrupting. Without asking useless questions. She had cried too, quietly, moved to her core. And when Amara finally fell silent, she had simply taken her in her arms. No judgment. No hollow comfort. Just presence warm and real.

That moment of vulnerability stretched on. Maybe just minutes. Maybe an eternity. And despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, something inside Amara loosened a little. She felt seen. Truly. Not as the wise friend or the strong woman everyone expected but as she really was: bruised, lost, worn out. But still standing.

And in Ada’s arms, that night, in a posh London pub, she felt loved. Simply. Authentically.

Ada looked at her with that same sincerity she always had, her eyes shining with tears and compassion. She tilted her head slightly, almost motherly, and gently asked why Amara hadn’t said anything sooner. Why, when they had tea at Esme’s, she hadn’t let anything show. Why she had carried all of it alone.

Amara shrugged, unable to form a clear answer. She had been ashamed. Ashamed of her pain, ashamed of her grief, ashamed of having felt so weak. And more than anything, ashamed she hadn’t been able to move on. That she hadn’t been stronger.

But she didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t need to. Ada already knew.

A light laugh slipped from Ada’s lips, gently breaking the heaviness between them. She looked around, as if to highlight the irony of it all two women crying in an elegant pub, surrounded by gin glasses and soft lighting, far from the chaos of Birmingham. She reached up and gently took Amara’s chin in her hand, lifting her gaze.

“Doesn’t this remind you of something?” she said, a tender smile curving her lips, heavy with memories.

And it all came back at once.

Amara remembered that night, years ago, in the tiny kitchen of the Shelby family home. Ada, heavily pregnant, nerves on edge, terrified for Freddie, for their future, for the baby who was still just a vague silhouette inside her. They had cried together, clinging to their mugs of steaming tea. Tea Ada had insisted on making, with leaves she didn’t quite know how to use. She’d let it steep too long. The taste had been bitter almost burnt.

A genuine laugh broke from Amara, through her tears. She nodded gently, her voice still trembling, hoarse.

— The tea was undrinkable, she whispered.

Ada burst into soft laughter too, a laugh that lightened the air around them just a little. Amara remembered now. She remembered that warmth, that intimacy, that precious bond between them. She remembered what it felt like to have a space where you could cry without being judged. And she realized that despite the years, the silence, the distance Ada was still that refuge.

And maybe… maybe she hadn’t lost everything after all.

Chapter Text

London, April 28, 1922

Amara walked briskly, holding tightly to Karl’s warm little hand. The boy’s other hand clutched his small wooden horse a toy polished by time and love. He held it with the care of a child who gives his objects a comforting power, as if this miniature horse alone could turn their walk through London into a magical adventure. Karl toddled along at his own pace, wide-eyed at the bustling streets of the capital, occasionally stopping to watch a rumbling motorcar, a hurrying dog, or a brightly colored sign swaying gently in the breeze.

Amara’s eyes, however, were elsewhere. Not that she didn’t see the beauty of London she would have had to be blind not to notice the elegance of the Victorian facades, the measured bustle of the pedestrians, or the smell of warm bread wafting from a corner bakery but she was too focused to marvel. She studied the street names, directions, the details of storefronts, treating them as landmarks. Ada had given her a clear mission: to take Karl to the barber’s, a salon frequented by respectable families in the neighborhood. And if Amara was a little nervous, she didn’t show it. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake not with Karl.

Ada had sent her there somewhat hastily, a political meeting having suddenly filled her schedule. She had half-laughed as she apologized, tying her bun tighter than usual, a stack of pamphlets under one arm, talking about communists and revolutionary socialists affiliated with the Communist Party of Great Britain, the CPGB. Amara had barely understood all the names and acronyms Ada had thrown into the conversation, but she nodded along, more intrigued by Ada’s passion than by politics itself.

Ada had offered to take Amara with her. She had even insisted, saying it would be interesting, educational that women needed to claim space in those male-dominated spheres. But Amara had politely declined. Politics had never been her realm. She’d always kept a cautious distance, a restrained curiosity. Once, she used to listen to what Tommy said about it. He spoke of it often, in his own way direct, sharp, almost military. He dissected ideas like he did business plans, with the cold precision of a strategist rather than the fervor of an activist. But even then, Amara had never truly felt at ease in that world.

Maybe because, like so many other women, she had never been made to believe she had a voice in it.

Of course, there had been that major step forward: the 1918 law. The Representation of the People Act. For the first time, English women could vote. But not all of them. You had to be over thirty, own property, be married to a property owner, or hold a British university degree. One of the three conditions was enough in theory. But in practice, it excluded most women especially women like her. Working-class women. Women without a man to legitimize them. Black women, even more so.

And even those who did qualify often remained silent sometimes deliberately. Out of fear of their husband’s judgment. Out of fear of being mocked, dismissed, belittled for daring to take part in “men’s business.” Politics was not a world for them, they were told. And many ended up believing it.

But not Ada.

Ada had never looked away. She had fought. She had campaigned. With Freddie by her side, she had handed out pamphlets in the streets of Birmingham, spoken at rallies, endured haughty stares, whispers, and sometimes insults. She had stood firm. And even after Freddie’s death, she had continued. She had gotten back up, alone with Karl, and carried on the fight. Loyal to her convictions, loyal to the memory of the man she had loved. Amara admired her deeply for that.

She glanced at Karl, still walking silently, clutching his toy. He looked a little like his father. The same observant gaze, the same furrowed brow when thinking. Amara wondered if, later, he would understand what his mother had done. If one day, he would read in history books the names of those who had fought for a fairer world and if Ada’s name would be among them.

A gust of wind lifted a corner of her coat. Amara pulled the fabric tighter around her. She felt both invisible and very present in this city. Still a stranger. Like a puzzle piece being moved without anyone knowing if it truly fit. But at least she was here. Upright. Moving.

And for now, she was simply a woman holding a little boy’s hand on the streets of London, on a Tuesday morning.

Amara quickened her pace, anxious not to miss the appointment. She hadn’t brought a watch, and the large wall clocks that sometimes adorned London storefronts all seemed to vanish the moment one needed them. She squeezed Karl’s hand a little tighter not to hurry him, but to give herself a bit of courage. She wasn’t even entirely sure she was going the right way. The memory of Ada’s instructions guided her: “When you see the bookshop, go straight and then turn right. You won’t miss it.” Amara repeated those words like a prayer.

She didn’t want Karl to miss his appointment. At four, he already took his budding manhood very seriously. He’d told his mother he wanted “to be neat like his uncles” even though he didn’t see them often they were always well-groomed, well-shaved, well-dressed. He hadn’t said Tommy’s name, but Amara had thought it very loudly. She remembered perfectly Tommy’s meticulous monthly barber visits: never a day more, never a day less. That memory, like many others tied to him, briefly knotted her stomach.

She sighed quietly and kept walking, trying not to show it to Karl. After a few minutes of wandering through streets whose names had often been erased by time, she finally saw the landmark: a small bookshop nestled between a flower shop and a bakery. The storefront was bottle-green wood, chipped in places, giving it a slightly nostalgic charm. Behind the slightly foggy windows, one could make out stacks of books in uneven columns, a battered armchair in one corner, and a handwritten sign that read: “Close your eyes, open a book.”

Amara smiled when she saw it, relieved. She passed the bookshop, glanced to the right, and there it was.

The barber shop had a neat, soberly masculine look. The front was dark polished wood, framed by discreet gilding. An elegant sign bore the name: W. Fletcher & Son – Gentlemen’s Barber. Through the large windowpane, Amara saw two men: one, seated in a wide leather chair, his head slightly tilted as his beard was trimmed; the other, clearly the barber, wearing a well-fitted vest with his sleeves rolled up over sturdy forearms, focused on his work. The interior radiated order and care: handsome mirrors, thick glass bottles filled with lotions, perfectly folded towels, and the scent of soap and shaving powder seemed to float all the way to the street.

Amara stopped dead.

A small pang of apprehension twisted in her stomach. She had worked at Shelby & Co. for years. She had been around men often rough, sometimes worse. She had earned their respect in that masculine world, no longer afraid of it because she knew her men. But this this was different. This place, this barber shop… it wasn’t an office, it wasn’t a meeting room. It was a male sanctuary. One of those spaces where men took care of themselves, granting each other a moment apart, away from female eyes. A hushed world where newspapers were read in silence, where conversations revolved around business, bets, sometimes war memories but never dresses, children, or the weather.

And she she was a woman. A woman about to step into a place meant for men. She didn’t truly belong here. It was a bit like a man barging into a beauty salon among lilac scents and cold cream jars. Out of place. Ill-fitting.

But she had no choice. Karl deserved to be treated like the great men of his family. He deserved this moment, his little ritual. Amara gripped his hand tighter and leaned down slightly toward him.

— Ready, love? she whispered softly.

He nodded, proud as a rooster.

So she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed open the door.

As Amara pushed the door, a small brass bell above the entrance chimed softly a crystal-clear sound, just enough to break the hushed calm of the space. The effect was immediate: the barber, focused on his task, looked up at her, surprised. The man in the chair, a square-jawed fellow in his fifties with a crisply pressed suit, frowned slightly at the sight of this feminine intrusion. He too looked up at her, but made no gesture no smile, no greeting.

The barber, though slightly taken aback, maintained a certain professional courtesy.

— Good morning, he said in a deep but polite voice.

— Good morning, Amara replied, nodding gently.

The barber, after a moment of hesitation, resumed his work with precision. In a calm voice, he added:

— Please, have a seat, madam. I’ll just be a few more minutes.

Amara nodded silently. She sat down and took him onto her lap, somewhat automatically. Karl, in a familiar gesture she had seen dozens of times with Ada, nestled against her, resting his head on her chest with childlike trust. He wasn’t really seeking her, he was seeking the warmth of a familiar body, the comfort of a heartbeat. It was what he had always done with Ada since he was a baby. He curled up to find calm, to find his rhythm again. There was no tantrum in this, just a need for grounding. His little wooden horse dangled limply from his hand.

And even though Amara wasn’t Ada, she felt honored, in her own way, to be that presence, if only for a few hours.

And yet, he was growing up. Sometimes, when someone called him a "little boy," he would lift his chin and correct them with confidence: “I’m a big boy now.” Karl was four years old. Just four, and already so full of character. A little boy with a serious gaze, his mouth often pursed, as if carrying a wisdom too big for his small shoulders. But he could also be tender, cuddly, childlike especially with Ada. Amara had seen him rush to his mother many times as soon as she walked through the door, slipping between her legs, climbing onto her lap. He loved it when she stroked his hair and murmured words in Romani. He always laughed louder when she sang off-key on purpose. He’d snuggle up to her while she read the newspaper out loud, even if he barely understood half of what she said. And at night, he’d curl up against her like a kitten, asking for a story about Freddie always about Freddie, his father he barely remembered.

There was a rugged tenderness in Ada’s gestures, a constant, almost animal attention. And Karl looked at her the way one looks at a promise of safety. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

She looked down at the little boy. His eyelids were half-closed, lulled by her calm breathing, the regular snip of scissors and blades. She found him surprisingly calm for a child born of Ada and Freddie, two fiery souls. Two strong voices, two free spirits. And yet Karl seemed to have inherited their intensity, but not their turmoil. Not yet, at least.

In front of her, the barber had resumed his work methodically. He was now attending to his client’s beard. He picked up an ivory-handled shaving brush and dipped it into a small white porcelain bowl. He lathered the soap with precise, almost ritualistic circular motions, then applied it delicately to the man’s jaw in a thick layer. Next, he pulled out a straight razor, which he sharpened on a leather strop hanging on the wall, his wrist moving with steady confidence. He held the client’s head firmly but not harshly, tilting his chin to expose the skin.

Then he slid the blade along the cheek in a near-religious silence. Amara watched every movement. She saw the foam disappear under the blade, revealing smooth skin, pink from the cold of the shave. From time to time, he stopped to wipe the blade on a clean cloth, folding a corner carefully before continuing. The white cloth slowly became stained with lather and dark hairs.

It was a dance, a choreography between hand, metal, and skin. And despite herself, Amara was moved by the elegance of the gesture. There was something noble in the care given to a face, even when that face belonged to a stern man who hadn’t deemed her worthy of a single word.

It was the first time she found herself in a men’s barbershop like this. She felt both foreign and invisible tolerated, but not expected. And yet, something in the air the scent of the soap, the calm, the precision soothed her gently.

Karl had completely relaxed against her. She wrapped her arms more tightly around him and let her gaze wander through the shop’s windows and out onto the street. London was still out there alive, fast, noisy. But inside, there was only the slow rhythm of the razor and the warmth of a sleeping child. And, against all odds, that was enough for her. For now.

After a few minutes of silence broken only by the faint sound of the blade gliding across skin, the barber finally set his razor down. He picked up a small mirror with a dark wooden handle, worn smooth by use, and held it behind the client’s head so he could see the result in the large wall mirror.

— Is that alright? he asked in a professional, neutral tone.

The client gave a quick glance, then nodded tersely without a word. He didn’t bother to say thank you. The barber, unbothered, used a soft brush to remove the last hairs clinging to the man’s neck, then undid the protective cloth draped over his shoulders, shaking it out carefully. The fabric of the suit appeared: charcoal gray, immaculate, without a wrinkle. The man stood slowly, put on his gloves, then walked toward the counter, the barber following closely behind.

Behind the counter, the man opened a small notebook with a worn cover. From where she sat, Amara could make out the layout of columns filled with figures, scribbled in black ink. It was clearly a ledger, but its upkeep was sloppy, almost messy: numbers piled up without apparent logic, some crossed out or rewritten in the margins. She frowned slightly. This was far from the order she’d been taught at Shelby & Co.

— Four shillings, the barber finally said.

The man pulled the exact amount from his pocket without even looking, placed the coins absentmindedly on the wooden counter, then turned on his heels without another word. The barber watched him leave with a silent sigh, then returned behind the barber’s chair. He disappeared into a side room for a few seconds and came back with a worn broom, which he swept mechanically under the chair. Dark strands, a few graying tufts, and beard clippings slid to the floor before being gathered into a small pile that he scooped up with a metal dustpan.

When he looked up again, his eyes fell on Amara. A faint, almost amused smile touched his lips as he saw the little boy still nestled against her, sound asleep.

He lowered his voice out of consideration and whispered:

— His turn now.

Amara gave a soft nod in response. She slid a hand through Karl’s hair and gently stroked his forehead, then whispered in his ear:

— Karl, it’s your turn. You have to wake up now, the barber’s waiting for you.

Amara’s voice was gentle, steady, but she added that lilting tone people use with children. Karl stirred slightly, moved his head, then buried his face deeper into her. She smiled in spite of herself, and started stroking his hair again, repeating:

— Come on, big boy. You need to wake up. You wanted a haircut like a man, remember?

The word man seemed to pierce through the veil of sleep. Karl opened one eye, then the other, blinking as if trying to remember where he was. He looked at Amara, then at the barber, then at the empty chair in front of the mirror. He sat up slowly, still holding his little wooden horse in one hand, the other clinging to Amara’s clothes.

She gently set him down, smoothing his clothes with her hands, then patted his cheeks softly to encourage him forward. Karl stood tall, his eyes still half-closed, but walked toward the chair as if he were about to do something important.

And in a way, maybe he was.

The barber approached Karl gently, helping him climb into the large dark leather chair. He placed his hands under the boy’s arms and lifted him easily, setting him carefully on the seat, which was far too wide for him. Karl let himself be positioned, now fully awake, eyes wide as he looked at his reflection in the big mirror.

The barber grabbed a gray canvas smock, slightly coarse, and tied it around the child’s neck. The fabric fell over him, covering him down to his feet like an oversized coat. The boy slipped his small hands beneath the cloth to hold his wooden horse close, well hidden.

Then, methodically, the barber took a small metal sprayer and gently pressed it. A fine mist settled over the boy’s soft brown hair. He dampened it, combed it quickly with a fine-toothed comb, then picked up his scissors, which he clicked between his fingers before beginning to cut.

Silence reigned for a few moments, broken only by the snipping of blades, the soft hiss of the spray bottle, and the distant sounds of the street. Then, without taking his eyes off Karl, the barber finally broke the silence:

— I’ve never seen you here before.

His voice was calm, almost muffled. After a brief pause, he continued:

— Usually it’s another lady who brings him.

Amara, her hands folded on her lap, replied calmly:

— That’s true. I’m a friend of his mother’s. She had something else planned, so I stepped in.

The barber nodded slightly, focused on his haircut, before turning his head slightly toward her. He paused mid-motion, scissors in the air, and studied her for a few seconds.

— You’re not from around here, are you? Your accent is different.

Amara gave a faint smile and replied:

— No, I’m from Birmingham.

At that, the barber let out a mildly amused, almost conspiratorial grin.

— Ah, Birmingham... I went there once. I have to admit, it wasn’t the finest reflection of England.

Amara could only nod. He wasn’t wrong. Birmingham, with its grey streets, congested alleys, ever-present factory smoke, the smell of coal and refuse, wasn’t exactly enchanting. Too dirty, too poor, too full of people just barely surviving more than living.

The barber spoke again, continuing the haircut calmly:

— I know places like that well. I grew up in Manchester... So factory chimneys, days that begin before sunrise, cramped housing, and soot in the bedsheets... I’ve lived through all that too.

Amara turned to him, a bit surprised. He didn’t match the image of a man from the working-class neighborhoods. He was neat, very neat even. His mustache was perfectly trimmed, his hair slicked back with a sharp part, his clothes simple but immaculate: a starched white shirt, well-fitted black suspenders, grey trousers without a crease, and a jacket and shoes polished with care. His gestures were measured, almost elegant, and his voice though not refined had a calm, almost educated tone.

She wondered if he, too, had once worked in a factory. If his hands had once been black with grease, his nails darkened with coal, before he learned to wield scissors with such precision. The contrast stirred an odd admiration in her.

Amara replied simply, without taking her eyes off the barber leaning over Karl:

— I’ve never been to Manchester.

The man chuckled softly, not pausing in his precise work on the boy’s hair.

— You’re not missing much, trust me. Living in Birmingham, you’ve already had a taste.

Amara gave a faint smile, both knowing and melancholic. He was right. Manchester or Birmingham, misery smelled the same, the bricks just as blackened, the barefoot children running through factory dust, the shouting in back alleys. There was nothing poetic about the industrial North.

The silence returned, soothing. The soft clicking of the scissors set the rhythm of the moment, almost hypnotic. Karl remained perfectly still, and after several minutes, the barber finally set down his tools, picked up the small mirror, and positioned it behind the boy’s head, just as he had with the previous client.

— There you go, young man.

Karl beamed, clearly delighted. He shook his head, admiring his new haircut, proud as if he had just conquered something. The barber then turned the chair toward Amara, showing her the result.

— His mother will like it, she said softly.

— Let’s hope so.

He undid the cape that had enveloped Karl, shook it gently to remove the cut hairs, then helped the boy down from the chair, holding him by the waist.

Amara stood and walked to the counter, Karl trotting behind her. The barber returned to his accounting book, still lying open, and frowned even more deeply than before. The columns of numbers were scribbled without clear order, some amounts crossed out, others rewritten hastily. He jotted down a few more figures absentmindedly, crossed out others, and seemed to lose himself in thought.

Amara waited, standing, hesitant to interrupt. He was so focused, his brow furrowed, that she didn’t dare break his train of thought.

After several long seconds, he seemed to remember she was there and let out a small laugh:

— Ah, sorry… I got lost in those blasted numbers again.

Amara instinctively glanced down at the notebook and gave a small, amused smile.

— That’s normal… A ledger shouldn’t be kept like this. It’s a real mess. You’re probably getting completely wrong figures because of it.

The man looked up at her suddenly, intrigued.

— You know about this?

— I’m an accountant, Amara answered without thinking.

But as soon as the words left her mouth, a knot tightened in her stomach. The truth. She wasn’t anymore. She had been, once. Before. Before Tommy married Grace. Before everything changed. Before that role, that place she had once held with pride, was taken from her.

The barber, for his part, looked both surprised and genuinely interested.

— An accountant, really? Well… I could definitely use your help. Honestly, I’m completely overwhelmed by all these numbers.

He looked at her for a few moments, as if weighing an idea that had just sprouted. Then, without a word, he grabbed a small scrap of paper and a pencil. He scribbled something quickly, folded the paper, and handed it to Amara. She took it automatically.

— May I invite you on Friday evening? he asked suddenly.

Amara frowned, puzzled.

— So you can teach me a bit of accounting, he added with a smile, almost shy. And also… to get to know you. You seem like a very interesting woman.

She froze, stunned. She opened her mouth but no words came out. The compliment unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Sensing her discomfort, the barber offered a light smile and simply added:

— The cut is two shillings.

Amara reached into her coat and took out the exact change Ada had given her. Ada had insisted she keep the rest to buy Karl a little treat on the way home.

She took the boy’s hand and walked toward the door. The barber called after her softly, almost in a whisper:

— Have a good day... and I hope to see you Friday.

The bell above their heads chimed as they stepped out onto the street.

Outside, the wind was mild, but Amara shivered. She didn’t know what to think. She hadn’t expected this. A date? No. Just an invitation to help him with his books... and to get to know her?

She didn’t know what that meant. What it implied.

Deep down, something had stirred. A timid spark, something alive. But the strongest feeling, the one that smothered all the rest was guilt. She felt as though she were betraying Tommy, even though she had done nothing. Even though Tommy had chosen Grace. Even though she was no longer anything.

She surely wouldn’t accept. The man was kind, polite, gentle. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe never, she told herself.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, April 30, 1922

Tommy Shelby walked alone through the darkened alleys of Small Heath, hands tucked into the pockets of his long black coat. It was just after eight o’clock, but night had already swallowed Birmingham whole. The sky hung low and heavy, pressing like a silent threat over the industrial city. The air was damp, thick with soot and coal, the familiar scent of cobbled streets lined with smoking chimneys and tireless factories. A fine drizzle had been falling for several minutes now, light but enough to soak the brim of his hat and bead cold droplets along the wool of his collar.

The distant sounds of machines, shouting from the taverns, horse-drawn carriages clattering over the stones… all formed a muffled echo, as if Birmingham were holding its breath. But Tommy kept walking, relentless. He had left the Garrison less than twenty minutes ago, when a soaked and breathless Curly had burst into the private room where the Peaky Blinders were gathered.

The door had slammed against the wall with a crash that instantly triggered the well-trained reflexes of the Shelbys. Arthur had leapt up, his hand already on his revolver, and John was just as quick. Both brothers drew their guns and pointed them at the intruder, while Michael and Isaiah straightened in alarm. Curly, panting and frozen in the doorway, raised his hands instinctively in surrender.

— Bloody hell, Curly! You want us to shoot you or what?! John snapped, voice a mix of irritation and relief as he holstered his gun.

Arthur cursed under his breath but lowered his weapon without a word, downing his whiskey in one gulp. Tommy hadn’t moved. He remained seated, glass still in hand, his gaze fixed on Curly as if he could read him faster than the man could speak.

Curly, visibly shaken, twisted his cap in his hands like a child caught red-handed. His eyes searched for Tommy’s. He swallowed hard, then whispered:

— Mr. Shelby… it’s Billy Boy.

He shook his head gently, unable to say more. But he didn’t have to. Tommy understood.

For weeks now, Curly, Charlie’s most loyal stableman had warned him: Billy Boy was not doing well. The horse was eating less, occasionally unsteady on his hind legs, and most of all, he had lost that spark, that quiet nobility that had made him special. He no longer responded the same way when Curly brushed him, his ears didn’t perk at familiar sounds. Tommy had heard, but refused to believe. He’d clung to the idea that it was nothing, just a cold, a phase. Billy Boy had always been strong. Untamable, even. He wasn’t just a horse. He was their horse.

And now, there was no room left for denial.

So he walked, alone, toward Charlie’s stables behind the warehouses at Brick Lane Wharf, near the canal and the docks. The area wasn’t well lit just a few flickering gas lamps casting distorted shadows against the brick walls. The silence was thick, broken only by the sound of his boots on the wet ground.

The silhouette of the stables finally appeared in the gloom. A modest building, dark wood, a little worn but carefully maintained by Curly and Charlie. Light spilled from the slightly open door, drawing a golden line across the damp boards of the floor.

Curly was waiting at the entrance, cap in hand, eyes downcast. He said nothing. Tommy stopped a few steps away. He stood still for a moment, gaze fixed on the light, then inhaled slowly and stepped inside.

The familiar scent hit him at once: a mix of fresh hay, animal sweat, worn leather, and oil. He knew it better than the smell of whiskey or gunpowder. It was comforting… and tonight, it was heavy.

Billy Boy stood in his stall. Upright, but slumped. His black coat still shone faintly, his flanks rose and fell slowly, heavily. He turned his head toward Tommy without much reaction. His eyes, usually so sharp, seemed dull, vacant.

Tommy approached, placing a slow hand on the animal’s neck. The touch was warm. A dying warmth.

He said nothing. Not yet. He just stood there, silent, staring at this voiceless companion who had been a fragment of pure loyalty in a life drowned in betrayal.

And he understood, without needing to be told, that this might be the last time he’d see him standing.

Tommy turned slowly toward Curly and Charlie, who had stepped closer when he entered the stable. The two men said nothing, as though any word might shatter something sacred. It was Charlie who finally broke the silence. His deep voice resonated softly in the wooden building, filled with the resignation of men who know how much life gives and takes.

— There’s no other way, Tom, he said, eyes slightly narrowed. Keeping him alive would only make him suffer. It wouldn’t be fair.

Tommy stayed silent. He didn’t answer right away, but his gaze returned to Billy Boy. He slowly ran a hand along the horse’s neck, fingers brushing over the once-silky fur now gone dull. He nodded, just barely. A gesture heavy with meaning, with held-back pain.

Billy Boy.

Even the name carried a chapter of their story. It was John who had named him, cigar in his mouth, whiskey glass in hand, during a discussion around the old bookie's desk they’d repurposed. “Billy Boy,” he had chuckled, in memory of Billy Kimber. It was their way of celebrating a symbolic victory, the fall of Kimber, their takeover of the illegal betting network. This horse became their first stallion, their first real investment after seizing power. He embodied the shift from what they had been street thugs to what they were becoming: businessmen, empire-builders.

Billy Boy came before Monaghan Boy. He ran the track when the Shelbys barely had a stable to their name. He marked the start of an era. Seeing him like this, broken, weakened, wasn’t just heartbreaking for the man, it was a blow to a whole time he had built, and that now, slowly, was fading. Just like him.

Charlie broke the silence again, with that rough sort of tenderness he always carried in grave moments.

— Want me to do it, Tommy? he asked calmly.

Tommy looked at him. He didn’t answer right away, his pale eyes locked on Charlie’s. They watched each other for a moment, a long silence stretching between them like a wordless language forged through years of loyalty. Then, in a voice hoarse, cold, almost rigid, Tommy replied:

— Leave me alone.

Charlie nodded, not insisting. He stepped forward, laid a strong hand on Tommy’s shoulder, gave two brief, firm pats a sober, fatherly gesture. Then he stepped back, turning to Curly, who still seemed reluctant. Charlie placed a hand on his shoulder too, indicating it was time to go.

But Curly, lips tight and eyes glistening, slowly stepped toward Billy Boy. He gently stroked the horse’s muzzle, whispered something only the animal could hear, then reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a small square of chocolate wrapped in brown paper.

He approached Tommy, offering it without a word. Tommy took it gently. Their eyes met for a moment, heavy with understanding.

Curly turned away with difficulty, and with Charlie, left the stable. The outside world was now shut out, leaving only Tommy, Billy Boy… and silence.

A silence filled with stories, with memories, with endings.

Tommy continued stroking Billy Boy’s neck, his fingers moving slowly, as if trying to stretch this suspended moment. He leaned toward him, brought his lips close to the animal’s ear, and whispered softly, almost tenderly:

— It’s over now, old boy. It’s over…

His voice was barely a breath, carried by the creaking wood of the stable and the horse’s uneven breathing. Tommy stepped in front of him, wanting Billy Boy to see him, to feel his presence. He slowly raised his hands, palms open, and murmured again, seeing the horse flinch faintly:

— It’s alright, it’s me… no one else, just me…

Billy Boy’s gaze was cloudy, tired, but Tommy still saw a flicker in it,a faint spark of clarity, of trust. He stood there a moment, motionless, one hand resting on the horse’s face, listening to his labored breath. It was uneven, thick, almost painful.

After a long silence, Tommy slowly stood upright, stepped back a few paces, and exited the stall. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out his pack of cigarettes, placed one between his lips, lit it with a mechanical, absent motion, and took a long drag, his eyes lost somewhere in the shadows of the building.

He stood there for a moment, leaning against the stall door, gazing at Billy Boy. Then he spoke this time out loud, as if to an old friend.

— I could sell you… yeah. Leave you in a field, let you die out there in the rain, on some patch of wet grass... But that wouldn’t be right. That would be letting you die alone…

His voice cracked slightly at the end. He took another drag, let the smoke escape slowly, then reached into his pocket, the one Curly had brushed against a few minutes earlier. He pulled out the small square of chocolate, still wrapped in its crumpled foil. Tommy stared at it for a moment, then carefully unfolded it. He extended his hand toward Billy Boy, who slowly raised his head, nostrils trembling.

— Here, eat, my boy…

The horse took an eternity to react. He hesitated, fumbling awkwardly for the treat with his lips. He seemed almost disoriented, lost. But after a few long seconds, he finally found Tommy’s hand and gently closed his lips around the piece of chocolate.

Tommy watched in silence, his gaze heavy, filled with memory. It had become a kind of ritual, a tradition, almost a final honour. Charlie had taught them that. Horses should never eat chocolate, everyone knew that. It was poison to them. But Charlie always used to say:

“You can’t deny a dying creature anything. And horses… they deserve a little taste of something good before they go.”

Tommy remembered those words. They came back like a simple prayer, a little crooked but full of humanity. He could still see Charlie, back then, crouched in the straw, offering a square to an old mare, her eyes dim, her back bent. He’d said it calmly, staring into space. And now it was Tommy’s turn to honour that philosophy.

Billy Boy chewed slowly, as if truly savouring what would be his last pleasure.

Tommy flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his boot. He knew what he had to do. But he stayed there a moment longer, in that trembling silence, as if trying to find the strength to say goodbye.

It wasn’t the first time Tommy had put down a horse. It wouldn’t be the last, either. He was certain of that. Life, the real one, the one that chews flesh and grinds hearts didn’t care much for sentiment. But every time, he did it with a heavy heart. Like a painful but necessary rite. There was never any anger, never detachment, just a deep silence inside and a sadness that settled a little deeper into his bones.

Since he was a kid, horses had held a special place. When he wouldn’t go home, when he couldn’t bear Polly’s shouting, or seeing his mother in a fit, or the squabbles of his brothers and sisters, he’d take refuge in Charlie’s stables. There, it was calm. The smell of hay, animal sweat, leather. There, it was peace.

In the Shelby family, horses weren’t just livestock. They were pride. The beginning. The beating heart of the empire they’d built. Before the hidden guns, the underhanded deals, the factories, the properties… there were the horses. The thoroughbreds. The stallions. Hooves pounding the mud. The thrill of a race won. Gold falling from pockets. And respect, finally. People feared the Shelby name because it meant victory because they could break horses like no one else, and because their roots had given them that gift.

Horses and gypsies lived together. It was an old oath, a living memory. A shared pulse. Horses were freedom. Tradition. The sacred fire of a family.

Tommy remembered Charlie in his youth, leaning toward the muzzle of a wounded horse, whispering words in Romani. Words he murmured with a near-religious intensity. He spoke to them like one speaks to a man, a brother, a comrade. As a teenager, Tommy had watched, imitated, absorbed that way of doing things. He’d taken Charlie’s gift like someone inherits a blood secret.

But the war... the war had changed everything.

Over there, in France, the horses fell like the men. Torn by shrapnel, abandoned in the trenches, their eyes frozen into blood-soaked earth. They died alone, in the mud, sides pierced, legs trembling. Just like the men. Just like his comrades. Their cries had merged. The whinnies of wounded beasts, the gasps of dying soldiers. Unforgettable sounds for the one who’d heard them. Who carried them into even his calmest dreams, into the deepest of his silences.

He had never truly come back from there. And he knew that by putting down this horse tonight, he wouldn’t just be ending the suffering of an animal. He’d be honouring a memory. A legacy. Closing another door he’d never reopen.

And that’s what hurt the most for Tommy. It wasn’t just the end of a life, it wasn’t just pity. It was a chapter being closed, a page being torn out. Billy Boy meant something else. He carried within him the memory of another time, a younger Tommy, more alive, more instinctive. He belonged to an era when the war was still fresh in their veins, but the future seemed to lie ahead, somewhere between a horse race and a stolen kiss in the grey alleys of Small Heath.

By pulling the trigger, Tommy felt like he’d be shooting a little part of himself, too. A small death, one more. One that would silently pile on top of all the others.

Billy Boy, that dark-coated horse with deep eyes, had known that version of Tommy. The one who still let himself be surprised. The one who smiled, sometimes, for real. The one who, after winning a race, would come to the stables to praise him, a carrot in hand and pride in his voice. The one who’d spent hours here with Amara, wrapped in the smell of hay, leather, and dust.

He’d seen her. Amara. He’d seen her laugh, gently stroke the horse, speak to him with that hesitant voice she had when things were still new. Tommy remembered the exact moment she dared to approach his mouth. She was afraid he’d bite. He’d smiled, shown her how: hold out a flat hand, place the piece of bread on top, let him come. Billy Boy had taken it, gently, just with the tip of his lips. Never touching her fingers. Amara had laughed. A true laugh. Clear, sincere, simple. The kind of laugh that sticks to a stable wall like an old smear of paint on a door.

Now Billy Boy was going to go. He would fade away. And all of that would vanish with him. The laughter, the bread, the whispers. The looks they exchanged between brushstrokes on the horse’s flanks. The silences they shared. The whinny the horse gave when she approached. All of it would disappear. There would be nothing left but memory. An absence. That of the stallion... that of Amara.

And the worst part was, he was going to leave this world seeing what Tommy had become. A ghost. A shadow of a man. Not just an absent husband clinging to his whisky and his secrets. Not just a father unsure if he even wanted to be one. A businessman, a warlord, a manipulator, a survivor. Someone who lived with a full head and an empty heart.

Tommy looked down, the cigarette almost burnt down between his fingers. He thought of Amara. She was only supposed to stay a few days in London. That’s what Polly had said, what Isaiah had confirmed. Just a few days. It had been seven. A full week.

He was counting them. Each day. Each hour. He didn’t know why. Even if she came back to Birmingham, he wouldn’t go see her. He was almost certain of it. But still, he kept count. Like one counts the beats of a heart they thought they’d forgotten.

Tommy sighed. A long, heavy breath that left his lips like a confession. There was no room left for hesitation, no reason to wait. The time had come. He knew it. He felt it in his bones, in his chest, in that familiar weight that settled in every time he had to make an irreversible decision.

Slowly, he slipped his hand beneath his coat, to the left side of his ribcage, where a dark leather holster, worn with age, was strapped tight, a shoulder rig made to conceal his revolver beneath his tailored suits. A military model. He’d had it since the war. Never replaced it. As if changing that tool would have betrayed everything he still carried inside.

With his fingertips, he gripped the wooden handle of his old Webley Mk VI and slid the barrel out of its sheath. The weapon was cold, perfectly balanced in his hand. It was part of him, an extension of his arm. He’d held it in the trenches, in the streets of Small Heath, in the offices of his enemies, and now here. In front of Billy Boy.

He unlocked the cylinder, flipped the revolver back. The bullets dropped to the ground one by one, hitting the earth and damp straw with a dull metallic clink. Five bullets, ejected without hesitation. He chose two and reloaded them into the chamber, snapping it shut with a sharp flick. One bullet would be enough for Billy Boy. The second remained for what, exactly? He didn’t know. Or he refused to admit it.

It was just there. That was all.

He stood still for a moment, the gun in his hand, his gaze resting on the horse.

Billy Boy was still on his feet, his eyes glazed over, his sides rising and falling with slow, uneven, exhausted breaths. He was already far away somewhere between life and forgetting.

Tommy stepped in front of him again. Billy Boy still looked at him, or at least what was left of him, his strength, his presence. Tommy took a deep breath, his throat tight, and then murmured, like a funeral prayer:

— In the bleak midwinter…

And he pulled the trigger.

The sound cracked through the stable like a guillotine. Short, violent, brutal. Blood splattered his cheek, warm against his cold skin. The massive body of the horse collapsed with a dull, heavy, final thud.

Tommy closed his eyes. The revolver still in his hand. He raised it slowly, without haste, and pressed the cold barrel against his temple.

His heart beat faster. As if to remind him he was still alive. As if to resist.

A single tear rolled down his cheek. Just one. Silent. Heavy. Real. He let it fall. It slid slowly along his skin, reached his jaw, then dropped, shattering on the cold ground. Where hundreds of hooves had once pounded the earth. Where Billy Boy now lay.

He slowly lowered the gun. His arm fell back to his side. He had no strength left. No words.

He didn’t pick up the bullets. Didn’t look at the horse. He didn’t have the strength. He didn’t have the words. No more energy to carry one more grief.

He slipped the revolver back into his shoulder holster, pulled up the collar of his coat, turned around, and walked across the stable.

Outside, the wind had picked up.

Grace would be waiting.

Chapter Text

London, May 1st, 1922

Amara stood still on the damp pavement, facing the narrow front of the Black Horse, a pub whose discreet appearance contrasted with the bustle of the nearby Red Lion Street. There was something familiar about the place, something that reminded her of Birmingham, of the Garrison though without its violence or shine. The Black Horse seemed to belong to a bygone era, or at least wished to pass itself off as its heir: dark wood, a hand-painted sign, golden letters faded by rain and time. No flashy window display, no garish lights. Just two swinging oak doors, and above them, a nearly vanished image of a rearing horse, painted against a midnight-blue background.

She stood for a while, observing the place, undecided. Her heart was beating faster than usual, like before an uncertain meeting. Nothing was forcing her to go in. She could still turn around, pretend she’d gotten lost, or better yet: let herself wander aimlessly through London, until she lost track of time, until Ada’s suspicions dissolved.

Because Amara was never supposed to be here.

She wouldn’t be here at all, in fact, if Ada hadn’t seen that damned piece of paper. A crumpled little sheet, corners slightly torn, on which the barber had scribbled in pencil the name of a bar, a street, and a time. Black Horse – Red Lion Street – 7:00 PM.

She had slipped the paper into the pocket of her coat, too embarrassed to say anything, while Karl, freshly groomed, was demanding a treat for his patience. She gave in, of course, and the two of them had stopped by a nearby patisserie where she bought him a little strawberry tartlet. Back home, she’d draped her coat over the back of a chair, and the note had slipped almost silently from her pocket onto the Oriental-patterned rug.

She only noticed it when she sat on the sofa a few minutes later, still lost in thought, her gaze blank as she looked out the window onto the street. And that’s when Ada had entered.

She walked in without warning, calm but assured. Her heels clicked softly against the wood floor, and before Amara could react, she bent down and picked up the small scrap of paper. She read it out loud, as if speaking more to herself than to the woman sitting before her.

— Black Horse… Red Lion Street… seven o’clock, she murmured, her tone neutral, but her eyes sparkling.

Then, slowly, she sank onto the velvet sofa beside Amara, crossing her legs with that natural confidence she always had. She didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t ask questions. She simply threw her a sideways glance, one of those looks full of unspoken thoughts, with a faint smile the one she wore when she sensed something unsaid.

And Amara knew immediately. That smile, that posture… she knew them well. It was Ada the curious. Ada the observer. The one who was never satisfied with silence. The one who wanted to understand. Everything.

Ada remained quiet for a few seconds, her pale eyes drifting back to the slip of paper between her fingers. Then, with that lightness tinged with intuition she had mastered so well, she said:

— I’m pretty sure this paper isn’t mine… So, is it a date?

Amara looked away, embarrassed. She gently bit her lower lip. That piece of paper… she had tried not to think about it, to leave it buried in her pocket like a meaningless note. She sighed softly, still rattled by how Ada had read it aloud as if that had suddenly made it more real, more official.

— It’s not a date, she replied, without much conviction.

Ada didn’t let her finish, an amused smile playing on her lips.

— Forgive me, Amara, but it certainly looks like one.

She stifled a laugh, teasing. Amara let out a heavier sigh, as if trying to shake off her discomfort. She finally admitted:

— It’s the barber…

She paused briefly, choosing her words carefully. Then, in a near-distracted whisper, she continued:

— While he was cutting Karl’s hair, we chatted a bit. Nothing deep, just a few words.

— And he invited you to a pub, Ada pointed out, still with that half-smile.

Amara shook her head, her afro curls dancing around her face.

— No, she said, not like that. When I went to pay, I saw his account book open on the counter. And I told him without thinking that he kept his records… let’s say, chaotically. He was surprised to learn I’m an accountant.

She paused again, absentmindedly playing with a seam on her dress, then added:

— He just wants a little help with his bookkeeping.

Ada looked at her, incredulous, and let out a quiet laugh.

— Let me tell you something, Amara… That barber’s not bad at all. He’s got style, a certain elegance. And trust me, it’s rare for a man to invite a woman to a bar just to talk… about numbers.

Amara frowned slightly, confused, uncertain. She still hadn’t decided whether this invitation hinted at something more. She stayed silent for a moment before responding in a slightly firmer tone:

— It’s just hospitality, Ada.

Ada chuckled softly but didn’t argue. She folded the paper and placed it on the table in front of her, then looked up at Amara with a gentler, more serious expression.

— Are you going to go?

Amara looked at her for a long moment. She thought of that polite man, his precise movements, the almost shy way he’d handed her the note without insisting. And she thought of Tommy. She couldn’t. She finally said:

— I don’t think so.

Ada sighed, this time without teasing or irony. Her gaze shifted, becoming more compassionate, almost sad. She tilted her head slightly and said gently:

— It’s because of Tommy, isn’t it?

Amara lowered her head. She said nothing. The silence was heavy enough for Ada to know she was right. And she didn’t push her.

She leaned in a little, placed a brief hand on Amara’s knee.

— You should go, she said simply. It’s just a meeting. And if, like you said, it’s only about bookkeeping… then you might as well enjoy yourself. I know how much you love numbers.

Amara gave a faint smile, closer to a grimace. She shrugged, uncertain.

— Maybe.

A silence settled. In the next room, Karl giggled softly as he played. Outside, London kept moving, indifferent. And on the table between them, the paper still waited for a decision.

Amara sighed, deeply, as if trying to expel the doubt lingering inside her. One hand in the pocket of her coat, she was still standing in front of the pub, motionless, frozen in the same old hesitation. The building blended into the street, but held a quiet uniqueness. The dark blue paint of the façade had lost its shine, worn down by the years and London smoke. On the window, a faded black-painted drawing of the rearing horse surely an homage to the pub’s name. Its shaky outline on the worn glass had a ghostlike quality.

It was that detail, that horse, that held Amara’s gaze more than anything else. It seemed strangely familiar. The dark coat, the proud, taut stance, that untouchable nobility in its bearing… It looked like Billy Boy. This wasn’t just a coincidence. It was too specific. Too intimate.

And that detail, insignificant to anyone else, twisted her insides.

A horse. Another horse. As if it were following her.

Her restless mind began pulling invisible threads between the present and the past. She saw herself again in Birmingham, in the stables, her hand resting on Billy Boy’s warm flank, Tommy’s laughter behind her, sunlight filtering through the loose planks of the roof. She remembered their walks, their whispered secrets between two neighs, the brushes she passed over the horse’s coat with a nurse’s care, a believer’s reverence. That horse had been an anchor. A witness. A silent reflection of what she and Tommy had been before everything fell apart.

So this horse here, on the weathered pub sign, in a foreign city... Was it a coincidence? Or a message?

She suddenly felt watched, judged. As if God or perhaps her own conscience had caught up with her. The rearing horse, caught mid-lift, almost seemed to say You haven’t finished what you ran away from. Was it a warning? A blessing? A sign to turn back or to keep going?

A wave of guilt washed over her, familiar and dull. Tommy was probably at Arrow House by now, with Grace, in that vast and freezing home, with the woman he had married. Perhaps they were seated at the table, discussing politics or their future child, perhaps he was smiling. And yet, Amara felt almost... unfaithful. Unfaithful to a story that was already over, unfaithful to a loyalty he himself had trampled. Even though she knew she was no longer bound to him, that she had been the first to be betrayed, it wasn’t that simple. Feelings didn’t dissolve under the weight of logic.

She lowered her eyes, embarrassed, as if the horse on the glass was judging her. As if it was reminding her why she had fled Birmingham. But could you ever really escape something you had loved so deeply? Could you escape something you love that much?

Amara sighed. She hesitated. Again.

And in that quiet inner struggle, a familiar voice crept in like an old, comforting tune: her mother’s voice. She could hear it clearly, as if she were right behind her.

"Being on time is already being late."

Her mother used to repeat that every Sunday morning, when she led Amara and her siblings to church, rosary in hand, her face always marked by a soft firmness. Amara was going to be late. But that wasn’t the only maxim her mother had instilled in her. Another came to mind, the usual one, softer, deeper:

"I raised good Christians."

And there, on a quiet street in London, in front of a nearly empty pub, Amara felt the weight of that upbringing. A part of her wanted to run, to leave, to let the barber wait in vain. But the other part—the deeper one, the one rooted in her values knew she couldn’t do that. Not out of romance, nor attachment, but out of duty. Maybe he was just a man in need, a shopkeeper uneasy with numbers, a barber who had scribbled an address and time on a piece of paper simply because he believed in her help.

And helping... helping was a virtue. Almost an obligation she had always taken to heart. With Jeremiah and her nephews, with John, with Ada… with Tommy.

"Love thy neighbor."

That’s what her mother used to say. That’s what the Church said. And that’s what Amara had always tried to do, despite the pain, despite the betrayals.

So, lifting her eyes to the rearing horse, she took a deep breath. She realized she hadn’t come for a date. Or for an adventure. She had come because someone had asked for help. Because somewhere, between a haircut and a passing conversation, a man had believed she could help. And because she refused to become the kind of woman who turned her back on those in need even when she was afraid.

Her fingers pushed the pub’s swinging doors.

And she stepped inside.

Amara crossed the threshold, and instantly, the familiar smell of polished wood, mingled with alcohol and tobacco, tickled her nose. The pub’s interior, though modest, had a certain warmth—more refined than she had prepared herself for. Nothing like the Garrison: dark, rough, often stifled by the smell of sweat, stale beer, and tension. Here, the walls were covered in a garnet-colored satin wallpaper, punctuated with gilded frames depicting hunting scenes or pastoral landscapes. A few hanging lamps diffused a warm amber light, soft and subdued, giving the place a discreet but curated charm.

The bar’s wood was varnished and well-kept, gleaming under the dim lights, and the bottle-green leather booths framed round mahogany tables. The pub was calm, filled with low conversation, the faint crackle of old jazz on a record player, and the subtle clink of glasses being set down.

Amara had expected a place frequented by workers, men with worn faces, calloused hands, in overalls or rolled-up sleeves. But she had been wrong. The patrons here had nothing in common with the regulars of the Garrison. Nor were they the sharply dressed bourgeois Ada had introduced her to in an upscale bar a few nights earlier. No, the people here occupied that hard-to-define social in-between. Too elegant to be laborers, not refined enough for the upper class. The men wore well-cut but slightly worn jackets, starched shirts without ties; the women wore simple dresses, sometimes cinched at the waist with a discreet brooch or a velvet belt. There was a kind of restraint in their demeanor, a modest but proud decency.

Amara froze for a moment, scanning the room for the barber. But before she could spot him, her attention was caught by a couple sitting in the far-left booth. A man of a certain age, with a slightly protruding belly, his arm around a woman elegant but severe, her hair carefully styled. They were staring at her. Their expressions were far from welcoming. A barely concealed look of disgust spread across their faces. The man whispered something in the woman’s ear, and she immediately let out a sharp, clipped laugh.

And then, the gesture. Subtle, but impossible to ignore.

The woman lifted her hand and twirled it above her own head in a mocking spiral. It was obvious. She was mimicking Amara’s afro. That crown of curls Amara wore proudly, like her mother, like her sisters. A hairstyle that took care, patience, tenderness. A hairstyle that meant something. A hairstyle that, in that moment, became the focal point of all silent humiliations.

Amara felt her stomach knot. She stood still, unable to look away. Their eyes were full of that old, muffled hatred, polished, well-dressed hatred you don’t name, but feel everywhere. In Birmingham, things had been different. There, she walked in the shadow of the Peaky Blinders. People might whisper, judge her with their eyes, but no one dared mock her openly. Because she was protected. Because she belonged without ever fully choosing it to a family that inspired fear.

Here, she was just a stranger. A Black woman in a respectable neighborhood. A presence disturbing the fragile racial harmony of such coded places. In that couple’s eyes, she wasn’t an accountant, or Ada Shelby’s friend, or the daughter of a devout and dignified mother. She was just a poor Black girl who didn’t belong.

She felt the familiar burn rise in her throat that blend of anger, humiliation, injustice. Her hands clenched around the strap of her bag. She could’ve walked out. She still had that option. Leave, deny them her presence. Refuse to be someone for them to scorn. But she didn’t have time.

Amara felt a light touch on her arm, a discreet brush but present enough to pull her out of her thoughts. She turned her gaze from the still-seated couple and met the barber’s eyes. He stood in front of her, slightly awkward, a timid smile lingering on his lips. He had none of that arrogant air or overconfidence. He carried that polite restraint, that kind of nervousness belonging to men who are more used to working with their hands than speaking with words.

— I'm sorry, I saw you standing there… he said in a low, almost gentle voice. And I wasn’t sure if you’d seen me.

Amara nodded, a simple gesture of acknowledgment. She didn’t speak right away, still slightly unsettled, her mind tangled in the invisible threads left behind by the couple’s mocking stares. Her gaze, like pulled by some invisible magnet, drifted briefly back to them. They were still laughing, discreetly, but enough to be noticed. The kind of laugh that doesn’t need to be loud to be cruel.

The hairdresser instinctively followed her line of sight. His eyes landed on the couple, and his expression shifted. A line appeared between his brows and he sighed, visibly pained. He didn’t need to ask. He had understood.

— I’m fine, thank you… Amara finally replied, her voice calm but a bit dull.

Then, to change the subject and move away from the discomfort wrapping around her, she asked in a more neutral tone:

—  Where did you set up?

The hairdresser looked relieved to have her attention back and nodded, smiling again, more genuinely this time.

— Follow me, he said simply.

He guided her through the room, weaving around tables, leading her toward a quiet recess of the pub, tucked away from the rest of the space. The corner looked out onto a small window opening onto a narrow alley, still damp from the afternoon showers. The place was calm, sheltered from both eyes and noise. A small round table, flanked by two leather booths identical to the others in the pub, was waiting for them.

Amara sat down carefully. The cold leather creaked slightly beneath her weight. The hairdresser sat opposite her in a smooth motion.

On the table, lying flat, was the same notebook Amara had glimpsed a few days earlier in his salon. Its worn leather, dog-eared corners, and slightly warped pages revealed years of clumsy use. It looked almost fragile lying there, like a silent plea. It was open, abandoned between two pages filled with rough numbers, half-erased calculations, and uncertain totals, scribbled in nervous handwriting.

The man chuckled lightly when he noticed Amara’s serious gaze fixed on the notebook.

— I tried going over the numbers again, he said with a sheepish look, but… I still don’t get any of it.

Amara smiled slightly. She felt the tension in the air begin to fade, even the oppressive presence of the couple in the corner seemed to dissolve from her mind. She replied with a soft laugh:

— Numbers are always complicated when there’s no proper system.

Her eyes turned to the notebook, skimming the scribbled pages.

The man laughed again, this time with more ease, like he had expected her to say that.

— You can say it straight… I know I’m completely disorganized.

Amara looked at him, amused, then gestured toward the notebook.

— May I?

He nodded without hesitation and slid the notebook toward her. Amara opened it wider and let her eyes scan the pages. The dates were scattered in corners—sometimes incomplete, sometimes out of order. There were black ink scribbles, numbers circled two or three times, others crossed out and rewritten beside them. Some client names were barely legible, and there were clear miscalculations totals that overlooked certain charges, or added up to impossible sums.

While she studied the page, the man spoke softly again:

— Can I get you something to drink?

Amara looked up slightly, hesitant.

— I’m not thirsty, she answered politely. 

She didn’t want him spending money on her. Not in this bar, not tonight.

But he insisted, his smile kind.

— I insist. You don’t drink alcohol? 

She shook her head gently.

— Not really

He nodded, unfazed.

— Then maybe a juice? 

Amara hesitated. She was about to say “orange juice,” out of habit. That’s what she always ordered. With Ada, during their girls' nights out. And before that, at the Garrison, when Tommy would pour her a glass without asking. The memory hit her like a blow to the chest. That familiar pressure of guilt tightened in her stomach. She lowered her eyes, trying to silence that inner voice whispering she didn’t belong here.

— Apple juice, she finally murmured.

The man nodded simply, respectfully, and got up to head to the bar. She watched him walk away, his dark coat fitting neatly around his shoulders, then returned to the notebook’s pages. The guilt was still there, more faint now, but present. Still, she kept her eyes on the numbers. That, at least, she could manage.

When he came back, she barely looked up. He placed a glass of apple juice in front of her, then sat down with a beer in hand.

— You’re already deep into it, he said with a small, admiring smile.

Amara nodded, brushing her fingers along the cold rim of the glass. She then turned the notebook toward him, pointing with her finger.

— You need to change how you record things, she said calmly, as if she were back in a tidy office. Otherwise, you’ll always be lost.

He nodded, fully attentive.

— Write down each day in a clearly separated section, with the date right at the top. Then, under each day, make a simple table with three columns: the client’s first name, the type of haircut, and the amount paid. Once the haircut is done, write it all down immediately, while it’s still fresh in your mind.

She turned to a blank page and began sketching out what she was describing, her movements precise and methodical. The man leaned in slightly, watching closely.

— At the end of the day, you just add up the amounts in the last column. And there’s your daily total. No scribbles, no lost numbers.

He listened with genuine interest, as if she were revealing something valuable. It wasn’t just numbers to him; it was about managing a dream, a craft he loved but which slipped through his fingers the moment math got involved.

— That’s much clearer, he said with a relieved expression. Thank you… really.

Amara shrugged slightly, a small smile on her lips.

He looked at her for a moment, as if he was about to say something more personal, but thought better of it. Instead, he took a sip of his beer.

The man hesitated for a second, fidgeting with the collar of his jacket, before murmuring:

— I’m sorry… I must really seem stupid. What you explained it’s perfectly logical.

Amara was about to respond, to tell him it was nothing, that she’d seen far worse disorganization from people with more experience. But he didn’t give her the chance.

— It used to be my father who handled the accounts, he added in a quiet breath, almost like a confession he hadn’t intended to make.

Amara looked up at him, her gaze softening, becoming more solemn. She knew that silence, the one that followed loss. She still bore its scars, and they resurfaced with this kind of unexpected confession.

She suddenly remembered the name on the front of the shop, the lettering slightly faded with time: “W. Fletcher & Son – Gentlemen’s Barber.” She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, hadn’t considered the paradox of him being alone in the shop. The memory of the name now took on a new meaning.

— My deepest condolences, she said, her voice calm and sincere. Were you partners?

She had picked up the notebook again with a fluid gesture, her fingers already reshaping the numbers into structure. By habit, she estimated the monthly income, projected trends, looked for slow periods. He hadn’t asked, but it had become second nature. She did the same at Shelby & Co., sometimes without even thinking.

The man, William, smiled, a little sadly, tinged with tenderness.

— He taught me everything, he replied. When we lived in Manchester. He had a small shop there modest, but well known in our neighborhood. I was the one who suggested moving to London. I was young, dreaming big. London was like America to me. The land of opportunity.

He gave a small laugh, without joy, lowering his eyes to his beer.

— I wasn’t wrong. We had customers from the start. But… he fell ill not long after. And a few months later, he was… gone.

His voice had dropped lower. A respectful silence followed quiet, but not heavy.

Then he suddenly looked up, as if realizing he’d shared too much, too soon.

— I’m sorry… I’m here telling you all this, and you’re sitting there focused on my books, and I haven’t even asked your name.

Amara slowly lifted her eyes from the notebook. A small smile touched her lips, like a soft sigh of relief.

— I don’t mind. It was interesting… she said, gently closing the book a little. Amara.

He smiled warmly, with disarming sincerity, and reached a hand across the table.

— William.

She hesitated for the briefest moment, then extended her hand too. Her palm met his, and their fingers closed in a shy, almost solemn handshake.

In another context, in another life, this meeting could have been just a formality. But here, in a quiet nook of a London pub, between a glass of apple juice and a badly kept account book, there was something else. Maybe not quite friendship. But the fragile ground on which something could grow.

William let go of Amara’s hand with a hint of nervousness, as though worried he’d held it too long. He grabbed his beer, took a sip, and set it back down, absentmindedly tracing the foam with a fingertip.

— Amara… he said, tasting the name. It’s lovely. Not very common around here.

She just nodded. She had heard that remark dozens of times in Birmingham, now in London, at work, in the streets. It was no surprise. She knew her name carried a strangeness for others, a musicality that didn’t quite fit in their world. A name her mother had chosen for its beauty and meaning, but one that, here, sometimes felt like a mistake on a form.

— It means “grace,” she finally said, meeting his gaze. In Igbo.

William smiled, genuinely this time.

— Then it’s a beautiful name.

Amara gave a faint smile. She wondered briefly whether that was his way of giving a compliment or if he was just… like that. Kind. A little shy. Maybe awkward. He had something slightly old-fashioned about him, almost boyish in his way of speaking so different from the men she’d known, from Birmingham, from the Shelby family. With them, everything was control, tension, power. With him… there were only clumsy silences and polite attempts.

— And you? she asked, without much thought. William was it your father who gave you his name, or…

— No, he was Walter. He thought William sounded more refined. “William Fletcherit sounds like a doctor or a lawyer,” he used to say, laughing.

She gave a slight smile. She could picture the scene father teasing son in a small Manchester shop, the radio crackling in the background, men reading newspapers while having their beards trimmed.

Amara sat up a bit straighter and reopened the notebook.

— Do you have a lot of regular clients?

— Oh yes, the regulars. Some have been coming since we opened. Others, young locals, or older gents who just want to chat. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing more therapy than haircuts.

She smiled, noting the number she had just corrected in the margin. A haircut charged twice on the same day, a duplicated entry. Common, but revealing of a lack of system.

— You could be doing much better financially if you set up what I mentioned. Separate the days, note the names, the exact prices, and total it up at the end. You’ll also get a sense of your slow periods.

— You’re really good at this, he said, watching her intently. Where do you work?

She paused. A hesitation.

Should she say Shelby & Company?

The name carried weight. Power. Fear, especially here, even in London. But also… history. Her history. With Tommy.

Tommy.

Her heart beat a little faster just thinking his name. The ghost of his voice, his gaze, returned each time she spoke of numbers, of work, of systems. He was imprinted in every ledger column, every detail she analyzed. He had been her boss. Her lover. Her vision of a future life. And she still didn’t know what he was now.

— In Birmingham, I worked in accounting. For a family business… she said finally, skimming over the details.

William seemed to respect the unspoken. He nodded with a faint smile, and she felt he wouldn’t push. He wasn’t like Ada he wasn’t nosy. And somehow, that was… a relief.

Amara looked at her apple juice. She hadn’t touched it. She didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t the taste that put her off, it was the memory. The memory of another man, in another pub, in another time.

Tommy would have ordered her an orange juice without her needing to ask. He knew her habits. He knew everything about her…

She tried to push the thought away. Firmly. Almost violently.

William spoke again, gently:

— You know, you impress me. I’ve never been very… numbers. My dad was, though. He kept everything in little notebooks, neatly organized, with legends and all. He used to say that running a shop was like captaining a ship. If you can’t read the maps, you sink.

Amara nodded. She would’ve liked to meet that Walter Fletcher. He seemed familiar to her, in his methods, in his quiet discipline. Like another father, another upright man.

— He was right.

They exchanged a look. A silence. Not a heavy one. One of those that mean you understand each other.

And in that suspended moment, Amara felt something shift inside her. Something very small. Tiny. But real.

She hadn’t come for him. Not really. But she was staying.

And that, already, was a lot.

William absentmindedly turned his glass between his fingers. The silence between them didn’t seem to bother him as much as one might have thought. He looked… comfortable in the hesitation, as if he’d learned not to always fill the blanks. Amara, for her part, had known much heavier silences those of an office where every mistake was costly, those of tense conversations with Tommy, where the unsaid spoke louder than words.

— Did you like your job, back there? William asked softly, without pressing.

Amara blinked. That wasn’t a question people usually asked her. Not “what did you do,” not “where,” not “with whom”… but did you like it?

She slowly put down her pencil, she’d started writing again in the margin without realizing and crossed her arms.

— Yes, I think so, she murmured. I like organized things. I like when numbers line up. When columns mirror each other perfectly. It’s… reassuring.

William smiled, tilting his head slightly.

— And the people you worked with? Did they treat you well?

The question was sincere. Maybe too sincere. Amara felt her stomach tighten. How could she answer that?

Tommy Shelby had looked at her like an equal. He had listened to her. He had believed her. He had put her numbers into action. He had loved her, too…

— It’s complicated, she finally said, evasively.

William didn’t ask anything else. He just nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. He wasn’t the kind to pry. And she appreciated that more than she cared to admit.

— Have you been here long? In London? she asked in turn.

He looked up at the ceiling, as if counting.

— Three years now. Since my father died, actually. I hadn’t planned on staying. But… I figured I couldn’t just abandon the shop. Not after everything he built.

William took another sip of his beer, then added more quietly:

— There are days when I wonder if it was a mistake. Running this kind of business here… it’s not like in Manchester. Rent’s expensive. Customers are unpredictable. Some weeks I cut hair nonstop, and then there are days with no one. And… there’s the people.

Amara turned to him, intrigued.

— The people?

He hesitated, lowered his eyes slightly.

— I mean… what I saw happen to you when you came in. That couple…

She tensed a little.

He continued quickly, as if afraid he’d offended her.

— I’m sorry. It’s not my place to… It’s just that… I’ve seen it, too. Not against me. But against others. 

Amara felt a strange warmth rise in her. Not anger. Not shame. But… a kind of recognition. Of having been seen. Not just looked at. Seen.

She lowered her eyes to the notebook. Her voice, when she spoke, was soft.

— Thank you.

He smiled, this time without awkwardness. A simple smile. Honest.

— It’s only right. No one should feel like a stranger.

Amara nodded gently. But she was, she thought. A stranger to this city. A stranger to her own life, sometimes.

She looked at her glass of apple juice, still nearly full, and finally took a sip. The taste was sweet, gentle. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing memorable. But strangely, it wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t painful.

Not like orange juice.

She set the glass down. William was still watching her, but not insistently. He just seemed happy that she was there.

And in that moment, Amara no longer knew why she had hesitated so much to come. Maybe because she’d been afraid it would be more than a professional meeting. Maybe because she was afraid it wouldn’t be at all.

William was still staring at the notebook between them, as if the numbers written on it were both a puzzle and a treasure map. He stayed silent a moment, then looked back at her, a little hesitant.

— Do you think… you could help me tidy all this up? I mean, properly. Maybe… go over the last couple of months? I’ll pay you, of course.

Amara froze for a second, her eyes fixed on the notebook, but her mind drifting. She hadn’t expected the question. She hadn’t thought about what it would mean. She wasn’t here for that. She wasn’t supposed to stay.

— I… she started, a bit too quickly.

She took a breath, searched for her words.

— I’m only here for a few days.

She’d looked up as she spoke, and she saw, on William’s face, a shadow. Tiny. Almost imperceptible. It wasn’t real disappointment. Not harsh, not offended. It was softer, like an expectation shrinking back into itself.

He nodded slowly, accepting her answer without protest. But that slight shift in his features, that tiny tightening at the corner of his lips, unsettled Amara.

— You could… stop by the shop before you go. Or even before that, if you’d like. Just for a visit.

He said it simply, like one might suggest stopping by for tea. No pressure. But something in the tone of his voice in that “if you’d like” held more than what he said aloud.

Amara didn’t answer right away. She looked at her glass, her fingers slowly tracing the edge of the notebook. Silence settled again, but this time it was neither awkward nor heavy. It was… suspended.

She finally lifted her eyes to him and replied simply, in a voice almost whispered:

— All right.

She didn’t yet know if she would follow through. If she’d have the courage to come back. But in that precise moment, she felt that all right was enough.

William smiled, a little surprised, and she saw him straighten his shoulders slightly, as if relieved.

The notebook remained closed on the table. For now, there was nothing to solve. Just this quiet, unexpected moment between two strangers who no longer quite were.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, May 5th, 1922

Tommy stood in his office at Arrow House, motionless, like a portrait frozen in shadow. Night had long since fallen, and the silent house seemed to be holding its breath. The wind howled in gusts against the thick windows, carrying with it solitude, cold, and a tension that almost seemed to hum between the walls.

The light of a single desk lamp bathed the room in a warm, golden glow, casting angular shadows across the paneled walls. The fire in the hearth crackled weakly, struggling to warm the air, which remained cold, as though even heat hesitated to approach Thomas Shelby tonight.

Before him, spread across the dark wood of the desk, lay a chaos of papers: contracts, letters, invoices, plans. And among them, nearly lost in the clutter, a half-full glass of whiskey. The alcohol hadn’t moved. Not a drop missing above the line of light from the lamp. Tommy hadn’t touched his glass or barely. This wasn’t a night for drinking. It was a night for trying to forget. And paradoxically, he knew that no amount of alcohol could offer him that luxury tonight.

So he had thrown himself into work.

More than usual.

He filled pages with ink, signed, wrote, reread, recalculated. He built walls of words around himself, hoping maybe the letters were stronger than his thoughts. Since the gunshot. The one he had fired without hesitation or almost. The one that ended Billy Boy’s life.

His horse.

A nervous, magnificent thoroughbred. Almost wild. A horse that, in many ways, resembled him. And perhaps that’s what had disturbed him most.

He couldn’t shake the feeling. That moment frozen in silence right after the shot. That dull emptiness. That pressure in his throat. And then... that tear.

He still couldn’t believe it.

He hadn’t cried in years. Not since his mother’s death. He had sworn that day he would never cry again. That he would never again let emotion take control. Not over him. Not over Thomas Shelby.

And yet, that night, he had returned to Arrow House, boots still soiled with the dirt from the stables, where a tear had slowly traced its path down his cheek. One tear. Just one. And it had crushed him. No rage. No breakdown. No just that silent, solitary tear, like a slap. Like a reminder that he wasn’t as invincible as he pretended to be.

He had known war. He had seen his men fall, guts spilled out in the mud and screams. He had watched his father leave without a word, waited with his brothers and sister as a child for months, only to understand he’d never return because he didn’t love them. He had buried friends, brothers-in-arms. He had slit men’s throats with his bare hands to survive, betrayed to protect his empire, stood up to politicians, gang leaders, even to God Himself, sometimes. But he had never cried.

Not for them. Not for himself.

And yet, for a horse... he had cried.

Why? He didn’t know. And maybe that’s what was driving him mad. Was it guilt? Emptiness? Fear of becoming something he could no longer control? Was it for Amara? For what she represented? For what she left unsaid?

He had believed himself strong. Cold. In control. But that tear, that one and only tear had melted the illusion like snow in the sun. It had shown him something he didn’t want to see.

The naked truth.

He deserved that bullet.

More than the horse.

He should have fallen, not Billy Boy. He should’ve taken the hit, the sentence. Because everything that was happening to him... everything happening around him, seemed to come back to him like a boomerang. A loop closing in.

Maybe the horse had only been a messenger.

An omen.

Tommy closed his eyes for a moment. He could still hear the echo of the gunshot in his head. He could see the body collapse, the dust, the blood. And in the distance, tucked away in the corner of his memory, Amara’s gaze. A gaze that didn’t need words to judge him.

He leaned over the desk and finally reached for the glass. The golden liquid trembled in his fingers. He brought it to his lips, but still didn’t drink. He set it back down.

The night wore on. The fire was dying. And Thomas Shelby, alone in the darkness of Arrow House, felt something settle within him that he didn’t recognize. Something ancient. Something deep.

Doubt.

Tommy didn’t have time to follow the misty thread of his thoughts any further. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, broken by muffled female voices, the echo of instructions exchanged in haste. The floor creaked slightly beneath the fast steps. There was agitation, unusual at this hour, in such a strictly run house.

Amid the restrained commotion, a voice rose. A voice he knew.

Seconds later, the door to his office swung open suddenly, with the tension of a contained storm.

Standing there was Frances.

Frances, the housekeeper of Arrow House, one of the rare figures allowed to disturb his solitude without consequence. An older woman, probably in her sixties, straight as a rod. Her ash-grey hair was pulled back tightly into a flawless bun, not a strand out of place. She wore, as always, her impeccable black uniform, with a perfectly pressed white apron, adorned with a modest high-necked jabot. Her stern face seemed carved from discipline, sharp cheekbones, cold but clear eyes, and a mouth often pinched by habitual austerity.

But tonight, there was something else in her posture.

She seemed rushed. No shaken.

Her gaze fell on Tommy, betraying a certain tension, not panic, no, Frances never panicked but an urgent restraint, compressed within the strict frame of her education. She stood tall, dignified, but he saw the slight tremble in her hand on the door handle.

— Mr. Shelby, she said in a clear, composed but firm voice, I’m sorry to interrupt your work… but Mrs. Shelby is going into labour.

Tommy felt his heart skip a beat.

Labour.

The word echoed in his skull, sharp and sudden. Cutting.

Grace. She was in labour. Now.

The world seemed to freeze for a few seconds. A heavy silence fell over the room, barely disturbed by the crackling fire and the rustling papers on his desk. His son… their son. He was coming.

It took him a few seconds to regain a thread of clarity, as if his body needed time to reconnect with his voice. He rose slowly, then said in a calm, almost icy tone as if maintaining control could contain the storm:

— Call the doctor, Frances.

The old woman nodded, already turning on her heel, but paused before leaving.

— Mrs. Shelby asked for you. Her water has broken, Mr. Shelby.

This time, her gaze lingered on him for a moment. In her pale eyes, there was something he wasn’t used to seeing: a kind of concern, veiled beneath professionalism, a hairline fracture in the fortress of the housekeeper.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she closed the door behind her, leaving Tommy alone for just one more moment.

But it wasn’t the same silence anymore.

It was the silence of a man about to become a father.

Tommy exhaled. But it wasn’t an ordinary breath, not a simple release of tension or an absentminded sigh. It was heavier. Deeper. As if something buried under his ribs had finally found a crack to escape through. A breath filled with lead, confusion, and that primitive fear he refused to name.

The child was coming.

And he wasn’t supposed to come now.

He knew that. Grace was only in her eighth month. The doctors had said so, the midwives had confirmed: everything was fine. No warnings. No symptoms. Grace had followed every recommendation to the letter. No long walks. No unnecessary effort. A careful diet. Rest.

The baby wasn’t supposed to be born tonight.

Not yet.

And yet, he was on his way.

Tommy felt the anxiety creep into his chest, quiet but sharp, like a well-honed blade. He wasn’t ready. Not for it to happen now, not to face what it meant. He hadn’t had time to put his thoughts in order, to prepare his heart, his role, his future. It had always been for tomorrow. Later. Not tonight.

He already loved the child, though. He couldn’t deny that quiet bond, that invisible thread he felt growing every time Grace rested her hand on her round belly. He loved the child with the same silent intensity that defined him. He hoped desperately that the baby would be healthy, that this premature arrival was just a twist of fate, not a sign of danger.

He told himself the child would never know hunger, never feel the cold of a bed without blankets, nor the dread of an uncertain tomorrow. He would be educated. Surrounded by books, teachers, a life without lack. He would be loved.

But right now, Tommy didn’t want to think about the child.

He wanted to avoid thinking about the woman who carried him.

Grace.

Grace was waiting for him.

He knew it, he had heard it in Frances’ voice. She had asked for him. She was alone, lying somewhere upstairs, her back perhaps twisting in pain, her body alert, her heart caught in that magnificent terror that is the waiting of a child. And she had thought of him. She had wanted him there. While he had been downstairs fighting himself to accept her presence, her touch, every time she stood near him.

He picked up the whisky glass, still untouched, resting at the edge of the desk. His gaze hovered on it a moment. The amber liquid seemed to challenge him, as if it knew it no longer had the power to erase anything. But Tommy didn’t hesitate. He brought it to his lips and downed it in one gulp.

The burn in his throat was immediate. Almost welcome.

It was the only pain he still controlled.

He placed the glass gently on the polished wood, then stood. His eyes lingered for a few seconds on the papers still scattered across the desk contracts, reports, unopened letters. None of it existed now.

He had no choice.

He had to go to her.

Tommy climbed the stairs of Arrow House without a word, each step landing like a dull thud in the tense silence of the home. He moved slowly. The floorboards creaked under his boots, and the portraits on the walls seemed to follow him with their eyes, silent witnesses to his slow ascent toward the moment that would change everything.

At the top of the stairs, the activity swelled around him. A maid rushed past, carrying fresh linens in her arms, another was closing the shutters in the adjoining room. The air was thick with tension, hurried whispers, and the lingering scent of lavender and clean linen. He recognized Frances’ voice near the doorway of the bedroom, calm and authoritative, giving instructions in a low, controlled tone.

When she spotted Tommy, she gave a small, formal nod, as upright as ever despite the urgency.

— The doctor shouldn’t be long, Mr. Shelby. She’s strong, but the pain is already intense.

Tommy nodded once, a quick motion. He didn’t have the strength to answer. His gaze was locked on the slightly open door.

He stepped through.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, letting in the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The walls, painted a pale green, looked colder than usual. And in the center of the room, on the bed, was Grace.

She was there, her back propped up on a pile of pillows. Her hair, usually so carefully styled, now clung in damp strands to her temples. Her face was pale, drawn, and her eyes gleamed — not with tears, but with fierce focus, mixed with a pain she was clearly trying to master. She clutched the sheets tightly, her breath short and uneven.

When she saw Tommy, she tried to smile, weak, but real.

— You’re here.

Those three words hit him like a hammer. He felt his chest tighten, a swirl of guilt and something darker. He moved closer, cautiously, awkwardly. This wasn’t a battlefield, and yet his body moved like it was.

He sat on the edge of the bed, near her, and she reached for his hand. Tommy tensed. Her skin was hot, damp, trembling. He wanted to say something anything but no words came.

It was her who spoke again.

— He’s coming too early, I know... but he’s fine, Tommy. He’s still moving. I can feel him.

Tommy lowered his eyes to their hands.

— I know.

He knew nothing. But he needed to believe it.

Grace exhaled sharply, perhaps a contraction, her face tightened for a few seconds. Tommy gripped her hand tighter, the only thing he could do. His gaze stayed fixed on her, helpless. He had survived war, the streets, political games, betrayal, death. He had made it through all of it. But here, now, facing her, he was the ghost of a man. A ghost waiting. A ghost afraid. A ghost about to become the father of another’s child.

A door opened somewhere. A man’s voice echoed through the hallway, the doctor had arrived.

Frances knocked softly on the door before opening it.

— The doctor is here, Mrs. Shelby.

Tommy stood, ready to give her space, but Grace stopped him with a gesture.

— Stay.

Tommy hesitated.

In Gypsy traditions, men never stayed with women during childbirth. That moment belonged to them alone. The women gathered around the one who was about to give life the elders, the wisest, those who knew pain and fear, those who could whisper ancient prayers between breaths. And the men waited apart. They stayed outside, around a fire, or in a room together, a glass in hand, cigarettes between their fingers, and they waited for someone to come and say: “It’s done.” No screams, no blood, no tears only waiting, trust, and tradition.

But here, in the quiet bedroom of Arrow House, it wasn’t a Gypsy woman giving birth.

It was Grace.

And Grace didn’t know those customs. She had never asked, never questioned. He had never told her. She didn’t know that, for him, this moment meant more than just a choice or a whim, it was a passage, a rite, a boundary between the world of men and the world of women. A boundary he had never crossed.

Not like with Amara.

Amara had wanted to understand. She had asked questions, had been interested in everything his roots represented. She sometimes spoke about those traditions with Polly, with respectful curiosity, never mockery. She had listened when he talked about death in their culture, about the belief that when a Gypsy died, they were to be burned with all their possessions, so that nothing of them remained in the world of the living, so they wouldn’t cast the evil eye on the ones they left behind.

He remembered Amara’s silence then. Not an empty silence, a dense one, full of attention, of held-back emotion. She had understood. He had spoken to Amara about his mother’s suicide. He had told Amara. He had never told Grace.

And yet, it was Grace giving birth now. It was Grace who had asked him to stay.

Tommy felt a dull ache knotting in his stomach. It wasn’t the pain of a man in love or of a worried partner. It was the pain of a man caught in his own contradictions, torn between what he felt and what he was supposed to do.

He couldn’t leave. He didn’t have the right. He had asked her to marry him. He had accepted this role. He was going to be a father, even if he didn’t feel ready to be one. Even if his heart, at that precise moment, beat elsewhere. In a past he was trying to outrun, in a gaze he hadn’t forgotten.

Tommy took a deep breath. He stood still for a few seconds, his eyes locked on the bed, on Grace, who was battling the pain with dignity, upright, proud, courageous.

He didn’t love her.

But he would stay.

Because it was his duty. Because he no longer had the luxury of being selfish. Because a child was about to be born. His child. And this time, he couldn’t run.

When the doctor entered, accompanied by the midwife and Frances, Tommy hadn’t moved for several minutes, simply watching the heavy, tense atmosphere of the room like a frozen spectator in a film he couldn’t understand. Grace’s face was marked by pain, but she didn’t make a sound. Her lips were tight, her breathing irregular. Her eyes, bright with tears, stared at the ceiling as she fought through the agony.

The doctor entered silently, but his practiced gaze swept across the room, pausing on Tommy’s shadowed figure, before approaching the woman about to give birth. He nodded briefly, stepped toward the bed, and leaned down to examine Grace.

— All right, Mrs. Shelby, he said calmly, his voice tempered by years of experience. You need to push with each contraction. It’s not time to relax yet. Remember to breathe deeply. You’re well dilated, everything looks good.

Grace nodded, though the anxiety on her face deepened. The contractions were growing stronger, coming faster. Tommy stood frozen, watching as the midwife adjusted the blankets and Frances remained at the other side of the room, a silent but reassuring presence.

The doctor stepped back slightly, preparing for the next stage.

— Okay. At the next contraction, push. You’re nearly there, Mrs. Shelby.

Grace closed her eyes, her face twisting with effort. She gripped the sheets in her fists, the skin on her knuckles pulled tight. Her muscles tensed, a low groan escaping her throat. The contraction hit her like a wave. Tommy didn’t move, arms crossed, silent, inert. He knew he was supposed to support her, but something inside him held him back. It was as if the world around him was dissolving, and this moment became an abstraction, a scene he was watching without truly being part of it.

— Good, Mrs. Shelby. One more push.

A shiver ran through Tommy. The doctor’s deep voice echoed in the room. But he couldn’t connect to it. The idea that Grace was about to give birth to his son felt surreal, disconnected from the world he knew. He couldn’t touch this pain, couldn’t comprehend this suffering. He didn’t want to.

Grace took a deep breath, and another contraction overtook her. She pushed. This time, her cry tore through the silence. The doctor didn’t flinch, continuing his calm instructions.

— That’s it, ma’am. Keep going.

Seconds stretched into minutes, but Tommy couldn’t grasp the gravity of the moment. Grace’s pain was visible, raw, but to him, it all seemed distant, unreal. Her face was soaked in sweat, contorted by pain, but he couldn’t feel the connection he thought he should. He stood there, empty, staring.

Then, suddenly, a heavy silence fell over the room. The doctor leaned closer.

— I see the head, Mrs. Shelby. One last push, and we’ll be there.

Grace clenched the sheets with all her strength, her hands trembling. The doctor straightened, waiting for the right moment. Tommy’s heart began to race, though he couldn’t say why. Anxiety? Fear? Surprise? Everything felt blurred.

Grace gave everything she had. A raw, guttural cry burst from her throat. The sound pierced the air like thunder. Tommy clenched his fists. He no longer knew if he was here to witness the birth of a child or to remain an outsider, detached from it all.

Finally, the baby emerged. A newborn’s cry, high and sharp, filled the room. Tommy flinched, his gaze locking onto the small, red, wrinkled form lifted by the midwife. The umbilical cord still connected the child to its mother, and the midwife calmly, precisely, cut that vital link. Tommy still hadn’t moved.

— It’s a boy, the midwife said in a gentle voice.

Grace broke into sobs, crying from a mixture of relief and joy. She reached out and took her son, holding him close to her chest. Tommy, still unmoving, watched the scene in silence. The small body was warm, still slick with blood and amniotic fluid. The child’s cries mingled with Grace’s exhausted whispers as she stroked her son’s head, murmuring words too soft to hear.

— It’s a boy, Tommy... she said through her tears.

Tommy remained silent. He already knew the child was a boy, he didn’t need to hear it. But Grace’s voice, torn by emotion, made him realize something he had been struggling to admit: he was a father.

He stepped forward slowly, almost without thinking. He knelt beside the bed, his trembling hand resting on the sheet that covered Grace. He didn’t even look at her. His attention was entirely on the child, on his skin still pale from his mother’s bodily fluids. He leaned in slightly, eyes fixed.

— Do you want to hold him? Grace whispered, her eyes full of hope.

Tommy hesitated. He wanted to pull back, to take a step away. But he didn’t have time. He didn’t even have a choice. His trembling fingers reached out, and he took his son in his arms. The baby was warm, still damp. His tiny hands flailed in the air, searching for contact.

Tommy stared at this little being, this brand-new face, this life that had just begun. He still didn’t understand. He couldn’t grasp the reality of the moment. This wasn’t a battlefield. This wasn’t war. It wasn’t politics. It was just a child.

And for some reason he couldn’t yet comprehend, something inside him cracked a little though he didn’t feel it right away. It wasn’t war. It was only birth.

And yet, he knew that something in him was beginning to change.

He lowered his eyes, looked at his son in his arms, and in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:

— Charlie.

Chapter Text

London, May 10, 1922

Amara was ashamed. A deep, insidious, almost physical shame. It had settled in her like a slow, creeping fever, taking hold of her body and mind as the days went by. For several days now, ever since the door of the room had closed behind her, she had barely left the bed. She had hardly moved. Hardly spoken. She had willingly walled herself in a thick, almost painful silence, as if each word spoken might betray her, reveal something she wasn’t ready to face.

The room was neither cold nor hostile. Ada had set it up carefully, in a bright space with discreet furniture, clean linens, and softly drawn curtains to filter the morning light. It was a place of rest, almost of healing. A place Amara had appreciated when she first arrived. And yet, for her, it had become a suffocating sanctuary, a space too quiet where the thoughts she was trying to escape echoed too loudly.

She hadn’t eaten. Or barely. Just a few bites, picked at with her fingers when the pain in her stomach became too much. But even that hunger, so familiar, wasn’t enough to bring her fully back to the real world. It was a pain she knew all too well, the pain of an empty belly, a contracted stomach, the dull ache of a body beginning to demand what she refused to give it. It reminded her of Birmingham, the freezing apartment, the nights without dinner, the mornings without tea. She thought she had left that behind when she left that city, when she walked away from everything that hurt. And yet, the pain had returned, loyal. As if it had followed her all the way to London.

She spent her days turning in the bed, tangled in wrinkled sheets, shifting positions every five minutes without ever finding rest. Her back ached from lying down for so long. Her arms, numb, sometimes trembled. But she didn’t move. She stayed there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, or lost in the shadow of the curtains, with the strange sensation of not really being there anymore.

And often, without realizing it at first, her hands would search for her belly. At first, by reflex, maybe out of habit. But as the days passed, it became more conscious. More intimate. She wasn’t just soothing the hunger cramps. She was caressing that emptiness. She touched it gently. And deep down, a voice she tried to silence whispered an unsettling truth: she imagined a round belly. A belly that held life. She imagined herself pregnant.

Not just by anyone.

By Tommy.

She had caught herself doing it, letting that thought settle in without even trying to push it away. She wasn’t sure what she felt a longing, a regret, a sense of absence. Maybe a bit of all of it at once. Maybe something bigger, more tragic: a nostalgia for something that had never existed.

She shouldn’t have ignored Ada. That’s what weighed on her most. This shame wasn’t just personal. She had let silence take over everything between them. Ada, who had welcomed her without asking questions, who had offered her shelter, a space, a truce. Amara hadn’t been raised like that. Respect for hospitality was a rule. She had grown up with those values, taught by a strict but fair mother, a mother who would have blushed to see her like this closed off, silent, indifferent to another woman’s kindness.

And yet, she didn’t have the strength. She couldn’t open the door. Couldn’t apologize. Couldn’t speak.

She wasn’t blind. She knew Ada wasn’t angry. No. Amara sometimes heard her behind the door. Soft footsteps, a tray quietly set down, a hesitant hand on the doorknob. Then nothing. Ada left her alone. She respected the silence. But Amara felt the worry in every long pause, in every untouched plate, in every unopened door. She felt it like an outstretched hand she refused to take.

She wanted to get up. She really did. But there was that weight. That invisible weight that pinned her to the mattress, that kept her from making a single move. That weight had a name: Tommy Shelby. Everything he represented. What he had taken from her. What she had allowed herself to feel, one last time, without permission.

She closed her eyes.

Just for a moment.

But even in the darkness, the shame remained crouched in the shadow of her lashes, in the folds of her sheets, in the hollow of her empty belly.

Amara slowly opened her eyes again. She had kept them shut for a few minutes, as if it could push the world away, but this time, it was the sound of footsteps behind the door that pulled her back to reality.

They weren’t Ada’s, Amara realized that immediately. They were heavier, more deliberate. Not fast or chaotic like Karl’s, who often ran around the apartment with the wild energy of a child. No. These footsteps had a calm regularity, almost cautious. A way of walking that said: I don’t want to intrude, but I’m here.

The shadow of a pair of shoes appeared under the narrow gap beneath the door. Amara turned her gaze back to the ceiling, as if that alone could make her ignore the silent presence waiting on the other side. She remained still, her breath barely noticeable.

Then came a soft knock on the wood. Three gentle taps, unhurried. Not the light knock of a woman, not the impatient rapping of a child. It was deeper, softer, but with a kind of restrained masculinity.

And then the voice. Deep, composed. A voice Amara had heard once or twice, more often from living room conversations than face to face. It was James.

— Amara… I hope I didn’t wake you. Ada’s gone out with Karl. He wanted to go to the park.

He paused, as if weighing the rest of his words, measuring each syllable carefully not to disturb her.

— She asked me to bring you a plate.

Silence.

Amara didn’t answer. She knew she should, but her throat was tight. Her mouth dry. Her voice, if it came out at all, would be nothing but a broken whisper.

James continued after a few seconds, this time with a sigh before he spoke. Not a sigh of frustration, nor of reproach. More like something worried, humble, almost regretful.

— You don’t seem to eat when Ada leaves a plate by the door… so I thought… maybe I could just hand it to you myself. Can I come in?

Still no answer.

Amara sensed him hesitating. She barely knew him, but she could tell he had that quiet kind of respect, that genuine politeness that expected nothing in return. He wasn’t trying to force anything. He just wanted to make sure she was okay.

She felt sorry for him. This poor man had done nothing to deserve her silence, and he was trying his best. She wanted to thank him, to tell him he could come in, that everything was fine even if it wasn’t. But she was afraid. Afraid that a single word would be enough to break the dam she had built around her grief.

So she stayed silent. Again.

A moment passed, and then James’s voice came once more. Softer still.

— Amara… I’m going to come in. I’ll keep my eyes closed.

He hesitated.

She imagined him, hand on the doorknob, unsure. She imagined his confusion, his fear of crossing a boundary. Maybe he thought she was sleeping naked, or wearing something too thin. Maybe he feared stepping into a space where he wasn’t welcome. But Ada had insisted. She wanted Amara to eat, at least a little. And he, even without really knowing her, had seen the abandoned plates, untouched, left day after day and always returned full.

So, slowly, the doorknob turned.

Amara slowly turned her head toward the door as it opened. Just as he had promised, James stood there, frozen for a moment in the doorway, his eyelids shut tight with deliberate care, his features drawn in a near-childlike concentration. In his hands, he held a tray, which he carried with a kind of solemn caution.

Atop it rested a full English breakfast: still-steaming scrambled eggs, two crispy strips of bacon, baked beans in a rich sauce, half a grilled tomato, a piece of buttered, slightly toasted bread, and a carefully placed slice of black pudding tucked into a corner of the plate. Beside it, a small porcelain teapot let off a faint wisp of steam, accompanied by a floral-patterned teacup and a small milk jug. The whole ensemble looked almost out of place in the dark, quiet room, folded into silence.

But there was more. Next to the plate, held together by a rough but practical string, sat a bundle of handwritten pages that looked like they were on the verge of spilling off the tray. A small pile of paper, slightly crumpled in places, marked by handwritten notes and visible corrections.

James walked in with slow, measured steps. He kept his eyes closed, his brow faintly furrowed, as if he expected at any moment to bump into a piece of furniture or trip over a rug. Ada’s guest rooms were almost identical in layout, distinguished only by their decoration. His own, he knew by heart so he let his steps guide him.

Amara, still lying in bed, said nothing. She followed him with her gaze, unmoving, nearly spectral among the rumpled sheets. He moved like someone saying silently: I don't want to break anything in here.

When he reached the desk right where he’d hoped it would be James gently set the tray down. He adjusted the balance of the teacup, carefully placed the pot to the side, and straightened the stack of pages as if every detail mattered. He stood there a few seconds longer, silent, his eyes still shut.

Then, in a slightly timid voice, he said:

— On the tray… there are a few chapters I started for my novel. I thought… maybe it could keep you company, if you felt like reading a bit.

His voice wasn’t forced or overly tender. Just… simple. Offered.

Amara felt her throat tighten. It wasn’t much, no. But in the state she was in, drowning in a thick solitude for days, that small gesture of thought that quietly extended hand was profoundly moving.

She murmured, so softly she doubted she’d said it aloud:

— Thank you.

James didn’t reply right away, but nodded slowly, with gravity, as if he had heard or at least understood without needing to. Then, with the same care as when he entered, he turned around. Still with his eyes closed, he closed the door behind him in silence.

And the quiet returned.

Amara was deeply grateful that James had kept his eyes shut the entire time. That simple act, so full of modesty and gentleness, had spared her a layer of shame. She wouldn’t have been able to bear being seen in this state of intimate ruin, this moral nakedness far more crushing than any physical one.

She was certain she was unrecognizable far from the woman she used to be. Her eyes must have been swollen from repeated tears, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Sleep, fickle and evasive, had eluded her for days. She could feel the salt-dried tightness on her face, the heaviness of an abandoned body in her muscles. Her hair, matted against the pillow, had lost its usual volume; her afro lay flattened, dulled, trapped beneath a pillow that had become a hiding place.

The dampness on her skin betrayed the hours spent shifting around, seeking a moment’s comfort she never found. Shame gripped her again, like an old friend returning uninvited. When she’d first arrived in London, the feeling had eased somewhat pushed away by the relief of putting Birmingham behind her. But now, it returned at full force, sharper, more painful.

Her thoughts drifted to that conversation with Ada. Nothing dramatic. Just an ordinary moment two women, steaming tea, the gentle clinking of porcelain against the low table in the sitting room. Ada had boiled the water in an old pan, as always, while Amara carefully placed dried leaves in the teapot. The silence between them had felt easy, natural, until Ada, with that characteristic softness of hers, had begun to speak.

She spoke of her latest communist meetings, the new ideas circulating — the creation of public libraries, free health centers, organizing drives for neglected neighborhoods. Ada deeply believed in a more just world, in tangible actions for the most vulnerable. She spoke with conviction, but never dogmatically, occasionally glancing with affection toward Karl, who was playing with wooden blocks in a corner, a large aviator helmet wobbling on his little head.

Amara listened, genuinely interested, even soothed. The moment could’ve been sealed in a bubble of normalcy.

But their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the sharp ring of the telephone in the hallway.

Ada frowned, clearly surprised. It wasn’t the usual hour for a call. Few people, really, dared call Ada at that time.

Amara looked at her too, slightly puzzled. The soft, familiar atmosphere that had just been there suspended itself in an instant, frozen by the mechanical shrill of the phone. Ada set down her cup, stood up quickly but calmly, and disappeared into the hallway. Amara stayed in the sitting room, tense without showing it, hands folded in her lap.

— Thorne residence? said Ada, picking up the receiver.

There was a silence. Then Ada’s brow furrowed.

— Polly? What’s going on?

Her tone had shifted not panicked, but tinged with quiet, immediate concern.

Even though Ada had distanced herself from the Shelbys, even though she now lived in London, far from the chaos of Birmingham, she was still deeply tied to her family. Part of her was always on alert like during the long war years, when every letter, every unexpected encounter could bear bad news.

Amara, listening from the sitting room, heard the name Polly, and a cold tension slid into her chest. Polly Gray wasn’t the type to call for a friendly evening chat. If she was calling at this hour, something had happened. Amara’s mind raced Jeremiah, her nephews, Isaiah… or…

Tommy.

She’d gotten up without realizing it, slowly approaching the hallway without stepping into it. She watched Ada, trying to read her expression under the flickering hallway light. Her friend’s face had changed from confusion to something closer to dread.

And then Ada said, almost echoing Amara’s thoughts:

— Already?

She turned her head toward Amara, and in her eyes there was more than worry there was a shadow, heavier: sadness, laced with responsibility. Her gaze dropped, as if she could no longer meet Amara’s. And the silence between them became nearly unbearable.

Amara’s heart began to pound faster. Her palms turned damp, a nervous shiver crawling up her spine. She frowned, silently asking the question her voice couldn’t shape: What’s going on?

Ada spoke again, her voice softer, more contained:

— Is he in good health?

He. Healthy. Those words echoed with a particular kind of weight.

Amara felt her throat tighten. Her mind clouded for a moment, caught in a spiraling wave of dread. She didn’t know who they were talking about. A man, injured? Sick? An accident? A revenge? Jeremiah? Isaiah? Tommy? One of the other Shelby brothers? Michael?

But it wasn’t fear of violence that overwhelmed her. It was something else. A deeper tension. Instinctive.

Then Ada asked, softly:

— What did they name him?

She listened to the answer in silence, nodding slowly. A new emotion, difficult to define, crossed her face. And finally, in a breath that felt heavy with something more than air, she murmured:

— I’ll tell her, Polly.

She hung up the receiver carefully. Her fingers lingered there a moment longer, as if letting go of the object might break something inside her.

When she straightened up, her eyes remained fixed on the floor, like she was searching for words in the grain of the wood.

Ada moved toward Amara, her gaze still evasive, fixed on an invisible point between the ground and her own thoughts. She didn’t speak not yet. But her gestures did. Slowly, with a kind of silent reverence, she reached out and touched Amara’s arm. Her grip was gentle, almost tentative, like she feared breaking something fragile. Like Amara might shatter at the slightest touch.

Without a word, Ada guided her back into the living room.

Amara followed, breath shallow. Her heart pounded in her chest like a dull warning. She didn’t need words to know that what was coming would bring no comfort. Even the air felt heavier, denser saturated with something unnamed, a mixture of fear, sorrow, and foreboding.

Ada motioned for her to sit on the couch, then took the armchair across from her. She stayed silent a few more seconds, as though searching for the least painful way to press in the blade.

Finally, her voice broke the quiet low, steady, but too carefully controlled to hide the emotion behind it.

— Polly called… with news from Birmingham. That’s why I…

She stopped herself, inhaled slowly. This time, she lifted her eyes and finally met Amara’s gaze. And what Amara saw there froze her.

— It’s Grace, Ada said. She… she had the baby.

Amara felt something electric climb up her spine. Her breath caught instantly.

— The baby… is fine. He’s healthy.

But Ada didn’t smile. There was no joy in her voice.

— It’s a boy… they named him Charles.

The name had been said. Charles.

And the moment it passed Ada’s lips, everything fractured.

First, a void. A strange stillness. As if the air had been sucked out of the room. Amara blinked once, twice. But the room around her had lost all shape. She could no longer really hear what Ada was saying. The world had narrowed down to that one word, that one fact: The child was born. He had a child with her. He chose to be there with her.

Her stomach clenched, as though an invisible fist had just slammed into her. A scorching heat rose from her gut to her chest. She tried to speak, but her throat closed. No sound came out. Just a broken, shallow gasp. She inhaled, but the air wouldn't come. Again nothing.

Her breathing spiraled.

Her hands began to shake at first slightly, then violently, trembling with uncontrollable spasms. She lifted them to her face, then to her chest, instinctively, trying to slow the heart that had gone mad. She sat up suddenly, but her legs gave way, and she collapsed to her knees in front of the couch, her body seized by a panic she couldn’t contain.

— No… no… no, she whispered, between gasps.

Her vision narrowed. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. She couldn’t hear Ada’s voice, even though it was right next to her. She could see only blurry shapes. She was hot and cold at the same time. Sweat drenched the back of her neck, clung to her shirt. Her hair stuck to her forehead. Her fingers clawed at the carpet, as if anchoring herself might stop her from drifting away.

Her lips moved without sound, like she was trying to repel something invisible. Her chest rose and fell in erratic, painful rhythm. Each breath was a battle. Her face had drained of color, her eyes wide but vacant, panicked.

He held her. He held his son. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had a family now.

A scream, held in too long, surged in her throat but broke against her clenched teeth. It came out as a guttural, strangled moan. She collapsed further, curling into herself, knees pulled to her chest, trying to find shelter inside her own body fleeing a storm she couldn’t outrun.

Ada had dropped to her knees beside her, arms wrapped around her shoulders, whispering softly:

— Amara, listen to me. Breathe. With me. Just breathe. Look at me… please…

But Amara couldn’t. She didn’t want to.

She wanted to scream, to disappear. She wanted to go back in time to the moment before Ada picked up the phone, before that name was spoken, before she had to know. Back to a time where she could still believe that maybe, somewhere, she still mattered.

The tears finally came thick, uncontrollable. Not sobs, but a relentless flood, streaming silently down her cheeks, her chin, soaking into her shirt.

This was no longer just a panic attack.

It was a break. A rupture.

And it hurt. Physically hurt her chest, her throat, her stomach. As if something inside her had been ripped away.

She wasn’t just broken.

She felt betrayed by her own emotions. Betrayed by a heart that, despite everything, still loved a man who now held his child with another woman in his arms.

Amara had spiraled in front of Ada for long, unbearable minutes, unable to calm her breath, unable to form a single coherent thought. She had lost all control, and only the firm but steady hold of Ada had kept her from dissolving completely. Ada never let go. Not for a second. She held her tight, like she could lend her some of her strength, like a mother holding a wounded child. She didn’t speak. She didn’t try to reason. She just stayed.

And then, slowly, the panic receded like a tide pulling back without warning, leaving emptiness behind. And in place of raw terror came the tears. Endless tears, unfiltered, shameless. Amara collapsed against Ada’s shoulder, burying her face in the fabric of her dress, sobbing until she had no breath left, until her shoulders finally stopped trembling.

She wasn’t crying for Charlie. No, never. She had nothing against the child.

On the contrary.

Charlie. Even thinking his name made her chest tighten but it wasn’t hatred. Never. It wasn’t anger either. It was a quieter pain, deeper, more complicated.

A child… a child was a gift from God. A blessing. A promise of light in a dark world. Children were the most beautiful thing God had given to mankind. They were life, innocence, purity made flesh.

Charlie hadn’t asked for any of this. He had come into the world without knowledge of stories, without understanding pain, without carrying the sins of those who had created him.

She couldn’t blame him.

But despite herself, despite the love she held for the very idea of childhood, hearing his name had changed everything.

Charlie was no longer a distant thought, a vague abstraction she had tried to ignore, to push away, to save for later. He was real. Tangible.

He had a name.

He had a face.

Eyes. Hands that Tommy must’ve held in his own.

And that reality… she wasn’t ready for it.

It was too soon.

She hadn’t had time to build up walls around this truth. She had been pushing the thought away ever since Tommy had confirmed it to her as if denying his existence might protect her.

But in a single word, a single name spoken aloud, it had all come crashing down.

Charlie existed.

Amara let out a long sigh in her bedroom, still lying on the tangled sheets, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Once again, she felt her heart race, that now-familiar erratic rhythm, the one that always came when the memories returned.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to chase away the image of Tommy, to find some semblance of peace.

But another face emerged instead uninvited, unexpected.

William.

The barber.

A calm face, measured movements. He had nothing to do with Birmingham, with the Shelby brutality, with the violence hidden in every decision, every stare. He belonged to a different world lighter, maybe more ordinary, but strangely soothing.

She remembered clearly the invitation he had offered. He’d asked her, gently, to stop by the shop sometime. Just a conversation. Nothing demanding. Nothing dangerous.

He had looked at her with a respectful curiosity, without judgment. Not pushy. Not aloof. Just… human.

Amara felt a flicker of guilt for thinking of him now, amidst all of this. But maybe it wasn’t really William she was thinking about maybe it was what he represented.

A breath of air in this suffocating atmosphere. A possible detour. A moment of reprieve. A glimpse of normal.

She didn’t know if she had the strength to go. She didn’t even know if she should go.

But for the first time in days, the idea of getting up, getting dressed, stepping outside… didn’t feel entirely impossible.

And maybe, deep down, it wasn’t such a terrible thing to speak to someone who knew nothing of her story.

Nothing of Tommy.

Nothing of Grace.

Nothing of Charlie.

Just… her.

Amara.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, May 13th, 1922

Tommy lay in the marital bed, flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a soldier on alert, frozen in invisible anticipation. Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn’t come for several days. Not really. Sometimes he drifted off for an hour or two, then woke up with a jolt, breath short, muscles taut, as if his own body refused rest. He didn’t even dream anymore. Just a void, followed by a sudden awakening, and the immediate return of the weight of his thoughts.

He had known insomnia. He carried its scars. War had taught him to sleep with his eyes half-open, ears attuned, ready to spring at the first sign of danger. Restless nights had been his routine, even after returning to Birmingham. But this fatigue was different. It was duller. Slower. It wasn’t made of anxiety, nor of nightmares. It was made of reality. A reality that was finally becoming aware of itself.

Since Charlie’s birth, Tommy no longer truly recognized himself. It was as if a part of him, long buried, had suddenly awakened. A part he had tried to smother beneath layers of responsibility, violence, ambition. A part that belonged to another life, to a man he had never wanted to be.

He turned his head absentmindedly toward Grace. She was sleeping deeply, peacefully, mouth slightly open, one arm resting on the sheet, the other tucked under the pillow. Even in sleep, she had that quiet grace, that silent self-possession. She was beautiful, as always. Untouched. Unchanging. She had said, a few nights ago, that she was finally sleeping well. She had smiled, almost playfully, and said: 

— I can finally sleep on my stomach now that Charlie’s born. I can really sleep.

He hadn’t really replied. He had murmured “Get some rest” . She had nodded softly, convinced he was worried about her, convinced he was that stable, steady man she could lean on. But he wasn’t that. He never had been. He wore the suit, bore the responsibilities, carried the title. But inside, it was something else. A terrain full of holes, dented, unstable.

And now, he was a father.

The word echoed in his mind like a muffled drum. Father. He had said it aloud, once, in the silence of his office, just to see how it felt. It didn’t sound right. It sounded… foreign. Not like a truth. More like a role, a performance. And yet, he had held Charlie in his arms. He had watched him sleep, felt the tiny weight of his body against his own, the soft warmth of his breath. He had felt his heart tighten, just a little. A tiny bit. But it was enough to create a fracture.

A fracture through which memories, doubts, and absences came rushing in.

He wasn’t just bound to Grace by marriage that union of compromise and appearances. He was bound to her now by blood. By Charlie. Their child. A bond stronger, more intimate, more irreversible.

And yet.

He couldn’t feel joy. Not fully. Not the way he was supposed to.

In the silence of the room, under the muffled ticking of the hallway clock, Tommy realized what he felt wasn’t fear. Not even rejection. It was dissonance. A false note in an otherwise well-orchestrated melody. Something was missing. Or rather… someone.

Amara.

The name floated through his mind like an obvious truth. Amara.

He didn’t think of her by choice. It was stronger than him. She slipped in through the cracks, into the silence between heartbeats, into the quiet moments, like a barely audible whisper. He remembered her laugh, her voice, her presence. She had never tried to tame him. She had never wanted to bind him. She had just seen him. Truly seen him. And that was more dangerous than any weapon.

And now, she was gone.

He didn’t know what she was doing. He didn’t even know if she was okay. He didn’t know if she’d heard about Charlie’s birth. He had done everything to avoid asking Polly. To pretend he had moved on. But the truth was, the page had never been turned. It had never even been written. It was left hanging, unfinished, and the emptiness it left behind threatened to swallow everything.

Tommy closed his eyes for a moment, hoping the darkness might bring some relief. But nothing. No peace. Just the silence, and that name beating in his chest like a second heart.

Amara.

Tommy didn’t keep his eyes closed for long. The calm of the room was disturbed by a distant sound, muffled by the thick walls, but unmistakable. A high-pitched, delicate, almost plaintive whimper. The kind of sound an adult might mistake for the wind creaking against a window… except there was no wind that night, and he knew that sound. It was that of a baby. Their baby.

Charlie.

The baby wasn’t crying outright yet. It was only a warning, a slow build-up the prelude to a real sob if no one came. Tommy stayed still for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling, gaze blank. The sounds grew sharper, more insistent. A series of broken, pleading cries that only very young children can produce. The instinctive call for a warm body, for presence.

For reasons of convenience and safety, Grace had insisted Charlie’s room be set up just next to theirs, separated only by a partition and double doors. Frances, with the help of two maids, had turned the adjoining space into a perfectly equipped nursery, from crib to furniture, down to the matching curtains. A true little cocoon.

Grace had poured her heart into it. She had buried herself in catalogs with a mix of enthusiasm and anxiety. Every evening, she asked Tommy for his opinion on a dresser, a rug, the color of the bedding, or the crib’s placement. Tommy, buried in work, contracts, shipments, and growing tensions at the docks, had barely looked up. He nodded, gave vague replies. Whatever you pick, I’ll like it.

It was true. Or rather, it was what he wanted to believe. He didn’t think the decoration of a room mattered at least not to him. All those pastel colors, the placement of stuffed toys or not it all seemed like women’s business, the kind that turned houses into homes. He had grown up in a cold, rough house, with no soft rugs or hand-carved cribs. And yet, they had survived. It would be enough for Charlie too.

The cries grew louder, a full octave higher. This time, it was clear Charlie needed something. Probably milk. Or simply someone there. Tommy turned his head toward Grace. She stirred faintly, as if a wave of unconsciousness passed through her, but didn’t wake. On the contrary, her body relaxed even more, her breathing deepened, steady, peaceful.

She was in deep sleep.

He couldn’t bring himself to wake her. She needed the rest. The doctor had said so after the birth, when Tommy had stepped out of the room, heart pounding, hands trembling just slightly against his will. Grace had needed stitches. The child, their child had been born a month early but already weighed as much as a full-term baby. Charlie was chubby, plump, broad-shouldered like a boy who hadn’t waited to grow up.

The birth had been hard on Grace. Since then, she suffered persistent aches, twinges that made her movements uncertain. She hid her discomfort, of course. She still smiled, still spoke with confidence. But Tommy had seen her bend slightly when she thought he wasn’t watching. He had seen her forehead crease as she climbed the stairs a bit too fast.

So tonight, he got up.

Without a word, without a sound, he pulled back the sheets and set his feet on the floor. The floorboards barely creaked. He gave Grace one last look. Her face was relaxed, almost youthful in sleep. He watched her for a few seconds, unable to stop himself, wondering. Why? Why had he said yes in front of the priest? Then he looked away and moved toward the door, toward the cries of the child who was his.

Tommy slowly opened the door to the nursery. A faint golden light filtered in through the windows, casting warm reflections on the pastel-toned walls. The room had been decorated with meticulous, almost maternal care. The walls, painted a very pale blue, were adorned with delicate patterns of clouds and stars, hand-painted by Grace herself. The floor was covered in a soft, off-white rug, thick enough to muffle footsteps. A rocking chair stood in one corner, right next to a small bookshelf filled with children’s books, still untouched, their covers brand new.

The crib was the centerpiece of the room, placed right next to the carefully sealed window. A mobile floated above, turning slowly with the stir of an imperceptible breeze, its fabric shapes moon, stars, and clouds gently swaying in the dim light.

Tommy approached the crib without a sound, his gaze fixed on the tiny wriggling body inside. Charlie was squirming beneath the blanket, fists raised, face flushed from silent tears. In that precise moment, he looked so small, so vulnerable, so different from the brutal world Tommy knew. A world that, despite everything, Charlie now belonged to.

He reached out, hesitating for a split second.

Then, slowly, he slid his hands beneath the warm little body. Charlie whimpered slightly, then immediately calmed down, as if he had recognized the scent, the warmth, the presence. Tommy lifted him with a tenderness that bordered on clumsy, his cautious movements betraying his fear of doing it wrong. He straightened the baby against his chest, one hand supporting his back, the other cradling his head.

Charlie let out a small sigh, his eyes still closed. Tommy stood there, unmoving, in the middle of the room, the infant pressed against him. Silence returned, broken only by the child’s soft breathing and the deeper breath of his father.

He looked down at this little being, this extension of himself he still struggled to name without feeling dizzy.

There was no war in this room. No Peaky Blinders, no bets, no blood, no debts. Just him. And his son.

Tommy walked over to the rocking chair, sat down slowly with Charlie still against him, and began to gently rock. The soft motion, the barely creaking wood, the warm weight of the child against his chest... there was a kind of peace in it he hadn’t felt in years.

His fingers absentmindedly brushed the back of Charlie’s neck, his mind still lost in thought. He thought of John. Of Arthur. Of Polly. Of Grace. Of his family, and what they thought of this birth. And, in spite of himself, of everything he had built, destroyed, protected or lost.

But mostly, he thought of Amara.

Her name surged in his mind like an undertow. He pushed it away immediately. This was neither the time, nor the place.

And yet.

Charlie stirred slightly, gave a small grunt against him.

Tommy looked down, watched him for a long moment, then murmured, barely audible:

— You’ll have to be stronger than me, little one.

He didn’t know if Charlie could hear him. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a little less alone.

Tommy stroked his son’s face with the tips of his fingers, grazing the soft, warm skin with an instinctive, almost mechanical gentleness. He moved slowly down to the baby’s slightly parted lips, from which came a small, irregular breath, and gently slipped a finger into his mouth.

The gesture didn’t come from nowhere. It was a distant memory, embedded in his mind like a sepia photograph. He had seen his mother do it, years ago, with his younger siblings, when he was still a quiet, watchful child. It was her way of checking if a baby was hungry: she would slide one of her fingers between the baby’s lips, letting it believe, for a moment, it was her breast. If it suckled eagerly, she knew it needed feeding. If not, she’d assume it wanted something else a cuddle, a change, or just the warmth of a human presence.

Tommy waited a few seconds, finger still in Charlie’s small mouth. He felt the warm moisture of the baby’s saliva almost instantly, the light pressure of a still-clumsy tongue. But Charlie wasn’t sucking. No reflex, no rhythmic movement of the gums. The baby simply seemed to find some vague comfort in the presence of the finger, but not the urge to feed.

So, slowly, Tommy withdrew his finger, careful not to wake Charlie further, and wiped it on a cloth placed neatly on the rocking chair’s armrest.

Then, he simply looked at him.

Charlie was a strong baby. Born with full cheeks and a surprising weight for one who’d arrived a month early. There was heft in his arms, a density that gave the impression of a being already grounded in the world. His hair still amazed Tommy. It was thick, dense, silky far more than one would expect from a newborn. The color was uncertain. Too light to be Tommy’s, too dark to be Grace’s. It was a golden brown, a chestnut that shifted with the light, elusive.

His eyes were a clear blue, almost translucent. That common newborn blue, but in Charlie’s case, too intense to feel temporary. Tommy knew the color might change. Maybe they’d darken, turning steel grey or midnight blue like his own. Or perhaps they’d brighten even more, catching the sky-like azure of Grace. But either way, they’d stay blue. He felt sure of that. It was the only thing he could see clearly.

He remained there a long time, standing in the calm dimness of the room, staring into his son’s gaze, as if something essential was unfolding in that silent, mutual observation.

And in that suspended moment of calm, Tommy felt a kind of fear. Not the kind born of danger, but the deeper, quieter kind that comes with the sudden realization of an irrevocable responsibility.

Charlie wasn’t just a child. He was his child.

Charlie was his son. A fact now undeniable, tangible, warm against his chest. The light weight of his body nestled in his arms, the steady breathing lifting the small blanket, the slightly tilted head resting against his chest it all formed a portrait of rare tenderness, almost surreal. A portrait Tommy would never have imagined himself observing with such ambivalence.

The love he felt was immediate, visceral. A kind of raw, pure, animal attachment. The kind of love that goes beyond words, that fills you completely, and roots you in a truth bigger than yourself. That was what it meant to be a father. Knowing it wasn’t enough. You had to live it to understand.

But that same love, deep as it was, came with a dull ache. Persistent. Like a splinter lodged in the heart. Because Charlie was also a constant reminder of a mistake, of an act he couldn’t deny or undo. The child was both a miracle and a sentence.

Tommy saw again, with ruthless clarity, the day it all changed. Just hours before this night, in the hushed quiet of his office. Amara had welcomed him as she always did with gentleness, with that restraint that was part of her, and yet made her shine. She had handed him a slightly dented tin box, explaining with a look lit by both pride and shyness that she had made some biscuits. She had wanted to set a few aside for him before the others devoured them all. He had given her only a nod and a half-smile, but inside, something had softened.

And then, just hours later, everything changed.

It wasn’t Amara’s gaze he was meeting anymore, but Grace’s back, her silhouette lit by the soft glow of the bedroom, her body offered without words. His sex buried in her intimacy. He hadn’t even looked at her face. He had closed his eyes. And in the darkness of his closed lids, it was another body he saw. Another skin. Another presence.

He had never seen Amara naked, never even touched her. But that night, his imagination had taken hold of her. He clung to the idea of a forbidden vision, to the only thing that felt real in the chaos of his life: her. Amara.

When it was over, he didn’t stay. He made up some absurd excuse an early morning meeting and left the bed like a thief leaving the scene of his crime. He needed to flee. Flee from Grace. Flee from his own body. Flee from what he had just done.

Back at the family house, he wandered like a ghost. The air felt heavier, the walls narrower, and his tiny room suffocated him. Sleep never came.

And yet, the next day, Amara returned. True to herself, discreet, sincere. She handed him the day’s accounts, visibly relieved and almost joyful to show him the increase in profits. She had done good work. And him? He couldn’t even look her in the eyes. He felt the nausea rising, shame closing around his throat like a hand tightening.

And now, in this child’s room he had barely helped prepare, he held in his arms the direct result of that night. Charlie warm and soft, innocent, peaceful. A perfectly pure being who had asked for nothing.

Amara had kissed him that day.

A delicate kiss, tender, intimate, the way only she knew how. In the muted shadow of his office, while the fading light filtered through the curtains, bathing the walls in a golden hue. There was no one else in that moment. Just them. And she had moved in slowly, placing a hesitant hand on his chest.

Her lips full and warm had touched his with that quiet softness. It was a simple gesture, but for Tommy, it struck like a blow to the heart. A moment both sublime and unbearable. Her afro brushed against his forehead, the slightly coarse texture grazing his skin and that feeling, he had longed for. Hoped for. He had been starving for that touch, for that specific kind of tenderness she gave only to him, in those fleeting moments stolen from the world.

And yet.

Her lips were on his. Lips she believed belonged only to him. But those lips… he had given them to someone else. The night before. Just hours earlier, they had been claimed by Grace, thirsting for a love he didn’t feel. The thought pierced his chest like an icy blade.

He had kissed her back. Of course he had. Because he needed it. Because his heart screamed Amara’s name even when his body went astray. Because in her arms, he felt whole — less king, less mind, more man. More heart. Because she had that way of loving him without chains, while still holding his soul gently in her palms.

But inside, he was suffocating.

Because she was kissing unfaithful lips. Lips soiled by betrayal. Lips Grace had touched that night, barely cooled by sleep.

And in the silence that followed the kiss, while Amara looked at him tenderly, unaware of the weight he carried, Tommy felt his stomach tighten.

He wanted to tell her. To confess everything. But cowardice held him back. And instead, he simply gave her a smile. A false smile. A shameful one.

He didn’t deserve her gestures. Nor her tenderness. Nor her love.

He didn’t deserve Amara. He never had.

Tommy finally lowered his head, his forehead nearly brushing against his son’s.

— I’m sorry... he whispered, in a breath only silence could hear.

Chapter Text

London, 17 May, 1922

Amara stood still in front of the storefront of W. Fletcher & Son – Barber’s Men. The wooden sign, painted in matte black, bore golden letters slightly chipped by time, a testament to a discreet but well-kept elegance. The window, broad and cleanly polished, reflected the pale gray of the London sky, but also gave a glimpse inside the barbershop a small, warm space still carrying the calm of the day’s end.

Inside, William was sweeping the floor. He was focused, shoulders slightly hunched, absorbed in the hair he was methodically gathering around the barber’s chair. He wore a freshly ironed white shirt, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong forearms, marked by work. A pair of gray suspenders held up his dark wool trousers, and his shoes gleamed faintly under the warm ceiling light.

He wasn’t dressed with ostentation, but with care, the look of a man who took his trade seriously, who respected his space and those who entered it. That well-kept simplicity, that discreet but masculine elegance, gave the place a soothing, almost intimate atmosphere. Amara couldn’t help but appreciate that detail. She was, in truth, relieved that he hadn’t noticed her yet.

She hesitated to move. Her heart beat faster than she wanted it to.
The door handle, just a few steps away, still seemed out of reach.

And yet, she had left Ada’s house with a new feeling, a breath of courage, fragile but real. She had put on her coat, tied her scarf around her neck, slipped on her gloves like a soldier preparing their armor. Stepping through the door, she had felt upright, resolved. She wasn’t healed. But she had chosen to act.

But the truth is, courage is not a straight line. It cracks under the weight of memory, wavers with each step.

And as she walked up the street, passing the bookstore, her resolve slowly dulled. At the corner, just before turning toward the shop, a lump had formed in her throat. Not fear, not just that but awareness. Awareness that this decision might change everything.

But she was here.
Because she had chosen to be.

It wasn’t a decision made on impulse. She had been thinking about it for days or rather, nights. When sleep evaded her and the ceiling became her only horizon. When the daylight timidly pierced through the curtains, and she stayed in bed, unable to move. She had thought of everything: the consequences, the silences, the discomfort, the possible relief. And still, she couldn’t decide.

So, she had done what her instinct urged her to do: she called Jeremiah.

It had been a long time since she had needed her brother like that. Since childhood, maybe. When she would climb into his bed, small and full of questions, or cry without saying a word. Jeremiah was not a demonstrative man. He never gave grand speeches or advice wrapped in pretty words. But he had always been there. Constant. Steady. True.

So Amara had finally come out of her room.

In her hands, she held the tray Ada had left her earlier that day. This time, it was empty. She had eaten. A simple fact, seemingly trivial, but in truth, the weight of a silent victory. She had finished her plate, piece by piece, like someone slowly resurfacing after a long dive. The weight of the tray in her hands almost made her feel anchored to the real world.

She had descended the stairs slowly, carefully, her fingers clenched around the polished wood of the banister. Below, the voices of Ada and James floated up to her, interspersed with Karl’s soft, crystalline laughter. Fragments of ordinary life. Amara approached them on tiptoe, like someone nearing a distant memory they’re afraid to break.

She still felt shame. Shame for having disappeared into silence. Shame for not knowing how to respond to the care, the presence, the love that had been offered to her unconditionally. Shame for coming back, empty, exhausted, and yet welcomed.

She had stopped for a moment at the threshold of the living room. An invisible line, between shadow and light.

The conversation stopped instantly when Ada looked up at her. Her face froze, eyebrows furrowed with a mix of worry and relief. Then, Ada’s eyes dropped to the empty tray in Amara’s hands. And then, she smiled. Gently. Tenderly. A smile without words, yet full of meaning.

Amara placed the tray on the coffee table, just in front of the velvet sofa where Ada sat. Then, without a word, she leaned toward her. Her arms naturally found Ada’s body, wrapping her in a silent, almost desperate embrace. Ada held her tight. Held her like someone holding onto a loved one returned from too far away.

Amara whispered, her voice broken into her ear:

— I’m sorry, Ada.

And Ada squeezed her tighter.

— You don’t need to apologize, Amara. I’m just glad to see you.

They stayed like that for a while, suspended in a bubble outside of time.

Then Amara turned toward James, who watched them with a small, shy smile. The kind of smile that comes quietly, but warms you up inside.

— I started reading the beginning of your book, she said softly . I really like it. You write beautifully.

James blushed slightly, his smile stretching a little more genuinely. He looked a bit surprised, as if that compliment meant more than most. Then, in a delicate gesture of discretion, he turned to Karl:

— What if we went to play in your room for a bit? he asked gently.

Karl immediately nodded, happy, and trotted after him, following him upstairs with the quiet energy of childhood. Their departure left the living room wrapped in a soft calm.

Amara turned back to Ada, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her sleeve.

— The day I went to the pub with William, she said slowly, he made me an offer… to take care of his accounts.

Ada nodded, attentive.

— Why didn’t you tell me?

Amara shook her head softly, lowering her eyes to her knees.

— I didn’t know what to think of it myself.

Ada didn’t push, didn’t pry. She simply leaned in a little, placing her hand on Amara’s with quiet kindness.

— If you’re telling me now, it means you’ve been thinking about it , she replied simply.

Amara nodded, unable to say more. That silence spoke volumes.

Ada gently caressed her knee, then said in a soft but steady voice:

— Whatever you choose, my house will always be open to you, Amara. You will always be welcome here.

Amara’s heart tightened. She nodded, her lips trembling briefly under the weight of gratitude. Then, in an almost timid breath, she asked:

— Can I use the phone in the hallway?

Ada let out a light, clear laugh.

— Make yourself at home, of course.

Amara dialed the number she knew by heart, the one for the Jesus household. Each digit she pressed echoed in her mind like a silent prayer. Holding the receiver to her ear, she waited, holding her breath. After a few rings, a familiar, calming voice answered:

— Jesus residence, how may I help you?

Amara’s shoulders relaxed. It was Jeremiah. She wouldn’t have to face the bright, cheerful voices of her nieces and nephews just yet no matter how sweet that contact might have been. She wouldn’t have known what to say. Not now. Not with so much uncertainty in her heart.

She took a breath, then spoke gently:

— Jeremiah… it’s me.

A brief silence followed. She imagined him standing in the hallway, surprised to hear her voice on the other end of the line. Then his voice came through, warm as ever:

— Amara… my sister. How are you?

She waited a few seconds. Her throat was tight, but she forced a neutral tone:

— I’m okay… and you? How are the kids?

Jeremiah was probably frowning. He knew that voice. The one Amara had used since childhood when she claimed everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. He could have questioned her, nudged gently, but he chose not to.

— The kids are well. They miss you, especially the girls.

Those words sank deep, a dull ache blooming in Amara’s chest. She missed them too. Their absence was a shadow that stretched across her days. That distance, that bond she feared was fraying, was what made her so hesitant.

— Do you like London? he asked after a pause.

She felt the weight of the question and chose her words carefully.

— It’s beautiful… The architecture is stunning, and the city never seems to sleep.

She paused. Then, more hesitant, as if she weren’t sure she had the right to say more, she whispered:

— Jeremiah… I… I wanted to talk to you.

Jeremiah stayed silent for a few seconds, but when he replied, his voice was steady and reassuring, like an old oak:

— Talk to me, Amara. The Lord and I are listening.

She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her courage. Then, in a calm but fragile voice, she confessed:

— Someone offered me a job… here. In accounting. It’s in my field. I’ve looked in Birmingham, but… I haven’t found anything. And I don’t know what to do.

There was a sigh on the other end. One of those thoughtful sighs, not a judgmental one.

— Is the employer a respectable man?

Amara thought of William. His calm, his patience, his always measured and respectful demeanor. She had never felt uneasy around him.

— Yes. He’s respectful and… fair. I believe he is.

Another silence, and then Jeremiah spoke again, his voice low, almost tender:

— Amara, my love… I know you. You’re hesitating to stay in London.

That simple term of endearment “my love” stirred something deep inside her. He hadn’t called her that since she left home, since they were children. It was the name their mother had used for her, when she held her in her lap and the house still felt whole.

— Stay , Jeremiah said. If you believe this job is for you, that it will value you as you deserve, then stay.

Amara closed her eyes. She wished she could hug him right then. But he was hundreds of miles away. And yet, he felt closer than ever.

— I’m scared, Jeremiah… I’m so scared. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave the children…

He listened, then answered with the simple wisdom she had always admired in him:

— Change is scary, sister. That’s its nature. It’s not the absence of fear that marks a good decision, it’s the courage to face it. And if the children are what’s holding you back… don’t forget: things aren’t like before, we have money now. London’s just a few hours by train. We’re not at the end of the world. They can come visit with Ada’s blessing. You won’t lose them.

Tears welled up in Amara’s eyes silent, burning.

— Thank you… she murmured, her voice tight. Thank you, Jeremiah.

— I love you, Amara. You are always guided, you know that. And whatever you choose, you’re on the right path.

Then he added, softly, like a secret:

— You’re stronger than you think.

The line went quiet for a moment. Then she heard a soft laugh in the background, a child’s shout, Hossana and Jeremiah’s voice gently saying:

— I have to go, sister. But you know where to find me. And the kids will be thrilled to hear your voice next time.

— I’ll call again soon, she replied.

And after one last breath shared, they hung up.

Amara had listened to Jeremiah like a little sister listens to her older brother with that quiet, almost sacred attention only siblings understand. His words still echoed in her mind, a balm against the fear.

Lost in thought, she didn’t immediately notice that William had finished sweeping. He had straightened up, still holding the broom handle in one hand, and was now watching her through the shop window. When their eyes met, he gave her a soft smile, almost conspiratorial. Amara felt her heart skip.

She looked up at him, surprised at being caught off guard, then sighed gently. Taking a quiet breath, she pushed open the door to the barber shop, making the little bell above the entrance chime. The sound, delicate but clear, broke the silence of the street like a small echo of courage.

William, still standing by the barber’s chair, greeted her with an amused smile.

— Miss Amara… don’t be shy, please. Come on in.

She returned his smile, lowering her head slightly in embarrassment. He had seen her, frozen in front of the window, hesitating. Her indecision had been plain as day.

William gently set the broom against the wall, near the mirror, and turned fully toward her. He held a welcoming stance, his gaze open and warm.

— How are you? he asked. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.

Amara looked at him for a few seconds, searching for the right words, then replied with quiet sincerity:

— I'm doing well, thank you. And… I'm truly sorry I didn’t come sooner.

William listened without interrupting, then gently shook his head, his calming smile unwavering.

— There’s nothing to apologize for, don’t worry. I’m just glad to see you again. And I appreciate you stopping by before heading back to Birmingham.

At the mention of the city, Amara’s gaze dropped to her shoes. She drew in a short breath and, almost unconsciously, started fidgeting with her fingers, her thumbs rubbing against each other an unmistakable sign of nervousness.

But she knew why she had come.

She raised her eyes to meet William’s. Despite her reserve, her gaze was more direct now, and her voice, though hesitant, carried a quiet resolve.

— Actually, William… I’ve been thinking about your offer. I’ve taken some time to really consider it. And I… I’d like to accept. If it’s still on the table.

A gentle silence settled in the shop, hanging between them like a necessary pause.

William looked at her, surprised. Then his face lit up not with excitement, but with a kind of steady, grateful warmth. The kind that comes from understanding the weight of a hard choice. He stepped forward slowly, without rushing, and replied with the calm sincerity that seemed to be his nature:

— It’s still on the table. Of course it is.

He approached quietly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, watching Amara with kind eyes, though there was a carefulness in his gaze as if he didn’t want to seem too eager. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and steady, touched with restraint:

— First of all, I want you to know I don’t expect you to be here every day. We can set a schedule that works for you. A few mornings a week, or even less, whatever you think is reasonable.

Amara looked at him for a long moment before replying with quiet clarity:

— Thank you, but I promise that won’t be necessary. I intend to work fully. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of your kindness.

William nodded slowly, a faint smile spreading across his lips. He searched for the right words, his eyes drifting around the shop.

— Alright then… Well… now that you’re here, I guess I should be able to tell you what I expect from you.

He paused, opened his mouth, hesitated, furrowed his brow as he glanced toward the counter. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he muttered:

— Shit…

The word slipped out in a breath of frustration, and it drew a light smile from Amara, she was almost amused by his awkward honesty. She stifled a quiet laugh, lowering her eyes.

William lifted his hands in mock defeat, giving her a half-smile:

— See? You haven’t even started yet and I’m already losing my words…

He looked down, then back up at her with disarming sincerity.

— I’m sorry. It’s just… I really don’t know anything about management, accounting, any of that. I know how to cut hair, I know how to talk to my clients, I know how to keep this place clean. But making budgets, managing the books, planning for slow months… that’s a foreign language to me.

He paused, then spoke again with more certainty:

— So I want you to do what you think is right. What you said at the pub, about organizing things, saving money, how we could make the shop run better… all of that, I’m listening. It’s your area, and I trust you.

Amara nodded, genuinely touched by the trust he was placing in her. She folded her hands in front of her, then murmured simply:

— I’ll do whatever you prefer. After all, you’re the boss.

William immediately shook his head, a more open smile on his lips, tinged with genuine humility.

— No, Amara. I won’t be your boss. I’d make a terrible boss, to be honest. I never really was one.

He looked down briefly, then met her gaze again, his expression soft, almost vulnerable in its honesty.

— The boss here was my father. He ran this place with discipline. Since he passed, I’ve just been doing my best. But I never claimed to step into his shoes.

Then, with a more genuine, almost playful smile:

— So no, I won’t be your superior. I’d rather say I’ll be your colleague.

Amara lifted her eyes to him, a gentle, grateful smile forming on her lips.

— Thank you, William.

He shook his head again, shrugging lightly:

— I should be the one thanking you. You have no idea how relieved I am. I’ve been half-sleeping with numbers running through my head for weeks.

With that, he grabbed the broom resting by the wall and disappeared into the back room to put it away. In his brief absence, a gentle silence filled the space, interrupted only by the soft hum of the street outside. Amara let her eyes wander over the shop, the worn but pristine barber chair, the neatly lined jars of ointments, the tools carefully arranged in their places.

And suddenly, reality caught up with her.

Soon, she’d start working here. She wasn’t just passing through London anymore. She was settling in. A new life, in a vast city, hours away from Birmingham and her family. It didn’t seem that far on a map. And yet, inside her, it felt like she was setting off for the other side of the world.

She took a deep breath, but didn’t have time to get lost in her thoughts. William had already returned to the main room. He stepped behind the counter, glanced at her, then pursed his lips as if weighing his words. When he spoke, his voice was more hesitant than usual.

— We haven’t talked about pay.

He scratched the back of his neck, slightly awkward.

— I… I don’t know how much you were earning before. Probably more than what I can offer here. I just want to be honest with you, Amara.

She shook her head immediately, her eyes calm.

— You don’t need to worry about that. I’m not here chasing a number. Whatever you can give me will be enough.

He exhaled softly, visibly relieved, then fell quiet for a second, mentally calculating, before offering cautiously:

— I was thinking 25 shillings a week. It’s modest, I know. But I plan to raise that as soon as I can. If business goes well, you’ll be the first to know.

Amara nodded slowly, a quiet smile on her lips. She appreciated his honesty as much as the effort behind it.

William nodded toward one of the waiting chairs with a tilt of his chin.

 — Sit down for a bit. I’ll just put my tools away.

She settled into the chair where, only a few days earlier, little Karl had fallen asleep on her lap. The memory made her smile softly as William silently cleaned his scissors and brushes, focused. Then, in a lower tone, as if afraid to cross a line, he continued:

 — This might be a little personal, but… why did you decide to stay in London? The other night at the pub, you didn’t seem ready to make that choice.

Amara let out a light sigh, her gaze drifting off into nothing. Her mind wandered, involuntarily, to the birth of Charlie. That fragile, overwhelming moment when everything had changed.

She shook her head slightly and replied, almost in a whisper:

 — I think… I think part of me hadn’t realized how much I needed a fresh start.

She wasn’t sure if that was the whole truth. Maybe not. Maybe she was still searching for the reason, somewhere in the chaos.

But for now, it was the only answer she could give.

William slowly nodded to Amara’s response. He accepted what she gave him. Not a word too many, not a question too much. He seemed to understand instinctively that her being there, and choosing to answer, already meant a great deal. And for that restraint, that lack of insistence, Amara felt strangely grateful.

He turned slightly, picking up one of his tools from the counter without really looking at it. After a few seconds, he spoke again, his tone calm:

 — You know… I came to London for a fresh start too. Not just for business, ambition, or clients. That’s what I usually say. But that’s only part of the truth.

Amara looked up, curious despite herself. Still, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to ask intrusive questions, didn’t want to force intimacy. But William continued, as if he could sense that he could share, just a little.

 — Before I left Manchester… I was going to get married.

He paused briefly, almost imperceptibly.

 — The date was set, the invitations were sent…

Amara glanced at William’s hand for a second. She looked for a wedding ring. Nothing. Maybe he didn’t wear it while working. Or maybe… maybe the story had been more painful than expected. Her heart tightened slightly for him, but she said nothing. She didn’t want to intrude.

William went on, his voice lower now:

 — She met someone else. A richer man than me. The son of a shipbuilder who made his fortune in the Liverpool docks. She left with him. No word. No warning. Not even to me.

He shook his head, a soft sigh on his lips. Though years had passed, the wound hadn’t entirely healed. It was still there, quieter, but still tender.

Amara said nothing. Words didn’t come easily. And yet, she understood. More than anyone. She too had seen the man she loved take another woman for a wife. She too had felt that silence, that vertigo, that emptiness. But she stayed quiet. Too ashamed, too raw. William didn’t know her story, and selfishly, she didn’t want him to. Not yet. Not like that. She wanted to keep that small corner of life where Tommy Shelby didn’t exist.

Finally, in a soft voice, she murmured:

 — I’m really sorry, William. I can only imagine how painful that must have been.

He paused for a moment in his task. Then he turned to her, a slight smile on his lips. Not as bright as before, but sincere. Calmer, maybe.

 — That was years ago. It’s in the past now. And you know what? I don’t regret leaving Manchester. Not for a second. London gave me something else. Something new.

Amara nodded slowly, moved by his words. She hoped, deep down, that one day she could say the same.

And in the soft silence that followed, punctuated by the quiet sounds of the shop, a kind of peace settled between them. No grand words, no excess. Just two people sitting in a neighborhood barber shop, beginning something else.

William carefully placed his tools down, taking a moment to make sure everything was in its place. He wasn’t looking at Amara anymore, but she could tell, by the stillness in his movements, that his thoughts were still with their recent conversation. The shared confession, discreet but sincere, had brought a new kind of silence between them. Not an awkward one. The kind you leave untouched, out of respect.

— You know, he said after a while, still tidying up, deep down, I think you might like it here. London’s a big place. You often go unnoticed, but sometimes, you find places or faces that feel like home.

He looked up at her then, a straightforward gaze, free of any expectation. Amara met his eyes without replying, but his words echoed somewhere inside her, in a part of her mind she hadn’t dared explore yet.

William smiled faintly, as if already regretting having opened up so much, then slipped a hand into his waistcoat pocket to pull out his pocket watch. He opened it with his fingertips, checked the time, and an amused expression crossed his face.

— In a few minutes, my regular client will be here. Mr. Abernathy. A lovely man, but… let’s just say he talks more than most. Worse than the church ladies on Sunday mornings. A real walking newspaper.

He snapped the watch shut with a small click.

— You’re welcome to stay if you’d like, of course, but I’m warning you… he talks about everything from his rheumatism to his first loves, and even the Napoleonic wars.

Amara smiled and stood slowly, instinctively smoothing the fabric of her dress.

 — I think it’s time for me to go then. I wouldn’t want to steal his audience.

She picked up her coat, draping it over her shoulders, then met his gaze again.

— Thank you again, William. For everything.

William raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised.

— I should be the one thanking you, Amara.

She answered with a simple, grateful smile.

— I’ll see you tomorrow then? he asked as he bent down to move a towel.

— Yes, she nodded. I’ll be on time.

But William shook his head with a small laugh, his smile growing lighter.

— Come whenever you like. There aren’t really any hours for you here.

She nodded again, carrying with her that quiet kindness that seemed to live in everything he said.

— Have a good day, William, she said as she headed for the door.

He looked up, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, and watched her with that usual calm not trying to impress, just being sincere.

— You too, Amara. Take care of yourself.

She stepped out of the shop into the soft afternoon light, the chime above the door ringing gently behind her. Outside, the city was moving on—indifferent and in a hurry. But inside the little barbershop of W. Fletcher & Son, something had shifted.

As Amara descended the steps, she felt, for the first time in a long while, a kind of certainty settle within her. Not the certainty of having made the right choice, she wasn’t quite there yet but the feeling of having finally set foot somewhere. Not quite a home, but a place where something might begin.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, May 19, 1922

Dawn stretched across Birmingham, slowly revealing the sharp lines of the industrial city. The chimneys were already spewing their gray smoke, and a fine mist still hovered between the warehouses, as if the night refused to give up its place.

Thomas Shelby stood beneath one of them, motionless. A dilapidated building, clinging to the factories, its façade blackened by years and ashes. In a corner, an old chipped porcelain sink clung to a rickety cabinet. The water, clear for once, dribbled lazily from a rusty tap. He splashed his face with it, the chill of the liquid making him flinch. Then, without a word, he rolled a cigarette between his fingers, moistened it with his lips, lit it, and took a slow drag.

From inside his long coat, he pulled out his pocket watch and studied the golden hands. On time. But he already knew others wouldn’t be. Churchmen were rarely punctual. Or maybe they were simply on the devil’s schedule always one step behind God, just close enough to pretend they walked in His light.

With a firm step, he crossed the muddy yard and reached a corner sheltered from the wind, wedged between two brick walls. His boots sank into a mix of mud, oil, and coal dust. There, a bare, grimy concrete square held a few crookedly placed objects. A small space, but just enough to accommodate two dark wooden chairs. He sat down, took a long drag from his cigarette, and waited.

The other man was already there. Father Hughes. Seated upright, dressed in black, in his cassock, hands folded on his knees. He said nothing for a while, as if savoring the silence or using it to assert dominance. His face, smooth and composed, betrayed no emotion.

Then, in a calm, almost concerned tone, he asked:

— So… your charitable organization. Will it take in only boys, or girls as well?

Thomas slowly exhaled cigarette smoke without looking at him, eyes fixed on an invisible point beyond the dirty bricks. He took a few seconds before answering, in a neutral, almost detached voice:

— Both, he said simply.

Since the wedding, he hadn’t seen Father Hughes. It wasn’t a presence he had missed. The man wore a priest’s garb, but nothing in his gaze, voice, or actions reflected compassion or faith. He was a strategist, a manipulator. A man who used God as a weapon and morality as a mask. A serpent in divine cloth, ready to hiss scripture while handing out poisoned apples.

The priest took out a cigarette in turn, lighting it with a slow, ceremonial gesture.

— You’ll need to separate them, he said in a measured tone. You know how young people are. Virtue, Mr. Shelby, is never guaranteed.

Tommy couldn’t care less about virtues. He wasn’t a man of morality, even less of faith. The little religious education he had received came from the Catholic school in Small Heath, or from Polly, back when she still tried to drag him to church. But none of it had taken root in him. And it certainly wasn’t a man like Father Hughes, with his pious air and fingers dipped in holy water and vice, who would teach him otherwise.

The only person he had ever allowed to speak to him about God, belief, or salvation was Amara.

He had caught her more than once, alone in the back office after hours. She’d finished the accounts, everything in order, and she would read her Bible aloud in a soft murmur. He had listened, sometimes without her knowing, drawn less by the meaning of the verses than by the gentleness of her voice. She had told him once that reading aloud helped her understand better. He hadn’t replied, but he had stayed. She had spoken to him of her Christian upbringing, of the importance of faith in her life, without ever trying to convert him. Just sharing.

When Ada was pregnant, and he saw the pregnancy as an unwelcome accident, Amara had told him that maybe the child was a gift. A sign. He hadn’t argued. He had listened. Because she, and only she, could speak of such things without making him feel sick.

But Father Hughes… no. That man had no virtue, only interests, strings, and masks. He embodied clerical hypocrisy in its most insidious form. He was no better than Tommy’s men. If a Peaky Blinder wanted to hire a prostitute or several, he would, and screw her until he couldn’t feel his own cock anymore. And Tommy wasn’t about to stop him.

So he decided to change the subject. To distance himself from this hollow conversation and the memories it was stirring up. He took another drag of his cigarette, then said in a neutral tone:

— Your friends were supposed to be here at five a.m.

He stared at the ground, looking absent. The priest didn’t seem to mind.

— They follow their own rules, Hughes replied calmly. You can never quite pin them down. Like a bar of soap slipping from your fingers.

Tommy didn’t even look up. He had no interest in meeting the man’s eyes. He held contempt for him, maybe even disgust, an emotion he rarely felt anymore. This meeting wasn’t something he’d wanted. Barely out of bed, still marked by fragments of restless dreams, of shells and screams, he had known it would be necessary. Necessary for business. And he did what had to be done. As always.

He spoke again, lower this time, almost to himself:

— I did some digging.

The priest nodded, mildly intrigued.

— You may know them as the "Economic League". I only got one letter from them. The letterhead read “Militia.” He paused. Which says something about their intentions.

Tommy clicked his tongue in disapproval. Tilted his head slightly, a thinking habit.

— No, he said coldly.

He straightened a bit and continued, laying out his words like cards on a table.

— The name I heard is “Section D.” That’s what they call counterintelligence services.

As he spoke, he poured a bit of whiskey into a dented metal cup on the table between them. The dull morning light reflected on the golden liquid. He took a quick sip and set the cup down silently.

— Businessmen, deputies, a few high-ranking officers.

Tommy took another drag, letting the smoke drift slowly from his lips. The light wind carried a scent of rust and iron, a perfume of destruction that suited the place. Father Hughes spoke again, his tone as calculated as ever, but with a hint of irony he didn’t even try to hide:

— It’ll be amusing to see all those fine gentlemen at a Gypsy scrap yard.

Tommy let out a laugh devoid of warmth, almost mechanical, joyless. He knew Hughes had picked up on the irony of the location, but that wasn’t why he’d chosen it. No, he had brought the priest here deliberately. To this rundown warehouse where mud, the metallic smell of scrap, and black chimney smoke mingled in a suffocating atmosphere. A place where the sky was barely visible, swallowed under a veil of pollution. The kind of place that gave a taste of the war Tommy carried in his mind, a war of the underlayers.

— You wanted a place out of sight, said Tommy, eyes fixed on the gray, misty horizon. I made sure it was discreet enough. At this hour, no workers in the factories.

Hughes seemed to appreciate the remark, but he didn’t answer immediately. He was scanning the surroundings. Then he slowly turned toward Tommy, his gaze serious.

— Since the elections, the government has marked us as the enemy to destroy. All we’re trying to do is save the country from revolution.

Tommy, unflinching, didn’t react. He stared at the muddy ground, thoughts swirling. We , he thought. Hughes was putting him in the same category. Tommy felt the same disgust for the man in front of him as he did for his own reflection. But not for the same reasons. It wasn’t the same kind of disgust. The man before him knew exactly what he wanted: to manipulate, to control, to impose his version of power. And Tommy… Tommy had never hidden. He never wore the mask of virtue. He played by his own rules. Not for revolution, not for politics. Just for… himself… and his family.

He stayed silent. But the priest, clearly used to breaking silence, cleared his throat and continued with a faint smile.

— Are you a political man, Mr. Shelby?

He paused, watching Tommy closely.

— Because the Odd Fellows believe the time is coming when everyone will have to choose a side.

Tommy slowly turned his gaze. His attention seemed as far away as the blue sky drowning in black clouds. Hughes’s words slid right off him, leaving no mark. He didn’t want to talk politics with this priest, or even what “choosing a side” was supposed to mean. The idea of “sides” meant nothing to Tommy. He was neither for nor against, not for this cause or that. What mattered was business. The rest was just a game he had no interest in playing.

Hughes waited for a response. But he got none. Tommy didn’t even lift his head.

The smell of smoke and metal, the weight of the air everything felt like it was waiting. A suspended moment where everything could tilt. Tommy took another drag from his cigarette and glanced up at the sky, now nearly black beneath the thick layer of soot.

He finally spoke, his voice as cold as the metal around them.

— Are your men coming soon, yeah? Or are they not coming at all?

He had no patience for power plays or delays. Not with Hughes. Not that morning. Tommy wasn’t the begging type, and he had no time to waste especially not on promises still unkept. He cared only about the outcome. And if they weren’t coming, the outcome was about to shift.

Father Hughes, unfazed, took one last drag of his cigarette before replying with a vague smile.

— Mr. Shelby, you’ll find these men are far too eminent for the clock to dictate their presence.

He paused, letting smoke escape from his nose, almost theatrically. Then added, still in that detached tone:

— And you… you’ll get used to dawn meetings. They’re monks at heart… in both soul and methods.

Tommy didn’t answer straight away. He just smoked again, eyelids a little heavier. He was tired. Tired of war, of politics, of power games, and now of Hughes’s theater. After this charade, he’d go sit at the Garrison, have a drink or two. Maybe more.

But Hughes wasn’t done. His tone softened slightly.

— Your charity institution, when is it meant to open?

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. He reached for the bottle of whiskey he’d poured from earlier. He wouldn’t wait until the end of the meeting to refill. With a calm but decisive gesture, he filled his dented metal cup before replying in a weary tone:

— When I decide.

He brought the glass to his lips, let the liquid burn his throat without flinching, then set it back down on the metal crate that served as their table. The idea for the charity had come from Polly. She, always strong, always sure of her principles, had said they finally had enough money to do something more than business or betting. That they could, that they should help. And even though the project cast a flattering light on the Shelbys, Polly wasn’t doing it for that. She meant it.

Tommy thought about it often. And more than once, seeing her dive into the project, he’d thought Amara would’ve loved the idea. He was certain. She would’ve insisted on being part of it, managing the investments, overseeing every donation, every step or even being physically there, with those in need. Amara wasn’t the type to stand in the shadows of charity. She would’ve been its beating heart. She would’ve wanted it done right. Fairly.

A quiet sigh slipped from Tommy’s lips, heavier than he meant it to be. He’d spoken to Grace about it too. Surprisingly, she’d shown real enthusiasm. She had offered to host a gala, or at least a reception for the opening, and came up with a hundred other ideas. Tommy had nodded back then, distracted, not really listening to each one. But he remembered the light in her eyes when she spoke about it.

Grace had grown up in a well-off family, sheltered from need. She didn’t know what it meant to go without. To be cold or hungry. But she seemed to want to understand.

Father Hughes let out a soft laugh, almost mocking, in response to Tommy’s growing irritation, then said in a syrupy voice:

— Well then, I’ll come by from time to time… to hear the confessions of those young ones.

He paused, watching Tommy’s reaction, then added:

— You’ll meet MP Patrick Jarvis. He’ll want to join the board, no doubt. Loves dropping by in the evening after a few drinks. We’ll fold that arrangement into our current deal. And of course, I’ll need an office on site.

At those words, Tommy slowly rose from his rickety chair. He flicked his cigarette into the thick mud at his feet, sharp and sudden, then grabbed the chair he’d been sitting on and dragged it across to sit directly in front of Hughes, his back to him. He sat, slightly hunched forward, and spat into the mud with a harsh, guttural sound, a reflex of weariness and disgust.

The priest laughed again. Louder this time, almost pleased.

— My God, you’re a soul torn by the Devil, boy.

Tommy didn’t turn. He stared straight ahead, distant, as if the Birmingham sky had something to tell him. He’d heard that phrase before, in different forms. But now, said by this man, in this place, it hit different. Maybe it was true. Maybe he was torn. Between who he used to be and who he’d become. Between what he felt and what he did. Between Amara’s world, Grace’s world… and his own. A world of blood, twisted loyalties, and sleepless nights.

He didn’t reply. What was the point? Silence was answer enough.

Father Hughes spoke again, sharper this time, as if aiming for the softest spot:

— Mr. Shelby… if I feel like playing the lord in your so-called charity, I will. Respectability won’t make you a saint.

Tommy’s jaw tensed. He knew Polly had built the charity with sincerity. And yes, to him, it was also a tool. A lever. To gain ground, influence. To polish the Shelby image in circles where money alone wasn’t enough. That was true. But it wasn’t the truth.

Because he wanted this to work. He wanted it to help kids not end up like him.

But he said nothing. Because in Hughes’ mouth, even the truth sounded rotten.

The priest, mistaking the silence for victory, allowed himself one last word, his tone almost caressing:

— Am I not right, Mr. Shelby?

Tommy didn’t answer right away. Before he could even open his mouth, the bells of Birmingham church rang out, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between the two men. The deep, repetitive sound seemed to pour between the red bricks and the mud.

Father Hughes slowly rose from his chair, dusting the folds of his cassock absentmindedly before saying lightly:

— Lord, already six in the morning.

As he approached Tommy, he added:

— Well then, I wish you a good day, Mr. Shelby.

Still seated, Tommy closed his eyes for a moment. He listened. The bells in the distance. The priest’s slow steps in the mud. The creaking of wood underfoot. Then, with his eyes barely open, brow furrowed, he asked, his voice low but firm:

— Where are you going?

The priest stopped a few steps away, turned back, his gaze laced with irony.

— Haven’t I been clear enough? he said, shrugging. They said if morning prayers began without them, then the meeting wasn’t happening. Maybe Mr. Jarvis was held up at the House of Commons. Or Admiral Hall fell asleep in the Lords’ armchairs.

He smirked.

— Am I impressing you, Mr. Shelby?

Tommy barely looked up at him, his gaze calm and unreadable.

— Or perhaps, Hughes went on, raising his voice, they simply changed their minds about doing business with a gypsy, between two piles of rusted scrap. Which, you’ll understand, would be very unfortunate for you.

Tommy stayed impassive. Not a muscle moved on his face. He slowly crushed the cigarette butt under his heel, stared at it for a moment, then said:

— Give them a message from me.

Hughes raised an eyebrow. Tommy waited a few seconds. The wind carried scraps of soot and sour rain. Then he continued:

— Tell them I went to the factory. And that the armored vehicles are in very good condition.

He had gone the night before. Late, after the neighborhood had fallen into a grey stupor. He had entered the foreman’s office. A man in his fifties, tight-faced, too upright to be honest, too sure of himself to be humble.

The man didn’t crack immediately. Claimed he wasn’t afraid of Tommy Shelby. One of those who speak stiffly to hide the fear tightening their throat. Tommy didn’t argue. He just asked:

— Do you have the keys to warehouses 4, 5 and 6?

The man nodded, wary. Tommy leaned in slightly.

— And what’s in each of them?

The man answered like reading off an inventory list, unaware of Tommy’s real aim. But Tommy already knew. It was warehouse number 6. The one not mentioned in any clear report. The right one.

When he asked for the keys, the man hesitated, claiming warehouse 6 was just an old stock room, useless. Tommy didn’t insist. He simply repeated:

— The keys.

The man eventually gave in. Tommy, in return, pulled out a wad of notes, offering it with a precise gesture.

— For the trouble.

The man refused, muttering:

— Keep it for your good deeds.

But Tommy slipped the money into the man’s work overalls pocket without another word. And this time, the man didn’t push it away.

As Tommy left the office, the man murmured, trying to justify his silence with misplaced pride:

— I’m doing this just for my family.

Tommy didn’t judge him. He wasn’t the first or the last man to say that. And he knew, better than anyone, that’s the kind of thing you tell yourself when you start sliding into the mud.

And he, too, sometimes needed to believe he was doing it for his own. For Polly. For his brothers. For Ada. For Charlie now.

Tommy had walked alone, in the night’s silence, toward warehouse number 6. The wind carried the metallic scent of rain on steel rooftops, the acrid smell of old machine oil. He opened the heavy iron door, the key still warm in his palm. Inside, under half-dead lights, loomed massive silhouettes. Between dismantled wagons and the carcasses of old vehicles, there stood, unmoving, intimidating machines.

Armored vehicles. Old machines, built for wars past but still alive in their threat. Riveted steel hulks, with low turrets, short thick cannons, mounted on sturdy tracks. Tanks designed in the 1920s, forged for the post–Great War Europe.

Tommy had watched them in silence. They didn’t shine. There was no admiration in them. These weren’t works of art, they were promises. Of violence. Of control. Of power.

Father Hughes asked:

— How many are there?

Tommy let a few seconds pass before answering:

— Twenty-seven.

Then, after a beat, as if it mattered little:

— And the foreman’s working for us.

Hughes pulled out a small paper from the inner pocket of his coat and held it out. Tommy took it silently. The priest declared, almost ceremonially:

— This is who you’ll be meeting in a few days. At the Ritz.

Tommy glanced at the name written. Nodded vaguely. Then said coldly:

— I’ve got meetings this week...

But Hughes cut him off sharply:

— You’ve got one meeting. That one. In London.

He was already turning away, as if he’d said all there was to say. Then, while walking off:

— You’d best find yourself a train.

And he disappeared into the grey of morning.

Tommy stood still. Eyes on the ground. It wasn’t the authority or even the imposed meeting that unsettled him. What really got to him was the city.

London.

That’s where she was.

Amara.

The name etched itself into his thoughts like a silent truth, a soft, precise ache. It had been weeks since she’d left gone “for a few days.”

He hadn’t seen her since. Not since that day in his office. And yet, she haunted every silence, every quiet moment. He couldn’t help imagining what she was doing, what her days looked like, whether she still laughed with that glint in her eye, whether she’d found a sliver of peace in the world she had to flee just to breathe.

The thought of being in the same city as her shook him more than he cared to admit. He even caught himself considering the unthinkable: dropping by Ada’s place, unannounced, with no real reason, just to pass through. To maybe cross paths with Amara. Catch a glimpse of her in a hallway. Hear her voice from the next room.

But he didn’t have that right.

No right to approach her. No right to shake her fragile balance. Not after what he’d said, what he’d done. He wished he could take the words back, undo the quiet violence he’d inflicted out of pride, out of fear, out of that absurd urge to protect when he didn’t know how to love.

He missed her.

It was as simple, and as brutal, as that.

And still, he would do nothing. He would go to London for the meeting. For the forced alliance. For the war they were preparing beneath the guise of peace.

Then he would return to Birmingham.

To his son.

And to… his wife.

Grace.

Chapter Text

London, May 21st, 1922

Amara sat behind the counter of the hair salon, her head slightly bowed, brows drawn in a calm sort of concentration. In her hands rested a brand-new notebook with a deep blue hardcover, its once-blank pages slowly filling with neat, orderly handwriting. Her pencil moved smoothly across the paper, forming columns of numbers, noting schedules, stock levels, and little observations in the margins.

She had only been working there for four days, but she already felt a new kind of stability. At that hour, the salon was still quiet, suspended in a kind of in-between before the first clients would arrive, before scissors began to sing through the air, before conversations filled the space with warmth and life.

She felt good. Strangely so.

And that feeling, she owed in large part to William.

On the morning of her first day, she had arrived early, her palms a little damp, her stomach knotted with apprehension. She’d stepped through the door cautiously, unsure whether she’d find the place empty or already bustling. But William had been there. He was waiting, leaning casually against the wall behind the counter, a smile in his eyes, as if he’d known she would come early.

— You didn’t have to come in so soon, Amara, he had said gently, gesturing to the chair behind the counter.

And then, as if saving it as a small surprise, he’d pulled out a brand-new notebook from under the counter, still wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to her with a quiet mix of pride and genuine care.

— I figured you might feel more at ease with a clean notebook. This way, you can organize things your own way. I picked one with lines, but if you prefer a grid, I can get another.

He’d said it with such disarming simplicity, as though the gesture was nothing special. But for Amara, it had been like balm. An unexpected kindness. She accepted it with a slightly trembling smile and a barely audible thank you, her eyes full of gratitude. It was the first time in a long while someone had given her something without expecting anything in return just because they had thought of her.

And William had done it without agenda, without rushing, with the quiet patience of someone who simply knew how to make space for another.

The night before that first day, Amara hadn’t slept.

She had tossed and turned in the bed Ada was lending her, the sheets becoming too hot, then too cold, her heart pounding in her chest with every thought that surfaced. She had imagined everything arriving late, messing up the accounts, feeling out of place, being a burden. She even dreamt, once sleep finally came, that she was behind the counter, unable to read the numbers, the letters dancing before her eyes. She had woken up short of breath, her fingers clenched around the bedsheet.

She’d spent the night thinking, too.

Thinking about what this job meant. This new beginning. This change of city. The choice she had made by leaving Birmingham behind.

London still scared her. She felt small in it, foreign, caught in a current she didn’t fully understand. But deep down, she knew this move had been necessary. She couldn’t have stayed in Birmingham. Not after everything that had happened. Not with all the memories still clinging to the walls of her apartment.

She wanted to turn the page but do it properly. With dignity. She wanted to be able to say she had moved forward on her own. She dreamed of independence—not the proud kind, but the simple, honest sort: paying her own rent, buying her own meals, her own books.

And maybe… maybe renting a small studio in London. Not a big one. Not a nice apartment. Just a space of her own, one she could arrange how she liked, where she could fall asleep without feeling like a guest.

She knew, of course, that independence wouldn’t come right away. The salon didn’t pay much, but it was a start. A good one. And that was enough, for now, to quiet the fast beat of her heart.

Amara inhaled slowly. The London sun filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. The scent of shampoo lingered in the air familiar, comforting. The distant sound of hooves on cobblestone, the first voices drifting up from the street, all of it came together to create a moment of peace.

She felt her shoulders relax a little.

Birmingham could wait. Just a few more days. She wasn’t ready to return. Not yet.

Not until she’d found enough strength to face what she had left behind.

Amara slowly rose from behind the counter and stepped in front of the large mirror directly across from the central salon chair, still empty at that hour. She looked at her reflection with a strange neutrality a kind of cautious calm. She looked better. Some of the fatigue had left her face, as if the sleepless nights that had haunted her had momentarily lifted in the warm air of the salon.

She ran a hand over her carefully styled hair, brushing the tight curls she had taken time to tame that morning. She sighed. Despite the reassuring words she had heard from her family growing up, despite Ada’s compliments, despite Jeremiah’s warm smile, Amara had never been someone with much self-confidence.

And it wasn’t really a matter of temperament. It ran deeper than that.

Childhood, adolescence, they shape you in ways you don’t always realize.

She often thought back to those school years in Birmingham, when she was the quiet girl in a loud classroom. A Black girl in an almost entirely white school, her memories were scattered with humiliations, sharp remarks thrown like darts in the hallway or on the playground.

How many times had she heard “You’re all burnt up. The sun didn’t spare you, huh?”
Or “Your hair looks fried.”, “ Are you dirty, is that why you’re Black?”, “ You’re too dark to be English.”

Absurd, cruel words, spoken with the casual cruelty of children who hadn’t yet been taught the weight of what they said.

She had lost count of the days she came home from school with a heavy heart, her scalp sore from pulled hair, her head buzzing with the mocking laughter of classmates. Often, she stayed silent at the dinner table, eyes fixed on her plate, slipping away to her room as quickly as she could.

Like Hossana and Mary, her two little nieces, she had once been that child who came home asking questions too big for her age. Why do they say I’m dirty? Why do they want to touch my hair? Why can’t I be like them?

But other times, the words wouldn’t come out at all. Her mind would spin into silence, tangled in shame, in confusion. In loneliness.

She still remembered, with painful clarity, one evening in particular. Her father was working a night shift in the coal mines, as usual. She’d come home after a horrible day, some boys had started imitating monkey sounds and pointing at her, one of them yanked hard on her braids “to see if they were real.” She had defended herself the only way she could by staying silent. She had shut down, still and quiet under their gazes.

Jeremiah, her brother, had picked her up that day. He’d seen something in her eyes. He didn’t say anything right away, but once they were home, he had gone to their mother and said 

— Amara’s acting strange. Something’s wrong, but she won’t talk.

She remembered the creak of the bedroom door she shared with her sister. The soft footsteps of her mother, the rustle of her dress as she sat beside her.

Her mother hadn’t asked any questions right away. She had simply taken her by the chin, gently stroking her cheeks with that same gesture she had always had tender, protective.

Amara had tried to hold back her tears. She clenched her jaw, wanting to pretend everything was fine, because she didn’t want to worry her mother, or seem weak. But her mother’s eyes read her like a book.

She whispered:

— It’s not you who’s dirty, my daughter. It’s people’s hearts that sometimes are. But you, you’re beautiful. You were born that way, with the skin of the sun and hair that grows like the roots of a strong tree.

But those words, the ones her mother said that night, didn’t soothe Amara. Not like before.

Something in her broke. The tears started falling uncontrollably, harder, more painful, as if they came from somewhere far deeper than just that day. She had pushed her mother’s gentle hands away in a sudden gesture, not even meaning to, and cried out, almost against her will:

— Why am I like this?!

Her voice cracked at the end. And then, louder, nearly a scream:

— Why can’t I be normal?!

She didn’t care in that moment what it might do to her mother to hear those words. The pain in her chest was too sharp, too heavy, too big to think about anything else. Through the sobs, she went on, eyes blurred with tears:

— I should never have been born…

And that’s when she saw it. That crack. That silent break in her mother’s eyes. No anger, no reproach. Just a deep, staggering pain that seemed to split her soul in two.

Her mother didn’t say anything at first. She just pulled her into her arms. Held her tightly. So tightly Amara thought, for a moment, she might never let go. And she didn’t. Even when Amara’s tears kept coming, even when her voice broke into painful hiccups against her chest, she held her as if trying to piece her back together with nothing but the strength of her embrace.

— I’m sorry, Mama… Amara kept repeating, again and again, through her tears.

She felt guilty. She didn’t even fully know why, but she felt guilty for saying those things, for hurting her, for yelling, for being a source of pain for the woman who had brought her into the world. Even if she hadn’t meant to. Even if it was the pain speaking.

And her mother, voice trembling but soft, whispered:

— I’m the one who’s sorry, my love…

Amara froze. She remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the first time she had ever heard her mother say those words. She’d never needed to before. She had always been strong, fair, protective. A mother like a fortress.

But something changed that night.

Her mother took a deep breath, like she was reaching for the right words, the kind you keep buried for too long out of fear of what they might stir.

— I think you’re old enough to understand now…

She paused, resting her cheek gently against Amara’s hair, her fingers still stroking her trembling back.

— Before I had your brothers and sisters, I was afraid, you know… Afraid of what the world would do to them. Afraid they wouldn’t be happy. Afraid they wouldn’t be accepted, wouldn’t be protected…

Her voice was calm, but Amara could feel her heartbeat racing.

— I hesitated to have children, Amara. But I wanted to honor God. So I had your three older brothers. And when your sister was born… that fear grew. Because being a Black man is hard. But being a Black woman… that’s a daily fight.

She leaned back a little, just enough to look Amara in the eyes.

— I didn’t want more children after her. Because I was too afraid of having another daughter…

She paused again, and Amara, breath shallow, stayed silent.

— But then you came. Like a miracle. A gift from God. I had no signs, no bump, no sickness. And one day… I felt you move.

She smiled softly at the memory.

— You revealed yourself to me. Like you wanted to say, “I’m here, see me.” And in that moment, I knew. I knew I was pregnant. I was scared, yes. But when I held you for the first time, all that fear disappeared. There was only you. You and your light. You were a blessing, Amara. A miracle. Proof that God never makes mistakes.

Amara could still feel the tears sliding down her cheeks. Her mother gently pulled away from the hug just enough to take her chin in her hand and lift her gaze. And that’s when Amara saw it, her mother was crying too. Soft, slow, deep tears.

She smiled at her. A wide, broken, but honest smile, carrying all the tenderness in the world in her face.

So, with a hesitant but natural gesture, Amara reached out to wipe away one of her mother’s tears. And she heard her say, with all the strength of her love:

— My love… I never want to hear you say that again. Never want to see you think you’re a mistake. Because the Lord doesn’t make mistakes. He shapes every soul with care. And you are a blessing. To me, to this family… and to the world. Do you hear me?

Amara nodded, silent. Her mother’s words sank deep into her that night.

And in a gentle, comforting gesture, her mother pulled her back into her arms, closing around her that unique refuge that cocoon of warmth and love where, for a few more moments, she was just a girl in her mother’s embrace.

Now, Amara understood. She understood the fear that had lived inside her mother, the quiet pain she’d tried to explain that night, with carefully chosen words, with the tenderness of a woman carrying the weight of the world in silence.

She hadn’t been able to grasp it all back then. She was too young, too drowned in her own hurt to see her mother’s alongside it. But now, those same fears, she knew them intimately. They lived in her too. They had settled in the hollows of her bones, in the folds of her thoughts, in her deepest silences.

She exhaled softly, a breath slow and nearly invisible, and brought her attention back to her reflection. She looked at herself for a moment. Something was different.

Since moving in with Ada, Amara had put on a bit of weight. Nothing dramatic, but enough that her dresses fit a little better, that her cheeks had slowly begun to reclaim their lost curves. Her arms weren’t as thin, her features not as drawn as when she’d first arrived. She didn’t think she was beautiful not like the women in shop windows or magazines but… she felt less faded. Less absent. More alive.

And that, already, meant a lot.

A small chuckle pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned quickly, slightly startled. William was standing there, leaning casually against the wall, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his arms crossed with relaxed ease. He was watching her, eyes sparkling with that quiet kindness always present in his gestures.

She hadn’t heard him finish putting away his scissors and brushes in the little adjoining room. She felt herself blush, suddenly embarrassed at being caught staring at her reflection so intently.

— Sorry… she said, lowering her gaze a little. I didn’t realize you were done…

William let out a soft laugh, warm and never mocking, and replied:

— No, I should be the one apologizing… I didn’t mean to disturb the lady in her moment of admiration.

Amara smiled in spite of herself, a small but sincere smile, before looking away and slipping behind the counter again, as if to hide her embarrassment. William strolled over casually.

— Don’t be embarrassed, he said, placing his hands on the polished wood of the counter. Mirrors are made for that. Did you like what you saw?

Amara gave a surprised little laugh at the question, both caught off guard and amused. But William, far from dropping it, took on a mock-serious expression, almost boyish, his brows slightly furrowed and a teasing smirk still tugging at his lips:

— Don’t laugh, it’s a serious question.

Amara hesitated. Her gaze flicked back to the mirror for a moment, silently. Had she liked what she saw?

Not as much as she would’ve liked. Not yet. But… she preferred this reflection to the one she saw just a few weeks ago. It wasn’t love, but it was the beginning of something like reconciliation.

So she answered simply, her voice soft:

— It’s okay.

A shy but honest smile formed on her lips.

William laughed openly this time, rolling his eyes with a playful wave of his hand.

— You’re really modest. If I asked some of my other clients, I can tell you most of them would say they see perfection in the mirror.

He puffed out his chest in exaggerated bravado, mimicking a pompous voice:

— “Look at me, William, I’m an Adonis,” they say, with the comb still in their hair.

Amara burst out laughing, a real, relaxed laugh that released a tension she hadn’t even known she was holding. And for a second, the air in the salon felt lighter, as if the whole day was made of softness.

— And what do you say to those Adonises? asked Amara, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, finding a bit of ease, a bit of playfulness.

William shrugged with mock exasperation:

— Oh, I tell them even Apollo needed a decent haircut to charm anyone. And they better think about tipping me if they want to stay gods in their wives’ eyes.

Amara laughed again, unable to stop herself, light and free. The kind of laugh she hadn’t had often in recent months, and it felt good. William smiled wider, clearly pleased with the effect of his joke. He liked making her laugh.

— You should write all your lines in a notebook someday, she teased. You could turn them into a book.

— With a dramatic title, William added in a mock-narrator voice: “Blades, Hearts, and Hair.”

— You joke, but I’m sure it would sell.

He gave her one of those soft, simple smiles, the kind meant only for the moments when there’s no need for anything in return. Then he leaned in a little, his arms crossed on the wooden counter.

— You know, I’m glad you’re here.

She furrowed her brow slightly, curious.

— At the salon?

— Yeah, and here, in London.

Amara went quiet for a moment. His words had caught her off guard. They weren’t heavy or rushed. Just calmly spoken, like a truth he’d decided to share.

She felt a small tightening in her chest not discomfort, exactly, but that strange emotion that rises when you’re not sure whether to protect yourself or let go a little.

She lowered her eyes to the counter, tracing a small invisible circle with her fingertip.

— I think I’m glad to be here too.

And she meant it. Even if it was complicated. Even if a part of her still hung somewhere between Birmingham and London, between the past and what she was slowly trying to rebuild. Between Tommy and her own life.

William straightened, letting the silence settle without breaking it. A peaceful silence, not an awkward one. The kind that says: we don’t always need words to understand each other.

After a few seconds, William spoke again, a slight smile tugging at his lips:

— In four days, you’ve done more in that ledger than I’ve managed in a whole month. He moved closer to the counter and, with a gesture, pointed to the notebook open in front of her. You even added an organization I’d never have thought of. Now I know exactly which client came in, at what time, how much they paid, and even the upcoming appointments. It’s… honestly impressive.

Amara gave a modest smile, lowering her eyes briefly to her carefully aligned notes. The book, with its previously blank pages, now contained neat columns, names, times, and amounts, all written in a clear and tidy hand.

— It’s just a habit. I grew up in an environment where everything had to be organized, planned ahead. I guess it stuck with me.

— You do it with such precision, William replied, genuinely admiring. And you make it clear, easy to read… almost enjoyable, even for someone like me who hates numbers.

He chuckled, but there was no mockery in his voice. Just gratitude. Amara looked up at him, her smile widening despite herself. He wasn’t the first to compliment her, but with William, it never felt like flattery or duty just quiet honesty that did her good.

William leaned in a bit more, pointing lightly at a neatly written line in the book:

— And thanks to you, I just found out that George Davies,he tapped a name in the left-hand column,  has been paying me late for three months. Three! And I still greeted him last time like he’d left me a tip.

Amara raised an amused eyebrow, then flipped through the pages to find the entries on George. She scanned the dates quickly, then pointed to a line of numbers.

— He paid half on March 7th, nothing on April 10th, and barely a few pence on May 15th. Do you want me to make a note? Something subtle… or very obvious?

— Oh, write it in all caps, said William, folding his arms with mock drama. Make sure it jumps out at him the next time he so much as sets a toe in here. Something like: “George to be watched closely.”

Amara gave a mischievous smile and grabbed her pen. She carefully wrote next to the name: Partial payment. Follow-up needed. She hesitated, then added in parentheses, in all caps: (DISTRACTED GEORGE.)

William burst out laughing when he saw the note.

— You know, you’re going to end up making this place look stricter than an accountant’s office.

— That’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it? she replied with a light shrug.

— Not in the slightest. You’re teaching me to see things differently, he admitted after a brief pause. And I think I like it.

Amara felt a small tightening in her throat. Moments like this simple, light, respectful hadn’t been frequent in her life lately.

William tapped the counter lightly with the flat of his hand, as if to mark a transition.

— Well, time to get my tools out.

Amara nodded and gave him a small smile, letting him walk over to the barber chair. With a smooth motion, William opened the drawer beneath the main mirror and took out his tools, laying them out carefully on the surface to his right. There was a sharp-bladed clipper, a pair of scissors that caught the light on their polished edges, a horn comb, two natural-bristle brushes, a frosted-glass spray bottle, a straight razor in a black case, and a small bottle of beard oil with a woody scent. Everything was lined up, within easy reach like a craftsman setting up his workbench.

Amara glanced back down at the appointment book. The first appointment of the day had been made a few days earlier, in William’s own handwriting. He’d told her about it with a sly smile, like it was a quiet little victory. She hadn’t been there when he wrote it down, he’d done it after telling her she’d worked enough for the day and should head home. She remembered the gentle insistence in his tone, almost fatherly.

Her eyes followed the neatly inked line: 8:00 AM – Charles Wilson.

She let out a soft sigh. That name, Charles, had seemed to follow her these past few days. She hadn’t known many, except for Charlie Strong, Uncle Charlie. And yet, since the arrival of little Charlie into their world, it was as if every Charles she encountered brought her back to him. To the loss, to the hope, to everything she wasn’t ready to think about yet for fear of falling apart.

But she didn’t have time to sink into that spiral, the bell above the door rang, sharp and clear.

A man entered.

Amara stood immediately, out of habit, and greeted the client with a polite nod. The man, tall with a rigid build, barely acknowledged her with a slight nod, his brows faintly drawn together. He wore a heavy wool coat, dark, and carried a closed-off expression.

— You can take a seat, sir. Everything is ready, said William in a professional tone, his usual warm smile now a bit more reserved.

The man sat down in the chair with almost military precision. William waited for him to settle in before stepping closer with a measured calm.

— Would you like something to drink? A tea, perhaps? Or a whisky?

The man answered directly, his voice deep and almost curt:

— A Scotch whisky. Neat.

William turned to Amara with a calm look, one that held a hint of camaraderie despite the client’s tone.

— Amara, could you pour a Scotch for the gentleman?

She nodded silently and left the counter, heading into the adjoining room. She opened the small cupboard where the bottles were kept, selected one with a plain label and a red seal, and poured the amber liquid into a short glass. She quietly thanked the heavens that the man had chosen a Scotch instead of an Irish. She couldn’t have brought herself to serve one of those not after all those times she’d lovingly brought one to Tommy, straight to his office at the betting shop.

The golden liquid slid smoothly into the glass, and Amara picked it up carefully before heading back toward the front of the salon. She drew a discreet breath before stepping out, bracing herself for the man’s cold gaze.

Chapter Text

London, May 23, 1922

Tommy stood in the streets of London, still as a shadow in the grey afternoon. He no longer knew how long he had been there. Ten minutes? Half an hour? Maybe more. He had walked without a clear goal or at least, that’s what he kept repeating to himself, as if saying it out loud would make it true. But the truth was, he knew exactly where his steps were leading long before he left. He knew this walk would bring him here. To this sidewalk. In front of this house. Ada’s house.

Hands deep in the pockets of his long dark coat, collar turned up against the biting wind, he stared at the facade like a man searching for a sign. A light turned on. A curtain pulled back. A familiar face. But there was nothing. The silence of the house weighed on him. Spoke to him. The shutters were closed, the street nearly empty, broken only by the distant clatter of horse hooves and the metallic rattle of wheels on cobblestones.

He wanted to believe he’d come only to make sure his sister was all right. Maybe to see his nephew, to make sure everything was in order. A rational excuse. An acceptable justification. But he knew. He knew why he was here. Why he was waiting.

It wasn’t Ada he wanted to see.

It was her.

Amara.

Ever since she had moved in with Ada, Tommy had suppressed the urge to run into her. He’d avoided the house, stopped the unannounced visits. It wasn’t cowardice. Not really. Or maybe it was. He didn’t want to impose. Didn’t want to be the memory that still hurt. He hoped, quietly, that she had found some peace in this place. A refuge. A space to rebuild herself away from him, away from his choices.

And yet, here he was. Frozen on this sidewalk, unable to look away.

He didn’t want to go in. Didn’t even want to knock. What he wanted was just a moment, a brief glimpse. Maybe she’d walk past a window. Maybe she’d part a curtain with her fingers, the way she sometimes did. Just that. A silhouette. Her face.

To see if she was all right. If she was smiling. If her eyes were lighter than before.

He pictured her sometimes, in that house, walking barefoot across the cold floor, a book in her hand or a steaming cup between her fingers. He imagined her laughing with Ada, laughing with little Karl. He wanted to believe she’d found some softness again. A bit of life. That she was no longer the ghost he had left behind. That she wasn’t a ghost like him.

Amara had never needed artifice to be beautiful. He knew it from the first moment he saw her. Her hair thick, wild, untamable seemed to have a language of its own. A living crown. She’d never needed jewels, or lipstick, or embroidered dresses. She wore dignity the way others wore silk. In poverty, in scarcity, she had found a way to exist without fading.

And he… he had seen that. He had understood. Because he came from the same world.

They shared the same unspoken language. The one of heavy silences at the table, of unpaid bills, of mended clothes worn to the thread. The same wary eyes toward the rich and their promises. The same survival instinct.

Grace could never have understood that, no matter how hard she tried. Despite her efforts. She tried, sometimes. She threw herself into charity work, women’s rights speeches, humanitarian projects. But it was compassion, not comprehension. The perspective of an observer, not an equal.

Amara had grown up in the cold and the fear of tomorrow. Just like him.

That’s what had bound them. What maybe still did, even though everything had changed.

Tommy closed his eyes for a moment, slowly inhaling the crisp morning air. He didn’t know what he was truly looking for here. Maybe some form of silent absolution. Maybe just proof that she was better. That he hadn’t ruined everything.

He opened his eyes again, scanning the upstairs windows.

Still nothing.

But he stayed. Just a little longer. Heart heavy, hands clenched in his pockets, standing like a man who no longer dares knock at the door but still hopes, deep down, to hear footsteps behind the glass.

Tommy wondered if Amara knew that Charlie had been born.

He was almost certain she did. News like that, in a family like theirs, never stayed confined to one mouth for long. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it was Polly who had taken it upon herself to call the Thorne residence dry and direct to announce the news to Ada. He could picture her, with a sharp click of her tongue, saying “Tell her. She deserves to hear it”. And Ada, true to herself, gentle but clear-eyed, probably approached Amara with that cautious look one reserves for already damaged hearts.

Tommy wondered how she had reacted. Did she cry? Did she simply lower her gaze, trying to hold back the storm behind her eyelids? Or, true to form, did she try to act as if it didn’t affect her, choking the pain down in silent dignity, not wanting to worry Ada?

A cold dread twisted in his gut at the thought.

He remembered, like a gunshot through silence, the image of Amara in his office the day she found out about Grace’s pregnancy. Her body wracked with uncontrollable sobs, breath gasping, broken, her eyes lost like the ground had vanished beneath her. She had collapsed literally and he’d stood helpless, frozen, unable to put out the fire that had consumed her. He hadn’t seen such a breakdown since the war. Since Danny Whizz-Bang. The same tremors, the same raw panic, the kind that answered to neither logic nor comfort, nor even rational fear. Just a black void opening wide.

He prayed she hadn’t gone through that alone.

If there had been a breakdown… he hoped Ada had been there, that she’d found the words or at least, had offered her presence. A hand resting gently on her back. He hoped Amara hadn’t been locked in a room, fists clenched to her chest, trying to breathe and failing. Because he wasn’t there anymore. Because he could no longer be the one to catch her before she fell.

His stomach twisted under the weight of helplessness.

Right after the birth, once the hospital chaos had settled, once Grace was resting, once the nurses murmured in the hallway and the baby’s cries had quieted, Tommy picked up the phone. Of all the names that could have come to mind Arthur, John, even Ada, it was Polly he called. He hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t weighed it. It was instinct. He needed something solid. Familiar. He needed to hear her voice.

Polly Gray. The only woman in his life who had never lied to him. Even when the truth hurt.

She answered on the second ring.

— I knew you’d call me today , she said, before he could speak. I felt it, Tommy.

He closed his eyes for a moment, both relieved and irritated. Polly always knew. Before you said it. Sometimes before you thought it. It had been that way since he was a teenager. She read him like a book she’d already reread a hundred times.

— How’s the child? She asked, after a soft, almost tender pause.

His voice, when he answered, had nothing of the Shelby leader’s tone. It was too quiet. Too low. Almost fragile.

— He’s fine. Good weight. You were right. It’s a boy.

— I’m never wrong about these things , she replied without the slightest hint of surprise. And what did you name him?

Tommy had hesitated for a second. Just one. Then he let it fall, like a simple truth:

— Charles. Charles Shelby.

Polly hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. Then, with that raw tenderness that belonged only to her, she whispered:

— Take care of him.

And Tommy had hung up, without another word, because he understood what Polly had meant. She hadn’t needed to spell out what he, deep down, already knew. That his decisions hadn’t always been the right ones for the family, even if he’d made them thinking he was protecting them. That they hadn’t always been right for himself either, even if he’d convinced himself he could bear the consequences alone. He’d taken paths where he believed he was forging a better future, but in trying to anticipate the next war, he had left too much peace behind.

And now, he had Charlie.

And Polly, in one sentence, had made him understand what he didn’t dare admit: he couldn’t do to his son what he had done to the others. He couldn’t repeat, once again, that cycle of quiet destruction. He couldn’t try to control everything, sacrifice everything, and think a child wouldn’t feel it.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a burst of laughter.

A soft laugh, almost crystalline. A sound too familiar to ignore. That laugh, he knew it. He carried it with him in his memories, in his sleepless nights, in his long silences. He turned his head sharply toward the source of the sound, like driven by instinct. And he saw her.

Amara.

She was walking on the sidewalk across the street, just a few meters from Ada’s front door, carefree. She was laughing. Her smile, wide and sincere, lit up her face with a light Tommy hadn’t seen in so long. Her hair, always gathered into that magnificent afro she wore proudly, framed her face like a natural crown. She wore a long, light beige coat, belted at the waist, highlighting her figure. Underneath, a rust-colored midi skirt flowed around her legs with each step. Her heeled boots clicked softly against the cobblestones, elegant without being pretentious. Around her neck, a burgundy silk scarf floated gently in the breeze.

Tommy felt his heart tighten.

Her image just her presence was enough to bring back a thousand things at once. Memories, regrets, barely contained desires. She was still beautiful, but it was more than that. She had that quiet presence, that grounded grace that needed no embellishment. Amara had never needed jewelry or makeup to draw attention, she drew it naturally, without trying.

Then came the male laugh.

A deeper, rougher tone rose just after hers, mingling with it, almost like an answer. And suddenly, Tommy’s body froze.

Until then, his eyes had only seen her. The rest of the world had stayed blurred, as if it didn’t exist. But now, he saw him. Walking right beside Amara, almost too close to be innocent, there was a man.

He wore perfectly fitted charcoal trousers, a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves under a pair of black suspenders, and a short camel-colored jacket, open at the front. Everything about his outfit spoke of understated but deliberate elegance. His hair, slicked back with precision, gleamed under the soft London sun. A thin mustache traced his upper lip, as neatly groomed as the rest. He had that athletic build, that calm confidence of men unbothered by the gaze of others.

Tommy felt a flush rise to his neck. His blood pounded against his temples, almost painfully. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t stepped back. Hadn’t stepped forward. He was just… there. Frozen, like a man watching a door close.

They were both walking toward Ada’s house. The man said something, Amara laughed again, softer this time. Her smile didn’t falter. It didn’t seem forced, or polite. It seemed real. Light. Unburdened.

And Tommy understood, in the silence that followed, that maybe, maybe she was really okay.

And maybe… she didn’t need him anymore.

Tommy stood there, eyes locked on Amara and the stranger walking at her side. He could have looked away. He should have. But something a dull, relentless ache kept him rooted. He watched every detail with almost sickening focus the way Amara slightly turned her head toward the man to better hear him, the way her fingers brushed the sleeve of her coat now and then, like to stifle a laugh or hide an emotion.

She didn’t look like she was hurting.

She didn’t look lost, or broken, or haunted.

She looked free.

And that truth, however sweet it might be for her, burned in Tommy’s chest like a blade heated white-hot.

He clenched his jaw. His hands, buried deep in his coat pockets, tensed. He could’ve walked away. He could’ve turned and vanished into the London fog, like he always did when things got too real, too personal. But he stayed. Unable to turn from the scene.

Tommy knew what he felt wasn’t jealousy in the possessive sense, he didn’t think he belonged to Amara, or that she belonged to him. It was deeper. Crueler. It was the painful awareness that he had ruined something irreplaceable. That he had held something rare in his hands, and broken it for fear of breaking it more.

And now, another man, a stranger with a quiet laugh and upright posture, stood there. In his place. And he, Thomas Shelby, could do nothing.

He felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He looked away, just for a second. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to remember he was Thomas Shelby. Leader of the Peaky Blinders. The businessman. The survivor.

But on that ordinary street, in front of that ordinary house, he was none of those things.

He was just a man. A man who had loved a woman he hadn’t known how to keep.

He forced himself to regain control of his thoughts, to restore calm in his mind. He inhaled deeply, shoulders tense under the weight of all he didn’t say. Maybe Amara really was okay. Maybe she laughed today because she was happy.

And maybe that was for the best.

But then why did it hurt so much?

His eyes slowly returned to her, just in time to see Amara and the man climbing the few steps to Ada’s door. He didn’t give himself the chance to wait, to see her disappear from view. He looked away before she could.

Because he knew that if he watched her go for good, he wouldn’t be able to bear what it would do to him.

He took a step back. Then another. His eyes drifted to the cobblestones for a moment, then he pulled up his coat collar, took one last breath, and turned away.

Tommy started walking faster, almost running. He felt the tension pounding in his temples, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. He had no plan, no strategy. He wasn’t thinking in terms of business or moves.

There was only that voice inside him, raw, insistent, obsessive:

Who is that man?

He had to know. He had to.

His name. His address. What he did for a living. Who he lived with. What he drank in the morning. Even his mother’s first name, if needed. There were no limits. He had to know everything. Everything.

He moved through the streets like a hunted beast, but he was the hunter now, and his target was still vague, still anonymous, but painfully real. He hadn’t decided yet whether he hated the man or envied him, probably both. The man had smiled at Amara. And she had smiled back. She was laughing.

Part of him wanted to turn around, close the distance, knock on Ada’s door and slam the man against a wall, a bullet between the eyes, the way you settle a score. But he didn’t do it.

Not because it was immoral. Not because he was afraid. But because he knew what it would do to Amara.

It would hurt her.

Even more than he already had.

And Tommy Shelby wasn’t ready to lose that. Wasn’t ready to lose Amara completely. Even if he wasn’t sure what he still had of her.

So he kept walking. His gaze blank, his thoughts overflowing. He crossed streets and alleys, ignoring passersby, merchants, the smell of smoke and coal hanging in London’s air. His feet carried him to the library, almost without him realizing.

He needed to calm down.

He needed to think.

He stopped on the steps, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a hand that barely trembled. One wouldn’t be enough, he knew it, but he smoked it down to the filter, in silence. His eyes scanned the city like it might offer him answers.

Then, without another second of hesitation, he crushed the butt beneath his heel and pushed the library door open.

The place, as always, was steeped in a near-religious calm. A peace he hated and envied at the same time. He walked the aisles, his boots brushing softly against the wooden floor. Then he saw her: Ada, bent over a trolley full of books, exchanging a few words with a young librarian. The two of them were focused on shelving a particularly thick volume.

But Tommy wasn’t in the mood for patience. He was too full, too heavy with what he’d just seen. So, without caring about the silence around him, he said loudly, voice low and firm:

— Hello, Ada.

His sister’s head snapped up instantly, as did the young woman’s. A mix of surprise and irritation crossed Ada’s face before she replied, half-whispering but clear:

— Tommy Shelby in a library… That’s one for the history books.

He walked toward her, gaze steady, hardened by everything he was holding back.

— I came to borrow a book… about the Russian revolution.

At that, Ada sighed, clearly annoyed, and muttered:

— Oh, give me a break…

She turned on her heel and walked toward a more secluded corner of the library, where the shelves were taller, the books older, thicker. Tommy followed silently, a few steps behind. His footsteps echoed softly across the parquet, and despite his effort to keep his face closed off, he could already feel the cracks. He hoped to hold himself together. Especially in front of Ada.

Ada climbed a wooden ladder, gripping a rung with practiced ease. As she ascended, she spoke again, tone neutral:

— You’ve got a new dock in Maida Vale.

Tommy clenched his jaw. He wanted to tell her to go to hell with her business updates. He hadn’t come here to talk about docks or cargo. He had no interest in his investments. Not now. Not with the image of Amara laughing at that damned stranger still burning behind his eyes.

But he replied anyway, flatly:

— I’ve got new ones everywhere.

Ada pulled a book, then another, flipping through them briefly without turning around.

— I see our trucks drive by sometimes.

Tommy looked up at her, a little surprised.

— Our trucks?

Ada glanced back over her shoulder, a faintly amused smirk on her lips.

— Shelby trucks.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. Ada had never really seen herself as part of the family business. Not like that, anyway.

She climbed down the ladder with two books in her arms, one dark red with a thick spine, the other thinner, more worn.

— Where’s this sudden interest coming from? she asked, handing him the books.

Tommy hesitated before answering. Then said, in a flat voice:

— Felt like broadening my horizons.

Ada looked at him a moment, as if weighing the truth of his words. She said nothing, but her expression said plenty. She knew he didn’t care. Knew he wasn’t here for revolution or the people’s ideals.

She handed him the first book the red one and pointed to the other:

— That one’s a list of the bastards who ran. And this one’s from the people’s side, the ones who fought and lost.

Tommy let out a humorless chuckle and took the red one. Of course. Always the ones who ran. Those were the ones he understood best. Ada waved a hand, exasperated, at his choice. He leaned against one of the tables, opened the book without reading it. His eyes skimmed the words without seeing them. His mind was elsewhere. Still stuck on that sidewalk. That laugh.

Ada watched him for a moment, then said:

— There was a Russian at your wedding.

Tommy exhaled slowly, for himself.

The last thing he wanted to talk about was his wedding. Not now. Not with Amara and that smile replaying endlessly in his head. That smile that wasn’t for him anymore. That smile she had given to another man.

Ada continued, seeing he wasn’t saying anything, eyes still glued to the book:

— He wouldn’t tell me how he got invited.

She stepped closer to him, where he leaned heavily against the reading table. He didn’t look up. A few seconds passed before he answered, voice tired, flat:

— Well, sometimes… exiled Russian aristocrats find their way in…He paused, thumb resting on the edge of a page, eyes still fixed on the lines without really reading them. Then he continued:…at certain receptions. To add a touch of class.

Ada didn’t miss a beat:

— Is that why he was there?

Tommy turned a page slowly, as if trying not to lose his temper. His voice, ice-cold:

— Why do you want to know?

He had no desire to talk, even vaguely, about the farce that had been his marriage to Grace. Not with Ada. Not today. Not when he felt like he was teetering on the edge of something too big.

Ada looked at him for a long moment, then replied with that soft irony she wielded better than anyone:

— He was charming. I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. Think that’d be possible?

Tommy closed his eyes briefly before answering, even colder:

— No. It won’t be possible.

Ada raised an eyebrow, folding her arms:

— Can I know what you're doing with the Russians, Tommy?

He didn’t answer. His finger slid down a line, to a footnote. He found what he was looking for. Finally. A name: Archduke Leon Romano Petrovich. He didn’t know yet if the name would be useful, but there it was. He had it.

Without looking up, he asked:

— Can I tear this page out?

Ada sighed, exasperated:

— No, you can’t tear it out. It belongs to the public, in case you forgot.

Tommy stared at the lines for a moment, eyes empty. Then Ada spoke again, her voice lower, graver:

— Tommy, when Arthur went off with the Russian, he had a pistol under his coat. And Johnny lit a fire in the woods.

Tommy slammed the book shut with brutal force, the sound of leather against wood echoing through the aisle. He dropped it heavily on the table and looked up at her.

— You want the details because you’re bored here.

His eyes were like ice. Tired. Wounded. But cold.

— I want a name, Ada.

Ada frowned, momentarily thrown off:

— What name?

Tommy pressed his lips together, gaze drifting before fixing on nothing. He couldn’t say it. He didn’t want to say her name. He felt too filthy to speak it. Too broken.

So he just said:

— A man’s name… someone I saw with… her.

Ada understood instantly. She froze, surprised, then her gaze hardened. Her jaw clenched.

— You’re tracking her now?

Tommy didn’t answer. He just held her gaze. He didn’t need words. All his pain, all his fury, all his longing screamed through his eyes.

Ada shook her head, almost disgusted.

— Do you realize what you’re doing?

But Tommy didn’t look away. Not for a second.

And in a lower, rougher voice, he repeated:

— I want a name.

Ada stared at him, arms crossed, jaw tight. Then, with a voice sharp and cold as a blade, she snapped:

— Go fuck yourself, Tommy. I’m not telling you anything. You made your choices.

The silence that followed hit like a punch. Heavy. Violent.

Tommy didn’t react right away. He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath. It wasn’t a surprise. He knew it, deep down. He knew Ada wouldn’t betray him. Not for this. Not for her. Especially not for Amara.

And still… he’d tried. Because hope, no matter how faint, no matter how pathetic, always clings somewhere, like a splinter under the skin.

He opened his eyes, blank, then turned on his heel without another word. He passed Ada without looking at her, his heavy steps echoing across the polished library floor.

And as he walked away, just as he reached the doors, his voice rang out, dry, bitter, without turning back:

— You used to hunt rats with a revolver, Ada.

Then he pushed the door open, leaving behind the smell of old books and his sister’s furious stare, and disappeared once more into the streets of London.

He still had no fucking idea who that man was.

And it was unbearable.

Chapter Text

London, May 26, 1922

Amara stood still, arms crossed against herself, her gaze slowly gliding over the restaurant's façade in front of her. The London sky, as usual, offered a diffuse, almost melancholic light, and the late afternoon drizzle had left shiny traces on the street's cobblestones.

The restaurant's frontage was beautiful, elegant in its simplicity. Dark, well-maintained wood framed a clean window, tastefully decorated. Two black iron lanterns, hanging on either side of the entrance, cast a soft light that made golden reflections dance on the brass plate engraved with the name of the place: The Vine & Velvet. White curtains, carefully drawn, allowed glimpses of the inside. Bright white tablecloths, fine porcelain, a warm light. Nothing ostentatious. Everything breathed calm, restraint. The kind of place that demands a certain composure.

And Amara wasn’t sure she was up to it.

She discreetly tugged at the sleeve of her dress, a nervous, useless gesture. The dress she wore wasn’t hers. It was Ada who had chosen it, a midnight blue dress with a modern cut, cinched at the waist and falling asymmetrically just below her ankles. Very pretty. Too pretty, in her opinion. She hadn’t needed this dress. She hadn’t even wanted it.

But Ada, with her firm look and her knowing half-smile, hadn’t given in.

— It’s not the dress you’re refusing. It’s what it represents. That’s not the same thing.

And Amara, stung, had protested:

— It’s just a business dinner. Nothing more, Ada.

To which Ada had answered, raising an eyebrow:

— A dinner, after a pub? The man’s giving you dates, Amara, not work shifts.

She had almost regretted telling her. If she had said nothing, Ada wouldn’t have had the chance to hand her that dress the way one hands a sword to someone being pushed into battle. Because for Amara, it was exactly that. A silent confrontation between what she felt and what she forbade herself.

She ran her fingers along the seam of the dress, fighting the temptation to turn back. Part of her wanted to go back to Ada’s, wipe off her makeup, put on her old satin bonnet, and become invisible again. The other part... the other part had stayed there, in front of that restaurant, her heart beating too hard, unable to ignore the shiver of anticipation running down her spine.

William.

The invitation had happened without calculation, without premeditation, slipped into a conversation too light to carry its weight. It had been a few days ago. There were no appointments at the salon that afternoon; an unexpected lull. William had offered to walk her home, they both had to take the same road anyway. And she had agreed.

The pavement was wet, the streets filled with muffled sounds. They walked side by side, unhurried. He had started talking, as he often did, in a calm, almost overly casual tone.

— There’s a client, Mr. Baines, you know which one? The one with the sideburns always cut too short... He came yesterday and said he thinks my haircuts influence people’s moods. Said his wife made him a roast the night I shaved his temples.

Amara had smiled faintly. He had continued:

— And the other day, a lawyer asked me if it’s better to have a center or side part for a trial. Said a center part made you look more honest. I told him I could give him a head for a favorable verdict, but nothing more.

She had laughed then, really laughed. Not a polite laugh, not a restrained laugh. A real one, a laugh that escaped her like a breath of life held back for too long. It had been so long since she had laughed without weighing the moment after.

It was simple. Natural. A suspended moment.

And then, in front of Ada’s door, as she was about to say goodbye, he had spoken, a bit too fast:

— Hey Amara... we never really celebrated you getting hired.

She had looked at him, slightly confused.

— You know we don’t need to celebrate that, William.

— Maybe not. But it would make me happy. You’re helping me a lot. Thanks to you, the accounts are finally clean, I actually understand them now.

He had laughed softly, nervously, then looked up at her.

— Amara... I’d like to take you to a restaurant. To celebrate.

She had frozen for a second. He had already suggested a night at the pub a few weeks earlier, and she had convinced herself it was nothing. Just friendly. This time, he specified:

— The pub, we barely knew each other. This is to thank you. And... because I want to.

Then, as if realizing what he was revealing, he looked down, taking a mock sheepish air.

— Come on... say yes. I promise I won’t talk about haircuts the whole meal.

She had laughed in spite of herself.

— Alright. Only because you almost make me feel sorry for you.

— Good. I prefer that to indifference.

He had straightened up, smiling gently.

— Good evening, Amara.

And he had walked away.

Now she was here, standing before The Vine & Velvet , her reflection in the restaurant window showing her an image of herself she didn’t fully recognize. Not because she was different. But because she had forgotten herself, for a long time.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes briefly.

And stepped inside.

Amara took a step into the restaurant and stopped, held back by the sheer elegance of the place. A soft, almost intimate warmth enveloped her immediately, cutting through the damp coolness of the London street. The dark, glossy parquet floor reflected the golden light of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, fine globes of carved glass that diffused a soft, muted, enveloping glow. The walls were decorated with simple wood paneling, punctuated here and there with discreet paintings English countryside landscapes, deep-toned still lifes. The smell blended the subtle spices of a simmering dish with the rich scent of red wine.

The tables were set with refined care: immaculate tablecloths, fine glasses, gleaming silverware, small silver candlesticks at the center. The guests, all well-dressed, murmured rather than spoke. An elderly couple enjoyed a meal in quiet complicity, two young men in suits laughed discreetly, and nearby, a man sat alone reading a novel, a half-full glass of wine at his right hand.

Amara had never set foot in a place like this.

As a child, her parents couldn’t afford it. They had had more urgent priorities than the luxury of a dining room meal. And later, when she had started working for the Shelby Company Ltd., with a more than respectable salary, she had simply... never taken the time. Places like this had stayed locked in an inaccessible part of her mind, as if they were forbidden to her, even when she could finally afford them.

And yet, once, she had dreamed of it. Not to come alone. Not even to be invited. But to go there with Tommy. Just the two of them. Nothing grand, nothing like a couple everyone admires, no. Just him and her. A simple table. Good food. The pleasure of being together. He could have paid, or she could have. Money wasn’t the issue anymore. But time, peace, a shared desire that, yes, that had been missing.

She sighed.

She shouldn’t be thinking about Tommy. It wasn’t the time. It was never the time, and yet, always, the same feeling came back. A pinch in her stomach, that intimate, invisible sting. A guilt she couldn’t reason away. William had invited her. He had been clear: it’s to celebrate your hiring. Nothing more. Friendly. Professional. And she preferred it that way. She needed it to stay that way.

But it wasn’t enough to silence the ache, the illogical shame. An insidious sensation, that of being a woman who betrays, who hides, even though she belonged to no one. She was no one’s woman. And yet, there had been a time when she had believed herself... different. Legitimate. She had thought, perhaps foolishly, that one day she would be his wife. That he would choose her. That they would build something solid, together.

That dream had faded. He had extinguished it, deliberately, by marrying Grace. By bringing a child into the world with her. Now, Amara was nothing more than the memory of a possibility that had never come to be.

And there she was, standing in an elegant restaurant, thinking of another woman’s husband.

Everything inside her screamed to move on. She had said it to Ada, to herself, to the mirror, to the pillow. But it never worked. Her mind, stubborn and treacherous, brought everything back to him. To his silences. To what he had been, and what he had never dared to become.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the soft opening of the restaurant doors behind her.

William entered, glancing quickly around the room before spotting her. When he saw her, he grimaced slightly, embarrassed. He was more polished than usual: wearing a dark gray three-piece suit, simple but well-cut, with a white shirt stiff at the collar, and a discreet but carefully tied burgundy tie. His hair, always neatly kept, was combed with a sharp parting, and his polished shoes gleamed softly under the light.

He walked toward her with a small apologetic smile.

— I’m sorry. I’m the one who invited you and I’m the one who’s late.

Amara shrugged, a smile at the corner of her lips.

— I was early.

And in her mind, she heard her mother’s voice, clear and firm, like a childhood refrain: Being on time is already being late.

A waiter approached them, a professional and polite smile on his lips. However, when he laid eyes on Amara, he froze for a moment, a slight furrowing of his brows betraying his surprise. It wasn’t simple surprise. It was incomprehension, a look he struggled to hide behind the mask of hospitality he tried to maintain. He scrutinized Amara, as if her presence in this refined space unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Amara felt the weight of that gaze, the suspended silence translating his judgment, and a wave of discomfort rose in her. She had often felt it, that kind of look, like an intrusion into her very being, as if her mere presence destabilized the tacit order of these places. The unease rose in her throat, but she forced herself not to let it settle. She turned her gaze slightly, avoiding any further eye contact.

William, who had been observing the scene discreetly, immediately picked up on the tension. He wasn’t the kind to be intimidated by the judgments of others, but something in the waiter’s expression disturbed him. He cleared his throat firmly, an undercurrent of irritation in his voice, before turning abruptly to the waiter.

— Is there a problem?

The waiter, caught in the act, seemed to freeze for a moment, realizing he had been too obvious in his discomfort. He averted his eyes, as if a sudden awareness of his own clumsiness had struck him. The professional smile he had worn stiffened on his lips, a mask of politeness now clearly forced.

— No, sir, I apologize. I... I’ll seat you right away.

William didn’t reply, but the chill in his tone was enough to close the exchange. He straightened up, ensuring that Amara felt protected, as if his very stance was a way of declaring that she might not look like everyone else here, but she had just as much right to be there.

They followed the waiter to a table near the window, where the soft lighting bathed the space in a warm glow. The waiter gestured to the chairs with a bow a little too calculated to feel natural and waited for them to sit.

— What would you like to drink?

William, who had seen the waiter trying to recover too quickly, answered in a steady voice, with no hesitation this time.

— A white rum, please.

He then turned to Amara, his gaze softer, offering her a sense of reassurance.

Amara, who was no more accustomed to places like this than he was, took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising wave of awkwardness. Her eyes slid over the drink menu, not really knowing what to choose. After a few seconds of silence, she turned to William. He gave her a gentle smile, offering a glimmer of normality amidst an atmosphere that felt so foreign.

She made a simple choice, almost nostalgic. Something that tied her to a more modest past, a comforting simplicity. Something she knew but that didn’t tether her directly to Birmingham either.

— An apple juice, please.

The waiter nodded briskly this time without further comment, and left to prepare the drinks, leaving them alone in a silence that felt both heavy and liberating.

William sat across from Amara, crossing his hands on the immaculate tablecloth, still slightly tense. He knew he hadn’t reacted very elegantly, but deep down, he didn’t regret it. That kind of behavior was unacceptable.

William, visibly troubled by what had just happened with the waiter, took a moment to breathe deeply. He wasn’t the kind to let himself be overwhelmed by emotions, but the injustice he had just witnessed made him uncomfortable. He felt he had to say something but didn’t quite know where to start.

After a few seconds, he turned slightly toward Amara, looked at her for a moment, and spoke.

— I’m really sorry about that. That should never have happened, especially not like that. He looked away slightly, a bit embarrassed by his own words. I hate it when people act like that. It makes me angry, and I hate seeing people treated differently, especially because of their skin color.

Amara, who had been watching his sincere attitude, shook her head with a calm little smile. She didn’t want the situation to become even heavier.

— It’s nothing, really, William, don’t worry.

She answered in a quiet tone, but there was a certain sadness in her eyes. It was true. She had grown up in a world where looks and judgments like that were part of daily life. But, paradoxically, it was also the kind of small humiliations she had learned to ignore, to accept without letting them break her.

William seemed to reflect for a moment before letting out a long sigh. He hadn't planned on saying more, but he felt the need to confide in her, to show her he wasn’t the kind of man who turned a blind eye to injustice.

— You know, when I was young, in Manchester, I spent a lot of time with a friend. He was Black, and he was my best friend. His voice grew a little deeper now, as if the words he was about to say carried a heavy weight. We were inseparable. We grew up together, played in the streets, supported each other even when everything seemed against us. We got into so much trouble, Amara. We drove my father mad more times than I can count.

Amara listened carefully, her gaze fixed on him, catching every word, every nuance of his voice. She sensed he was trying to convey something deeper, something beyond a simple story of friendship.

— People always looked at him differently. He had to constantly prove he belonged, that he deserved to be there just like everyone else. And me… I hated seeing that. I tried to help, to stand by him, but sometimes even I felt powerless against it all.
William paused, his eyes drifting into the distance as if reliving those moments.

Amara remained silent, but her eyes never left him. She could feel he was about to share something very personal, something he might never have spoken about to anyone else.

— And then… the war came.  William lowered his head slightly, as if the memory struck harder than he expected.
— He was sent to the front before I was. Everything happened so fast. We didn’t even get to say goodbye.

 His voice wavered for a second, but he forced himself to continue:

 — He died out there, in the war. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, before opening them again, filled with sorrow. I never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to me, how much he had taught me about life, about brotherhood.

A lump rose in Amara’s throat. She understood now, at least partly, why William was so sensitive to the injustice he had just witnessed. It was more than empathy; it was a lived experience, a grief he had never really voiced. She knew that many people, especially those who hadn't lived through those times, didn’t grasp the full extent of the war’s pain, not just on the battlefield but also for those left behind.

She leaned in slightly, closer to the table, her eyes full of understanding.

— I’m sorry for your friend. She spoke in a soft voice, almost a whisper. Losing someone like that… it must be terrible.

William nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the glass of rum in front of him, as if searching for comfort in its warmth. But nothing could truly erase that kind of pain. Amara couldn’t help but think about how devastated she would have been if she had lost one of her brothers in the war.

— It’s… it’s hard. It always has been. He bit his lower lip, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his glass.He wasn’t just a friend; he was like a brother. We understood each other without speaking. I think… I think I’ve never really gotten over losing him. Just like my father.

Amara gazed at him for a long moment, then after a slight hesitation, gently placed her hand on his, a simple gesture full of sincerity. She didn’t know what else to say, but she knew sometimes just being there, offering silent support, was enough.

— Do you miss him? She asked softly, her eyes filled with tender compassion.

William turned his head slightly toward her, his eyes meeting hers, and a faint sad smile touched his lips.

— Yes, I miss him. He answered, his voice a little steadier.But he taught me so much. Especially to never judge others, to always see people for who they are and not for what they seem to be.

Amara nodded silently, touched by the depth of what he had shared. She wasn’t sure exactly what it all meant for him, but she knew that somehow, this story explained part of why William always seemed ready to defend what was right, even when it didn’t affect him directly.

At that moment, the server returned, breaking the quiet intimacy. But Amara and William exchanged a glance that said everything. A discreet yet real bond had just formed between them.

William took a sip of his rum, his mind still elsewhere, then finally turned to Amara. He seemed to think for a moment before offering a slight smile, trying to steer the conversation back to something lighter, though the weight of his previous words still hung between them.

— I’m sorry... we’re supposed to be celebrating something joyful tonight. He leaned back a little in his chair, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. Well, I hope it’s joyful, and that I’m not being a terrible colleague, huh? He straightened up again, trying to bring some levity back, but his eyes remained serious. Here I am, telling you war stories and about my friend... it's anything but light, I know.

Amara paused for a moment, her gaze steady on him. She took a sip of her apple juice, her thoughts swirling. She hadn’t planned to speak of this either, but somehow the conversation had taken them there. Without fully realizing it, she spoke in a soft voice, almost lost in her own memories.

— I didn’t lose friends, but I lost both my parents. She stopped, her eyes dimming slightly as if reliving the pain. A heavy silence fell between them, full of meaning.

William, who had been listening attentively, lowered his gaze a little. His features hardened, and he immediately felt guilty for leading the conversation into something so painful for Amara.

— I’m sorry, Amara. He said the words with raw sincerity, almost instinctively. It’s never easy to lose someone, especially when they’re... He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

Amara gave him a grateful look, but it was clear she didn’t need more pity. She simply nodded and continued, her voice calmer, more measured.

— It happened when I was an adult, but I think the moment they died, I became a child again... She let the words slip into the silence, like a breath caught in her chest. Lost. I felt like I lost everything.

William listened closely, understanding the hidden suffering behind her words. He knew what it was like to feel adrift after a loss like that. He shook his head slowly, and in a calm voice, he replied.

— I know that feeling. He paused, lost in his own memories, before continuing. My mother was there, but it was my father who raised me. He was my role model. My hero.

 William tried to smile, but his eyes grew distant, as if reliving a scene from the past.

 — When he died... everything collapsed.  He seemed to search for his words, his tone becoming heavier. It was as if everything I had believed in no longer made sense. I had to rebuild everything on my own.

He waited a moment, then asked the question that had been burning inside him, though he knew it was a painful one.

— How did your parents die? He asked softly, his tone full of respect.

Amara took another sip of her apple juice, her mind swimming in memories. She closed her eyes briefly before answering.

— Illness...  She hesitated, feeling a heavy weight settle on her heart.But I think what really killed them was the war. She paused, her gaze darkening. Watching their three sons leave for the front… watching their children, their men, go off to fight, leaving behind their wives and children… that's what broke them.

She stopped for a moment, trying to process her own words.

 — They only lived through the first months of the war, you know. When I wasn’t staying with my brother and his wife and kids, I helped them, cooked for them, took care of them

 She lowered her eyes, a shiver running through her at the memory.

 — I prayed with them every day, hoping my brothers would come back safe. But everything fell apart.

Amara fell silent, her eyes lost in the distance. William felt the heaviness of her silence and understood there were no words strong enough to mend such pain.

— My father was the first to go, and then my mother followed... She slowly lifted her head to meet his gaze. She couldn't live without him. It was as if, from the moment he left, she stopped living too.

William bit his lower lip, moved by the depth of her story. He had no words. What he felt was a kind of respect, a quiet admiration for the way Amara had managed to endure it all while still standing. It took courage, resilience, to keep moving forward after losing everything she had known.

— I'm truly sorry, he repeated, this time with a graver, more empathetic tone. You must have been incredibly strong.

Amara didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. A silence settled between them, heavy yet comfortable with everything that had been said. But there was something new between them. An understanding, a bond woven through respect and shared pain.

Amara drifted into her thoughts, watching William from across the table. He sat there, quiet, almost too calm, too normal, as if the war had never touched him. He seemed like the embodiment of what life could offer at its most ordinary and peaceful, like before the chaos. Yet Amara knew well that this calm was deceiving. William, like all men who had returned from the front, carried invisible scars. She had seen enough to understand that.

She thought unconsciously of Tommy, of Arthur, of John... each of them had their own way of handling pain, but Amara knew none of them had come back whole. She remembered the alcohol that drowned Arthur’s pain, the opium John used to forget. Even Tommy, the one who seemed to keep everything under control, bore his scars deeply. War left its mark, no matter the mask worn afterward.

She thought of Jeremiah, her brother, who after returning from the front had turned more often to prayer. She had often heard him murmuring prayers, asking God that such a war would never happen again. It was then Amara realized what war did to men, even to those who tried to hide behind walls of silence.

William, in his own way, seemed to hide it even better. He did it so well that it almost made it more painful. And she knew what it was like to hide suffering from the world. She remembered her own nights alone in the Birmingham apartment, her body hollow, her mind shattered, but her thoughts never stopping, always analyzing, reliving, revisiting. She remembered clutching her rosary, praying to God to help her understand why she had once been called exotic by a woman who looked at her as if she were a commodity. That feeling of shame and incomprehension had never truly left her.

She realized she had perhaps never fully understood what the war had done to Tommy, how deeply it had destroyed him. He had spoken of it only a few times, and often he avoided the subject altogether. But over time, Amara understood more. She saw it now, the burden he carried silently and even though anger, injustice, and sorrow had risen in her, she couldn't hate him. She knew it was anchored deep inside him, that it was the war that had made him who he was, and she had learned to forgive, because she was a good Christian, just as her mother had taught her. She simply hoped William would never know that pain. She hoped no one else ever would. Because even if you had never fought, the war still hurt you, even years later.

She sighed softly, almost to herself, then took a sip of her apple juice, feeling that the thoughts spinning in her head would lead nowhere. She had stopped looking at William for a moment, lost in her inner world, but when she turned her eyes back to him, she caught him watching her with a lighter smile.

He spoke, as if to break the heavy silence.

— I invited you here to celebrate, so we better start celebrating, right? he said with a hint of humor. Come on, let's at least order some food.

Amara replied with a smile, her thoughts clearing a little. Maybe this evening could still be a little lighter, a little more joyful, after all. And even though the pain of memories remained, she was ready to take a break from it, ready to enjoy this moment in his company.

— Alright, let's do it, she said softly, ready to let the evening take a different turn.

Chapter Text

Birmingham, May 28, 1922

Tommy pushed open the door to the betting shop with an automatic gesture. The wood creaked softly under his hand familiar, almost reassuring. He crossed the room with measured steps, shoulders stiff, heading toward the sitting room of the family house. He was finally back in Birmingham after several days in London.

He had thought naively, perhaps that returning here would bring him some semblance of peace. He had hoped that watching the train pull away from London station, leaving behind the clamor of the capital, would also drive away that persistent memory: Amara. Her laughter, especially. Light. Calm. Accompanied by that of another man, outside Ada’s house.

That image had lodged in his mind like a splinter. He still heard it sometimes, that quiet laugh. And it was unbearable. Not because she laughed. But because it wasn’t with him anymore. And because that man, he knew nothing about him. Nothing. Not a name, not a past, not a trace. And yet he was there, in Tommy’s mind, forever fixed beside Amara.

Tommy fumed at not knowing. He fumed even more at knowing he shouldn’t dig. He had sworn to leave her be, not to hurt her any further. He’d done enough already. But it was stronger than him. His anger clung to him like a second skin.

From the back of the house, he heard voices. Familiar outbursts.

— That’s fine, Finn. Thanks for coming. Now piss off.

It was Arthur. Direct, sharp. As always.

Finn didn’t respond. He just sighed, the quiet footsteps of a boy too used to being dismissed. He was heading for the exit when Tommy entered the room.

— Finn. You can stay.

Finn froze. He tried to keep a neutral face, to hide his relief. But Tommy saw it clearly: the corners of his mouth lifted in a discreet, almost childlike smile. He didn’t say anything else, but that small gesture was enough. Tommy could give him that much.

He deserved it.

He was still too young, too pure, too good for all this. For this world of blood, compromise, and impossible choices. Finn wasn’t like them. He never would be. He would never become Tommy. His heart was too soft. And yet, it was that very softness Tommy sometimes envied. In his sleepless nights, he found himself wishing he were Finn. Not carrying the weight he bore each day. Not having become what war and life had forced him to be.

In the kitchen, Arthur and Polly were already seated, looking tired. John was still standing off to the side, one hand in his pocket.

Tommy lit a cigarette with precise, almost mechanical motion.

— Sit down, John.

John hesitated. Tommy stared at him, leaning against the doorway between the betting shop and the Shelby family home.

— Sit down.

This time, firmer.

The meeting could begin. But nothing inside Tommy had settled.

John obeyed without protest and sat. Tommy glanced at him briefly, then let his eyes drift straight ahead. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke, as if buying a few more seconds of calm before he spoke.

The news he’d learned returning from London wasn’t good. It had hit him like a slap. One more. And he was tired of taking the hits.

— John, you slashed Angel Changretta.

The sentence dropped, clean, emotionless. Tommy hadn’t had time to organize this meeting the way he wanted. It was supposed to happen much earlier, but Hughes had intercepted him near the factories and told him he had a meeting with the Russians in London. One more emergency. One more distraction.

He turned his eyes to John. His brother had the posture of a man ready to be scolded back straight, jaw tight, eyes fixed. And in some way, Tommy wasn’t surprised.

John had always been the most hot-headed of them. Even as kids, it was always him who caught Polly’s wrath. He moved too fast, spoke too loudly, hit without thinking. As an adult, that temperament hadn’t gone away. He had just hidden it under a mask of responsibility.

Tommy wasn’t blind. He saw what went on at the Garrison sometimes: John lingering there longer than he should. A married man, father of a whole bunch of kids, a pregnant wife at home… and still, he lingered, drank, spoke loudly, like he was trying to forget the domestic chaos.

But despite everything, John was doing better. He was happier. Since Esmee came into his life, since she gave him child after child, Tommy could see it. He was finding something he’d lost. That inner fire, that desire to come home. To be a father, a husband again. He loved that life. And Esmee’s pregnancies were proof: John had rediscovered a will to live.

Once, he’d come home reluctantly. He loved his children, yes, but the noise, the crying, the sleepless nights had worn him down. Part of him had died with his first wife, and he no longer had the strength to love fully. Esmee had changed that. She had brought something back to life.

Tommy took another long drag from his cigarette, then said with tired irony:

— Arthur told you to apologize, Polly asked you to find a compromise… And you chose to listen to neither Mr. Apology nor Mrs. Compromise. End result: I’ve got an Italian prowling outside my window threatening to kill my brother.

He stared at John, eyes hard, almost empty. But John didn’t flinch. He stayed still.

Tommy continued, colder:

— So, what do we do, John? Do we apologize, or do we find a compromise?

He wasn’t surprised. Not really. He’d gone to London thinking maybe everything would go smoothly. That he could trust them. But deep down, he knew. He knew John’s recklessness or Arthur’s madness would eventually spark a fire.

It was in their nature. And it was an old habit of John’s: to do whatever the hell he wanted. Even as a kid, he listened to no one. Their mother sometimes had to threaten to lock him in so he’d wear a coat, an old, worn coat that had belonged to Arthur, then Tommy. It was raining, it was cold, but John didn’t care. He made up his mind, and once he did, that was it. It would take a war to change it.

And their mother, she couldn’t afford to give in. She knew that illness, in Small Heath, wasn’t just a fever. It was often a sentence. You couldn’t risk a child falling sick.

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette without looking away from his brother.

He was waiting for an answer.

John lowered his head with a sigh, puffing out his cheeks like a kid caught red-handed. Tommy didn’t take his eyes off him. He watched him unblinking, face expressionless, but every line in his body betrayed a tension ready to snap.

John slowly raised his head, his gaze slightly evasive, but he said nothing. An uncomfortable silence settled, and it was Arthur who finally tried to break it. His voice was hesitant, almost pleading:

— It was… it was just something he said, like, joking around.

Tommy finally took his eyes off John and turned to Arthur, face closed. He pointed at his brother:

— Yeah, but he’s your brother too, Arthur.

Arthur nodded slowly, aware he couldn’t deny it.

— I know…

He paused, searching for his words, then added:

— I didn’t wanna start a war over something he said without meaning it…

Tommy stayed silent for a few seconds. His brothers didn’t understand, not really, how deep in the shit they already were. Russians, the weapons, the Crown and now the Changrettas. He shut his eyes briefly, holding back the surge of frustration.

He could see what Arthur was trying to do. The man had been proud Tommy entrusted him with this meeting. It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t a job that needed fists or threats, this was about judgment, about trust. And Arthur, clumsy but loyal, had tried to do right. He’d done what he could to fix John’s mistake, to show they weren’t completely lost.

Tommy looked at Arthur and said, with a touch of sarcasm:

— Should he apologize in Italian, or in Romani, you think?

Arthur raised an eyebrow, and Polly slowly turned her head toward John, her gaze sharp. John immediately lowered his eyes.

Tommy continued, dryly:

— Or maybe we should ask their preference? I’m a bit lost, here.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Polly, who had been quiet until now, straightened slightly, her voice cutting through the air:

— You said while you were handling your business in London, you wanted peace at home.

Tommy looked at her and nodded briefly. He had said that. And in an ideal world, in a world that wasn’t theirs, it might’ve been possible.

But they were the Shelbys. Peace never lasted.

And peace was even less likely when, on top of carrying the Shelby name, your first name was Thomas. Thinking back, Tommy couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly felt peace. Not since the war. The world may have signed an armistice, but he hadn’t. He’d brought the war home with him. It had soaked into every fiber of his life. It had become him.

The business. His family. Grace. Charlie. Amara.

Tommy knew the only peace he’d ever get would be in death and even then, he was convinced ghosts would follow. He’d hurt too many people. Peace wasn’t made for men like him. Not in this life.

He looked at Polly, his gaze calm but firm, and said in a low, cutting tone:

— The only way to guarantee peace is to make any war seem like a waste of time.

Arthur shifted in his seat, shaking his head. He didn’t share that view, didn’t buy into it. But Tommy carried on, unfazed:

— If you apologize once, you’ll have to do it again. Again and again. Like marking every brick on a wall in your house. You wanna tear your house down, Arthur?

Arthur looked away, avoiding his brother’s eyes. He murmured, barely audible:

— Stop it.

Tommy wished he could too. Stop. Say no to all of this. Tell Father Hughes to go to hell when he handed him that damn paper. Tell the Russians to fuck off, forget their stupid meeting. Forget that man making Amara laugh, like she was free. Like she wasn’t still bound to Tommy in a way he no longer dared define.

He froze at that thought. He had no right to think it. Amara was free. She didn’t have a man in her life, no husband, no promise. He, Thomas Shelby, was the one with a wife at home. A son. And yet, it was him thinking about someone else. Him worrying about a man standing too close to Amara when he wouldn’t even flinch if someone stared at Grace. Maybe a flicker of pride. Just the image. Not the heart.

So Tommy went on, his voice colder, firmer:

— If you tolerate rebellion… it will spread.

And again, the room fell into silence. Heavy. Loaded.

Then Arthur broke it, suddenly standing up, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He shouted, voice thick with anger:

— Tolerance, my arse!

Tommy didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He calmly exhaled cigarette smoke, eyes half-closed, and replied quietly:

— You did what had to be done, John.

He didn’t believe a word of it. But what was the point of the truth now? What was done couldn’t be undone. The words, the blows, the rage everything had been hurled like a stone into a pond, and the ripples were too far gone to pull back. Apologizing wouldn’t change a thing. Worse it would look like weakness. And the Shelbys couldn’t afford that.

Especially not with the Italians.

Tommy knew how they thought. Their sense of honor, their code, their rules. You don’t disrespect an Italian. And you sure as hell don’t attack one without being ready for the consequences. But John hadn’t thought of that. Not in the heat of it. Not with his blood up. And now, like always, it would be up to Tommy to pick up the pieces.

Because that’s what everyone expected. For Tommy to handle it. To think, to plan, to fix it.

And tired as he was, worn out to the bone, he would. Because he was Thomas Shelby.

Tommy just wanted to go home. If only he knew where that was. He’d left the family house for Arrow House, and yet, even after months, it didn’t feel like his. It was Grace’s. Her furniture. Her garden. Her silences. Not his.

He began walking around the room, hands in his pockets, trying to shake off the weight in his mind. He said, more sharply:

— We strike now. We take two Changretta pubs. Tonight.

Arthur turned too, showing his back to Tommy without a word. Polly, still facing him, asked in a tired, almost pleading voice:

— Why? For God’s sake, why?

Tommy, already moving, ready to escape into the quiet of Charlie’s stables or the Garrison’s cold air, stopped dead. He’d heard Polly. He just hoped she wouldn’t ask.

— What?

He spun around, lighting another cigarette like it could steady him.

— Why?!

Polly’s voice rose, stronger, fuller.

And Tommy shouted back, stomping toward the kitchen:

— Because we fucking can!

He gestured wildly, his voice rising further:

— Bloody hell, because we fucking can! And if we can, then we’re not gonna hold back! Because if we don’t cut their heads off now, they’ll be the ones to butcher us!

His eyes locked with Polly’s. Steady. Intense.

And she didn’t look away. She didn’t shout back either. She just stared at him, sternly, like you look at someone losing control without wanting to shame them.

Polly Gray wasn’t the kind of woman to be screamed at. Especially not by men. Least of all her nephews. But she didn’t reply. Because she saw what the others didn’t.

Tommy felt something breaking inside him.

It wasn’t just Italy, or the Russians, or Hughes. It was London. That trip. What he’d seen. Amara. Not knowing who that man was. Imagining her laughing with him, looking at him the way she did, picturing him stepping into her world while he, Tommy, had stepped out of it.

And when he’d screamed, it hadn’t just been at John or Arthur or Polly.

It had been at himself.

But Tommy couldn’t quite admit that. Couldn’t face the fact that the real scream had come from somewhere deeper. So he spoke again, calmer now, almost mechanical, like he was trying to patch the wound with logic:

— Don’t forget these bastards were the ones who wanted to shoot Danny Whizz-Bang.

Polly said nothing. Her hands clenched tighter on her knees, lips pressed thin. Arthur was pacing behind her chair, shoulders drawn tight like a wire about to snap. Tommy watched him for a long moment, then said:

— You’re going soft.

He left a silence. Just long enough for the words to sink in.

— Soft... and weak.

Then added, colder still:

— Save your Bible for Sunday mass, yeah?

Arthur froze. And what Tommy saw in his eyes, he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t anger. Not that familiar rage from the bad days. It was something else.

It was pain. An old hurt. A look Tommy hadn’t seen since... since the wedding. Since the day Arthur felt like he was being shut out, no longer the right hand but just something to be managed. Tommy didn’t like that look. There was too much truth in it.

And he didn’t even know if he’d meant to hurt Arthur... or wake something in him. Maybe both.

Because there was some truth to it. Since Linda had entered Arthur’s life, things had changed. She’d reshaped him. Given him rules, beliefs, boundaries. Tommy didn’t have anything against her, not really. She wasn’t a threat. In fact, she was good for Arthur. Really good.

Arthur needed a stable woman. A steady hand. Not a whore in passing, not some haze in a bed that reeked of gin and gunpowder. Linda was there. Like Esme was for John. Present. Relentless. She threw him a rope where he’d been drowning for years.

And somehow, it had worked.

Linda had even managed to cut down the drinking. Something Tommy never thought possible. Since the war, alcohol had been Arthur’s faithful companion. A cruel lover. He drank from morning to night, until he forgot his own name, until he vomited in his sheets, dead drunk, unable to stand.

Tommy had found him more than once, sprawled out, soaked in sweat, sick with his own guts, eyes glassy, soul elsewhere. And each time, he had been the one to clean it. To drag him out of bed. To change the sheets. To fill the water bucket. To sit in silence.

Because no matter what, Arthur was his brother.

They had seen death together, with John. In the trenches, the screams, the mud, the rats. They’d almost lost themselves when the Germans dropped shells, when bullets flew close enough to drown out your thoughts. They’d seen men fall, collapse like wooden soldiers, mown down by chance, by fear, by fate. And they’d survived.

They’d known the tunnels, the lightless hell. The waiting, breath held, the silence of the living made mute by terror. They’d all left something behind down there. A part of themselves they’d never get back.

Tommy couldn’t be sure, but maybe... maybe that contempt he’d spat at Arthur had come from somewhere more fragile. Because, in a strange way, Linda reminded him of Amara.

Amara and her Bible on the living room table. Amara reading aloud, her voice soft, and him pretending not to listen. Amara staying at the shop on Sundays after mass, even though she didn’t have to. Amara tidying papers or sweeping the floor with a smile, just because she wanted to be there.

She had made him laugh. Smile. She had chased away his shadows without even knowing it. And him... he’d softened, a little. Grown sentimental. She had almost become his weakness. Almost.

Tommy shook his head to clear it, but kept his eyes on Arthur. Then he turned toward Finn.

— I need to stop by the jewellers’ quarter before I head home. Long day.

Finn understood. It was a veiled order. He nodded and left the room. On his way out, he tapped John’s shoulder, who stayed silent, eyes downcast.

Tommy went on, pointing at Arthur without moving:

— You take the Wrewham and the Five Bells. I want the keys in our hands by morning. And make sure the coppers stay out of it.

Arthur still had his back to him, leaning against the fireplace. His slouched shoulders bore the weight of something heavy. Like he couldn’t take much more.

— And don’t use the phones. Alright? I think we’re being listened to.

Tommy waited a beat. Not for a response. He didn’t need one. They’d listen. Because he was Thomas Shelby.

He left the kitchen without saying goodbye. He didn’t have it in him tonight. He needed a drink. A real one. He needed to forget too. Forget who he was, what he had to do, what he’d already done. And for that, he understood Arthur. Alcohol was an escape. A ceasefire.

So he made his way to the Garrison. Wordless. Without looking back.

And he cursed himself truly for thinking that tonight, alongside a bottle of Irish whiskey…
he wished he could order a glass of orange juice.

A simple glass of juice, like she used to do. Because Amara didn’t like whiskey. She never drank, but she stayed. Just to be near him.

And that memory hurt more than anything else.

Chapter Text

London, June 1, 1922

Amara stood behind the counter of the barbershop, her hands clasped, her eyes idly following William as he finished the haircut of the last customer of the day. It was a quiet afternoon, unusually peaceful for a weekday. The morning had been busy, but William, visibly exhausted from the previous days, had decided that the afternoon would be for himself. Amara had agreed without argument. After all, William worked with almost military regularity and certainly deserved a few hours of rest. The day before, all the slots had been fully booked, and he hadn’t had a minute to himself.

The shop was bathed in the soft light of late afternoon, the sun’s rays filtering through the half-drawn curtains, casting golden reflections on the mirrors and the bottles lined up on the shelves. The air smelled of shaving soap, menthol aftershave, and a hint of hair wax. Amara found herself breathing in deeply that familiar mix, which had become almost comforting.

The client was a man in his fifties, stocky, with a round and cheerful face. His salt-and-pepper hair had been carefully trimmed into a precise fade that perfectly followed the shape of his head. His thick mustache was also well-groomed, giving his face a certain dignity. William, focused, was now giving him a clean shave, meticulously shaping the contours, adjusting each millimeter with a small comb and his straight razor. His movements were sure, precise, almost mechanical, so natural were they to him.

Amara, though still new to the trade, had quickly learned to recognize William’s routines. He had his habits: always starting with the nape, moving to the area around the ears, and finishing with the finer details of the beard. She knew the cut was nearly done when William brushed off the remaining hair with a soft brush, then sprayed a light, fresh-smelling setting spray.

As expected, a few minutes later, William removed the protective cape, shaking it to get rid of the cut hair, and patted his client’s shoulder.

— There you go, Henry, good as new! he said with a smile.

Henry stood up, stretched a bit, and turned toward the large mirror hanging on the wall. He looked at himself carefully, a delighted smile slowly spreading across his lips.

— Well, William, my wife and daughters are going to think I just stepped out of a magazine! he said, running a hand through his freshly cut hair.

William let out a small laugh, amused by his client’s enthusiasm.

— The neighbor’s going to think my wife swapped husbands overnight! added Henry, bursting into laughter.

William laughed along with him, then, grabbing a few tools to start tidying up, called over to the counter:

— Amara, give Henry a little discount, he deserves it.

Henry raised a finger, mockingly stern:

— Absolutely not, my boy! I pay what I owe, alright.

William shrugged with a laugh and left the room to store his tools in the back room.

— Not my problem anymore, Henry. Take it up with my accountant!

Henry chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

— Cheeky little devil... he muttered as he walked over to the counter where Amara was waiting, polite and smiling as always.

— So, young lady, how much do I owe you?

Amara returned his smile gently:

— Two shillings, sir.

Henry reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out four shiny shillings, and placed them on the polished wooden counter.

— Two shillings for the cut... he said, sliding them toward her, ...and these two for the tip. That way he can’t say anything.

He accompanied his remark with a conspiratorial wink, then, patting the counter lightly, added:

— Well, time for me to head home. Goodbye, young lady. Give my regards to William, will you?

— I will, have a good evening, sir, Amara replied warmly.

Henry left the shop whistling, gently closing the door behind him, letting the bell above give one last jingle. A comforting silence immediately settled over the shop. Amara leaned briefly against the counter, watching William return calmly from the back room, a cloth in hand.

— He’s always in a good mood, that one... she said under her breath.

William shrugged with a tired smile.

— Henry? Oh yeah, he’s always like that. One of the rare ones who never complains.

He put down his cloth and stretched deeply, his muscles tense from the day.

Amara looked up from her notebook.

— He paid the full price for the cut, she said, putting the change in the till. And he said the other two shillings were a tip.

William shook his head absentmindedly with a small, tired smile.

— I’ve been trying to give him a discount for years, but he refuses every time, that stubborn old man.

He went to grab the broom he had left propped against the wall when he’d exited earlier, then added as he passed by the counter:

— Alright, a quick sweep and we can close up. And take the two shillings he left, Amara.

Amara looked at him, frowning. William was really too kind, much more than just a boss. But those two shillings, she knew, weren’t for her. He had done all the work, not her.

— That’s kind of you, William, but I’m not taking them, she replied, shaking her head slightly.

William paused for a moment, broom in hand, and fixed her with an insistent look.

— I insist, he said simply. I won’t take them.

Amara met his eyes, determined. She knew William was the type to always want to share, to do more than necessary, but she didn’t want to take advantage. He was already giving her a lot: trust, a respectful environment, and genuine consideration, things few bosses offered their staff. And even though William didn’t like to think of himself as a boss, she knew where the line was.

— Alright, she said after a short silence, I’ll put them in the books.

William burst out laughing, his face lighting up briefly despite his fatigue.

— You’re as stubborn as Henry, you know... he teased, shaking his head before resuming sweeping around the barber chair.

Amara smiled faintly, then went back to her accounting. She always used the same method, as meticulous as ever, the same one she had used back at Shelby & Co. She first calculated how much the day had brought in theoretically, adding up each haircut, each service, each little extra, then compared that amount to the cash in the till. On days when William bought supplies for the shop, she carefully recorded the expenses separately.

The barbershop fell into an almost meditative silence, each of them focused on their task. The regular swish of William’s broom moved rhythmically over the wooden floor, mingling with the soft scratch of Amara’s pencil as she quickly added and subtracted figures in a notebook worn from use. The daylight began to soften the room, tinting the walls with an even gentler hue, as if the shop itself was preparing to rest after a quiet day.

Amara lifted her head for a moment, watching William silently working to gather the last fallen hairs from the floor. She couldn’t help but think that this place, humble and modest as it was, had become a reassuring haven for her. Here, she had found a kind of stability, far from the turmoil of Birmingham, far from the ghosts that, at times, still haunted her despite herself.

William looked up in turn, briefly catching her gaze before smiling, complicit. No words were needed: both of them knew it was almost time to draw the curtain on another full day.

After long minutes of concentration, each absorbed in their task, Amara slid the last coin into the till. She closed the metal drawer gently, satisfied: the accounts were balanced. The money on paper matched perfectly with the money in the till, as always.

She lifted her head slightly and observed William, still meticulously sweeping the mix of chestnut, brown, and blond hairs into the iron dustpan he held firmly in his other hand. Once the floor was spotless, William straightened up too and caught Amara’s eye.

— Everything good? he asked with a smile, wiping his hands on a dishcloth tucked into his belt.

— Yes, the accounts are good, Amara confirmed, closing her notebook for good and smoothing the cover with her palm.

William nodded with an amused expression.

— They would’ve been even better with two shillings less… he teased with a playful wink.

Amara shook her head gently, a small smile tugging at her lips, her tight curls bouncing slightly around her face with the movement.

William disappeared into the back room for a moment to put away the broom while Amara busied herself closing the till properly and tidying up the few papers on the counter. When he returned, he had a bunch of keys in his hand, which he jingled absentmindedly.

— Well, now that everything’s sorted, we can close up, he said, heading toward the door.

He opened it, the bell jingling cheerfully above their heads. William held it wide open, a gallant smile on his face.

— After you, Miss Accountant.

— Thank you, William, Amara replied with a small laugh, stepping over the threshold to go out.

She stopped just outside the shop, instinctively lifting her face to the sky. The afternoon sun was pleasantly warming the street, and even though the temperatures were still mild, you could feel that summer was slowly approaching. Amara enjoyed the gentle warmth, so different from Birmingham’s: there, when the sun deigned to appear, the heat quickly became suffocating, trapped by the pollution and tight streets, making the air almost unbreathable. Here in London, even though the sky was often overcast, the little warmth that made it through was at least more bearable.

William locked the door behind her, making sure everything was secure before slipping the keys into his jacket pocket. He stood next to Amara for a moment, watching the street.

— It’s a nice day today, he said, scanning the almost clear sky.

Amara nodded in silence, also savoring the soft rays of sunshine brushing her skin.

William suddenly grew more hesitant. He paused, staring straight ahead as if avoiding her gaze, then spoke, his voice slightly softer:

— Do you… do you have anything planned this afternoon?

Amara turned her head toward him, a little surprised.

In theory, Amara had nothing planned for the afternoon. Ada had mentioned the day before about going to the park with Karl, a little impromptu picnic to enjoy the good weather, and even that morning, when William told her they were closing early, Amara had thought about joining them. But now that she was here, standing on the sidewalk in front of the shop, with William looking at her more shyly than usual, she hesitated.

William was kind, really kind. He was the kind of man who always held the door open, always asked how she was before talking about work, offered his help without ever insisting. Since she had been working here, he had been respectful, discreet, even a bit distant at times, giving her the impression that he was simply a conscientious boss, nothing more. The two previous times William had invited her out, it had been under professional pretenses: a quick drink to go over the accounts, a meal to celebrate her hiring. Amara had never read anything into it.

But lately… Lately there had been something different, and Amara was starting to wonder. Ada, with her sharp eye, had already whispered to her:

— You know, these invitations, Amara… they’re never just professional.

Amara hadn’t wanted to think too much about it at the time, but now she was wondering. Maybe Ada was right. Maybe she had been naïve.

And yet, Amara wasn’t a liar. It was a nearly sacred principle for her. Her mother had drilled it into her and her siblings all through childhood. She suddenly saw that precise scene again, as clear as if it were yesterday: she was small, sitting on the slightly wobbly chair in the family living room, her sister on the left, her brothers on the right, all lined up, while their mother, with the Bible on her lap, read slowly:

"The Lord detests lying lips, but He delights in those who tell the truth." (Proverbs 12:22).

After reading, their mother had looked up at them, searching each of their eyes one by one, her voice soft but firm:

— You know what that means, my children? It means that lying, even the smallest lie, is poison. It might seem easier sometimes to lie, but the Lord sees everything. He sees your heart, your intentions, even the ones you hide from yourself. And He expects you to tell the truth, even when it’s hard, even when it’s awkward. Neither your father, I and especially not our Lord, ever want to see you lie. You must stay honest, even when it’s tougher. Do you understand?

Amara had nodded back then, her little fists clenched on her dress. She had never forgotten those words. She couldn’t forget. Even now, as an adult, those words still echoed in her like a bell that could never be silenced.

So now, facing William, she hesitated. Because yes, she doubted what he might say next. Because she was a little wary, and afraid of seeming presumptuous if she imagined intentions that maybe weren’t there. But also because her first instinct could have been to deflect the question, to say she had plans, anything to avoid a moment that might turn awkward. Yet she did none of that. She chose honesty. William hadn’t asked for anything yet—maybe he was just being polite, maybe he had no ulterior motive. And if that wasn’t the case… she’d handle it. But at least she wouldn’t lie.

Amara lifted her head, her eyes locking with William’s, and said in a clear, confident tone, despite the little knot of doubt still tightening in her stomach:

— No, I don’t have anything planned.

She felt her heart beat a little faster, suspended in that moment of anticipation where everything seemed possible.

William appeared a little more relaxed when he heard her response, a genuine smile lighting up his face. He hesitated for a brief moment before speaking in a calm, almost gentle voice:

— If you're free... I was thinking, given the nice weather, I'd like to show you a place. Not too far from here... it's peaceful, pretty... I think you'd like it.

He looked at her with a certain expectation, but still with that usual respect in his eyes, nothing urgent or inappropriate.

Amara felt her heart skip a beat, caught between mild surprise and a soft warmth. William had always been kind, thoughtful, never heavy-handed or insistent. And this proposal seemed innocent, simple: to share a moment outside the salon, somewhere other than this strictly professional setting. Part of her wanted to say yes, she couldn’t deny it. It would be easy to accept, to let herself be carried by the softness of this late afternoon, to tell herself she had every right to, after all, there was nothing wrong with it.

But as soon as this thought appeared, another one followed, heavier, darker. Tommy. She couldn’t stop her mind from going back to him, to everything they had been. To what they were no longer, yes, but which still weighed heavily on her. His face appeared in her mind: his clear eyes, his piercing gaze, the way he made her feel weak and strong at the same time. She still saw him, as if it were yesterday, even though he was no longer there, even though he would probably never come back.

An inner struggle began to stir within her. One part of her wanted to move on, breathe, turn the page, enjoy this new life far from Birmingham, away from the Peaky Blinders, far from everything that had cost her so much. William seemed to be the embodiment of this new beginning: calm, considerate, far from the turmoil.

But the other part... that part of her stubbornly refused. An invisible loyalty still tied her to Tommy, even if it was absurd, even if no one would know. She didn’t always understand herself. Deep down, she still loved Tommy. She simply couldn’t imagine giving to another man what she had given to him. As if, until this chapter was completely closed, which seemed almost impossible, she had to remain alone, suspended between two worlds.

She lowered her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, searching for her words. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to say yes. But something still held her back.

So she gently raised her head, her gaze combining caution and a faint smile, and asked:

— What exactly... do you want to show me?

A way to buy time, to gauge the situation further, to leave a small door open without committing right away. Because deep down, Amara was tired of always denying herself simple things... but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to truly move forward. Not yet.

William seemed to hesitate for a moment, almost embarrassed by his own boldness, then cleared his throat, slipping the salon keys into his pocket while lifting his gaze to meet Amara's.

— It's a little garden... kind of hidden. Not really a park like Hyde Park or Regent's, nothing official. It's a place I stumbled upon by accident, just walking around. There's never too many people, and... I thought you might like it. It's quiet, pretty... and we work hard all week. It might do us good to just... breathe a little.

He shrugged slightly, a genuine smile on his lips, but his gaze searched Amara’s, as if to say he would understand if she turned him down.

Amara felt a slight shiver run down her spine. What he was offering was simple, innocent. She bit her lip, a nervous old habit, and her mind was immediately flooded with the image of Tommy, him again. She saw his serious face, the way he looked at her, always with that intensity that disarmed her. She remembered their conversations, their arguments, their silences filled with meaning. She saw herself again, curled up against him in those rare moments when he let his guard down, when he allowed her into that world he controlled so fiercely.

And now? Nothing. Or rather, an immense void. Tommy was no longer there. Their story seemed suspended in time, with no real ending but no continuation either. And her? She remained stuck, between invisible loyalty and the desire to move forward.

Amara took a soft breath, her eyes fixed on William. He was here, in front of her, offering a moment of lightness, something she hadn’t had in a long time. Didn’t she have the right to breathe a little? To think about something other than Tommy Shelby, the past, the pain?

She felt, deep inside, a small voice whisper: Let yourself go, just a little.

She pressed her bag against her, lifted her eyes to William, and this time, she answered more honestly, a small smile starting at the corner of her lips:

— Alright... I’ll come with you. Show me.

William seemed surprised for half a second, then his face lit up with a genuine, relieved smile.

— Perfect! You won’t regret it, I promise. It’s not far, we’ll be there soon.

He walked slowly by her side, and Amara, as she moved along, felt a mix of excitement and apprehension growing inside her. She wondered if she was doing the right thing, if she would regret it... but for once, she decided to silence her doubts. At least for this afternoon.

Because she, too, needed to breathe.

They began to walk quietly, William maintaining a relaxed pace, hands in his pockets, glancing over at Amara from time to time to make sure she was following. The sounds of London’s streets still buzzed around them, the constant hum of cars, street vendors, hurried people but William seemed to know exactly where he was going, cutting through smaller, less crowded streets.

After a few minutes of walking in silence, William spoke in a calm, almost thoughtful tone:

— You know, when I first came to London with my father... it was already a few years ago... something was terribly missing. In Manchester, even though it's a huge city, I had my routines. When everything got too heavy, too loud, I’d leave.

He paused briefly, looking ahead, his thoughts seeming to wander far back.

— I’d walk for hours, sometimes two whole hours... until I was far enough to hear nothing but the wind and the birds. That was my way of coping.

He let out a small, joyless laugh.

— But here... London, it’s not the same. No matter how much you walk... the city is everywhere. It always catches up with you. And at first, it drove me crazy. I felt like I was suffocating.

Amara listened in silence, attentive. She understood that feeling better than she cared to admit. That urgent desire to escape the noise, the obligations, everything that weighs down,  just to find a little peace.

William turned left into a nearly deserted alley, then continued more softly:

— One day, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I left the barber with no purpose, no idea where to go. I just walked, and walked some more. And then... I stumbled upon this place. By accident. Like a little pocket of calm in the middle of this damn chaos.

He smiled, almost to himself, before adding:

— Since then, it’s been my refuge. Every time it gets too much... I go back. And today, I thought... maybe you’d need it too.

Amara felt her heart tighten slightly. There was something touching about William’s sincerity, the vulnerability he was letting her see. She understood that need to flee to a quiet corner, that vital need for silence. She had felt it so many times in Birmingham, under very different circumstances... and even here, in London, a city that swallows everything in its path.

But at the same time, behind her thoughts, there was always a shadow: Tommy. This kind of invitation, this budding complicity… it reminded her of moments with him. And it scared her, a little. Afraid of enjoying it too much. Afraid of letting herself go to places she didn’t want to go.

Yet, she was there, walking beside William, letting her steps guide her to a place of peace she might have never really had. And for now, she just breathed in the soft spring air, silently, by his side.

After a few minutes, William slowed down and pointed to a discreet gate, almost hidden between two old buildings.

— We're here. You'll see… it's not much, but it's ours now.

Amara looked at the gate, intrigued, her heart beating a little faster. She was curious... and a little nervous too. But for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to be surprised.

William gently pushed open the gate, which creaked slightly under his hand. They entered the garden, and Amara stopped dead in her tracks with her first few steps. The place seemed almost unreal, like a small piece of the countryside frozen in the heart of the city.

The gravel path cracked under their feet as they walked, and Amara immediately felt that sensation she hadn’t known in a long time: tranquility, pure and whole. The garden wasn’t huge, but it was wonderfully well-maintained. Tall trees formed a natural canopy, filtering the sunlight that danced on the ground in golden patches. Flower beds bordered the paths daffodils faded in places, bright tulips still standing, roses already in bud.

Further along, a small circular pond shimmered gently. Some water lilies floated on its surface, and a wooden bench, worn by time, sat right next to it, inviting a break.

The sounds of the city seemed to be cut off by the density of the vegetation. There was only the rustling of leaves, the soft chirping of birds perched in the branches, and the light breath of the wind that occasionally lifted Amara's hair.

She took a few more steps, almost without thinking, scanning the scene with her gaze. Thick bushes, shaded corners where moss grew between stones, the subtle scent of damp earth… It all reminded her of vague childhood memories of rare peaceful walks. She briefly closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if trying to absorb the timelessness of the place.

William watched her in silence, a satisfied smile on his lips. He seemed happy to see Amara touch the same peace he had first found here.

— It’s beautiful… Amara murmured without really looking at him, her eyes still fixed on the gently shimmering pond.

William nodded.

— This is where I come when everything gets too much... I knew you'd like it, he replied gently.

Amara felt a warmth rise within her, torn between gratitude and a slight tug at her heart. Part of her just wanted to let go, fully enjoy this simple moment, forget everything else. But the other… the other reminded her obstinately that none of this was supposed to exist.

Still, for now, she did nothing but sit gently on the bench, her gaze still lost in this unexpected nature. William sat next to her, without a word, letting the silence fill the space between them. A soothing silence this time.

Amara, seated near the pond, let a few long minutes of peaceful silence pass. Yet, despite the pleasantness, this calm began to weigh on her. She turned slightly toward William and asked softly:

— Henry... the client from earlier... do you know him well?

William, who had been watching the reflections of the sun on the water, straightened a little and nodded with a slight nostalgic smile.

— Yes, Henry... it's been a while now. He's a very loyal client. In fact, he was one of the very first to come when we opened the barber. He paused, his gaze momentarily elsewhere, as if lost in his memories. Back then, we had no reputation in London. People would walk by the shop without even glancing in… but he walked in, almost without hesitation.

Amara listened attentively, intrigued by this unexpected connection.

William continued:

— And you know… when my father passed away, Henry came to the barber in person. He stayed for a while, gave his condolences… but not just passing by, you know? He was really sincere. He even invited me to his place, thinking it might help take my mind off things.

He shook his head gently, giving a small, fond smile.

— After that, he started coming more often. Not always for a cut… sometimes just to check how I was doing. To talk. It was precious to me at that time.

Amara felt a strange warmth rise within her as she heard these words. She looked at William with a softer gaze, touched by the loyalty and kindness Henry had shown.

— He seems like a good person…she murmured.

— Yes, really. People like him… you never forget them, William replied, nodding, his gaze again turned toward the pond, a subtle expression of gratitude on his face.

William remained silent for a few seconds, still staring at the water as if searching for his words. Then, he continued softly, his voice a little deeper:

— You know… Henry also helped me understand something important. He paused, searching for the right words. For a long time, I thought it was... my fault. My father’s death.

Amara looked at him with surprise but said nothing, letting him continue.

— It was my idea, London. I was the one who insisted we leave Manchester, to try our luck here. My father followed me because he wanted it to work for me… and at first, it was hard. But when the shop started gaining recognition, it required… so much work. Much more than we imagined. And he gave everything. He was tired, worn out, but he refused to slow down.

William shook his head gently, a shadow crossing his gaze.

— I still wonder if I should have done more… been more present. You know, sometimes he told me to go home, to take some time, that he could finish the day. And me, an idiot…" He sighed, bitterly. "I listened. And when I left earlier, you know where I went? To bars… to drink, to party. I needed to forget, my wife had just left, the war had barely ended... He paused, almost ashamed. I just wanted to… live. And London… this city, it gives you the illusion that anything is possible, like what the Americans say about their dream. It’s more bourgeois, more flashy, and when you’re young, it blinds you quickly.

He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze a little lost.

— Sometimes I think I should have insisted, stayed with him, forced him to take it easy… But Henry… he always told me it wasn’t my fault. That my father was a proud man, that he would have made the same choices over and over for me. And somewhere… that helps me move forward. Even though that guilt… it never really goes away.

Amara understood what William was expressing. She knew that guilt, that little voice inside that whispers you could have done more, been more present, stopped the inevitable. She had felt that too, after the death of her parents. The pain of losing her father had already been immense, but what had finished her off was the loss of her mother, which came only a short time later. That double loss had left her devastated, with an overwhelming sense of emptiness… and guilt.

She still remembered those nights spent on her knees at the foot of her bed, praying, begging God for answers. She had looked for signs, words, anything to ease her heart. Her mind kept tormenting her: Was I a good daughter? Did I give them enough love, enough comfort, enough peace in those last moments? Was I too busy with my own worries to see their distress?

And even though, deep down, she knew that her father had been taken by illness, that her mother had been heartbroken by grief and loneliness, Amara couldn’t help but feel responsible.

But within this inner chaos, there had been that answer. That unique, almost unreal moment when she had felt the presence of her mother, gentle and strong at the same time, coming to envelop her. Not physically, of course, but in that kind of instant where faith makes the impossible tangible. She had heard that familiar voice, the one that had taught her so much. Her mother had often repeated these biblical words, which Amara had initially listened to distractedly, but which had ended up taking root in her: 

— You know, Amara, marriage doesn't just unite two beings… it makes them one. And she quoted Genesis: "For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh." (Genesis 2:24).

At the time, Amara didn’t fully understand the depth of these words. But after the death of her parents, they made perfect sense. She understood how deeply her mother and father had been connected, how the death of one had torn a part of the other away.

Then there had been those other words, the ones that had brought her the most comfort:

 — When a Christian dies, Amara, they don’t really die. They simply go home, to the Lord. 

This idea had soothed her wounds, giving her the strength to accept what she couldn’t change. Still, Amara had never really had the time to fully mourn her losses. Life had quickly resumed its course, or rather, she had chosen to dive into it to avoid sinking. Jeremiah’s wife, her older brother, had fallen ill shortly after, and Amara had devoted herself body and soul to her. Then, when the illness claimed her as well, she had focused on her nephews, becoming a pillar for them, almost like a second mother.

Taking care of others had been her way of fleeing her own pain, of channeling what she felt by staying strong for those who still needed her. But she knew it well: her mourning, though well hidden under the daily tasks, had never truly disappeared. It remained there, lurking in a corner of her heart, ready to resurface when she least expected it.

A silence fell, heavy but pleasant, as they both let their thoughts float, admiring the garden. The leaves rustled gently under the soft breeze, the delicate fragrances of the flowers filled the air, and the filtered sunlight through the trees cast golden patches on the ground. William eventually broke the silence, his voice soft but deep:

— Every time I come here, I’m still so impressed by the beauty of nature.

Amara nodded, her eyes shining with sincere admiration:

— It’s really beautiful.

And she meant it with all her heart. She had never seen vegetation so lush, a place so peaceful. Nothing compared to the grayness, the asphalt, and the suffocating soot of Birmingham. Here, everything breathed life, purity. She let herself be enveloped by the sense of lightness, of calm, that she hadn’t felt in so long.

After a few long seconds of silence, William cleared his throat slightly, a gesture that immediately caught Amara’s attention. He seemed to search for his words, hesitant, before finally saying, his voice a little lower:

— It’s not just the garden that’s beautiful.

Amara suddenly turned her head toward him, perplexed, her heart suddenly pounding faster. She understood what he meant… or at least, she thought she did. But this part of her, still full of doubts, refused to believe that he could really be talking about her. Yet, as she met his gaze, she felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

It was at that moment that she realized how close they were to each other. She hadn’t paid attention until then, but their proximity was undeniable, almost electric. William was looking straight into her eyes, with an intensity that unsettled her. And, almost against her will, Amara plunged her gaze into his, captivated, unable to look away.

William shifted slightly, still hesitant. His hand made a first timid movement, then he seemed to reconsider… before finally placing it gently on Amara’s dress, at the level of her thigh. She felt the light, almost trembling contact, and her breath became shorter. William leaned slowly toward her. Amara was still staring at him, frozen, watching every movement, every breath. She didn’t pull back.

And then, after those endless suspended seconds, she finally felt his lips gently press against hers. The contact was incredibly soft, almost unreal. William’s lips were warm, supple, and this first contact sent an unexpected shiver through her. Her eyes instinctively closed, as if to savor this moment more fully. She remained still, too frozen to respond at first, as William began to move slightly, deepening the kiss with hesitant tenderness.

Gradually, Amara felt something within her give way, a wall that seemed to crack under the warmth of the kiss. She slowly, timidly, began to move in return, responding to the embrace. It was soft, unsettling… she felt like she was dissolving into this timeless bubble.

But suddenly, an image, sharp and sudden, took over her mind: Tommy. His face, his eyes, his smile. The vision hit her like a cold slap, cutting off the flood of emotions that were sweeping her away. Her heart skipped a beat, and panic surged through her in an instant. She pulled away from the kiss abruptly, stood up quickly, making William stagger as he almost fell off the bench from the surprise.

— Amara?! he said, bewildered.

Amara’s hands were shaking, her breath short, her eyes searching for a place to focus as her mind kept screaming the same name: Tommy. Tommy. Tommy.

William, also panicked, stood up quickly:

— Amara, are you okay? I… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to surprise you… Amara?!

But she could barely hear him, his words getting lost in the fog of her thoughts. All she could see was Tommy, and all she could feel was the burning inside her, the overwhelming weight of guilt.

She had to leave. Now. She needed to run, put distance between herself and this scene, between herself and William, between herself and the thoughts that were suffocating her.

She turned quickly, her steps rapid, almost disordered, leading her toward the garden gate. Behind her, she heard William shout, his voice broken by worry and panic:

— Amara, please! I’m really sorry! Wait!

Then, even louder, pleading:

— Amara!

But Amara wasn’t listening anymore. All she wanted was to flee. Flee from William, flee from her contradictory feelings, flee from this moment she didn’t understand… flee from Tommy, or rather, flee from the immense shadow he left behind. Flee from Birmingham, flee from London. Flee from everything.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, June 3, 1922

Tommy quietly closed the heavy front door of Arrow House behind him, his footsteps echoing on the spotless tiles of the empty hall. He didn’t even take off his coat, eyes fixed straight ahead, determined to reach the small drawing room he knew was rarely occupied. Each return home weighed a little heavier on his shoulders. Tonight, more than usual, he had no desire to be seen, heard, or drawn into anything. His only wish: a moment of solitude, just a few minutes to sit down, to breathe.

He walked down the corridor at a measured pace, the fatigue of the day visible in every movement. The cold handle of the sitting room yielded under his hand, and he stepped inside, savoring the calm that reigned within those four walls. The room, modestly furnished but always impeccably maintained, offered his tired eyes a temporary haven. He all but collapsed onto one of the white sofas, finally allowing himself the deep sigh he’d been holding in since stepping over the threshold.

But his respite was short-lived.

Barely seated, he heard Grace’s hurried footsteps. Quick. Enthusiastic. Almost too eager to be natural. Tommy briefly closed his eyes, his breath tight. Of course… She must have heard the car in the driveway, he thought with a mix of exasperation and weariness. Earlier that evening, he’d even considered parking a bit further away to avoid being noticed right away, but fatigue had won out over caution. And now, he was paying for that choice.

Grace burst into the room in a whirl of brisk movements, her arms full of papers she was clutching awkwardly, her face lit up with a smile too wide, nearly bursting with a joy she seemed to feel alone. She had that nervous energy that clashed violently with Tommy’s inner heaviness.

— Tommy! she called out, her voice cutting sharply through the soft silence of the room.

He mumbled a: 

— Good evening…

But his words were drowned out by her momentum. Before he could even sit up or fend her off, Grace had flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, papers flying around them. She kissed him fiercely, a quick, damp, rushed kiss. Tommy stayed still, his lips frozen under the onslaught. The contact was anything but pleasant: no tenderness, no spark, just a rehearsed, automatic gesture. A taste of futile effort. He didn’t return the kiss, merely waiting, tense, for her to pull back. A few seconds later, she sat up, still looking thrilled, seemingly oblivious to her husband’s obvious discomfort.

— Sit down! she said with overflowing enthusiasm, practically pushing him back onto the sofa as if she were forcing him into place.

Tommy complied without protest, sinking again into the soft cushions, his tired body finding a bit of relief in the comfort despite himself. But his mind was already elsewhere, wearily anticipating what was to come. He knew all too well: a long monologue in which Grace would unpack every insignificant detail of her day, trying to fill the heavy silence between them with words, too many words.

She was already bustling in front of him, her papers trembling in her hands as if she were bursting to talk. Her sharp movements, her eyes sparkling with pride or happiness, Tommy couldn’t have said which. He watched her in silence, his gaze drifting over her without really seeing. He let himself sink deeper into the sofa, his eyelids heavy, threatening to close at any moment.

In that precise instant, everything about her reminded him why these moments had become unbearable: that constant overexcitement, that irresistible urge she had to fill every silence, that inability to sense someone else’s exhaustion. Yes, it was probably cruel, but Tommy had no energy left to give her. Not today. Not now. Yet he knew he had no choice: listen, nod, play the role of the attentive husband even as everything inside him screamed to flee the charade.

The room was filled with Grace’s overpowering perfume, that cloying sweet blend that made his head swim. Tommy let his head fall slightly back, closing his eyes for a moment, surrendering to the only refuge he had left: the soft comfort of a white sofa, which tonight was the only thing in the house he found truly bearable.

Amid the pile of papers she was still clutching awkwardly, Grace grabbed a thinner envelope, clearly distinct, and placed the rest in a neat stack on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Her eyes gleamed with barely contained excitement as she waved the letter under Tommy’s nose, as though she held an inestimable treasure.

— Guess, she said, her voice light but vibrating with impatience.

Tommy felt the weariness rise in his throat. He forced himself not to sigh. This little game… He had neither the energy nor the will to play. His eyes slid toward her, tired but polite.

— Guess what, he replied in a weary, almost whispered voice.

Still beaming, Grace plopped down next to him, the sofa sinking under her weight. She scooted closer with that childlike joy she always showed when news thrilled her.

— He said yes, she blurted out triumphantly, unfolding the letter and placing it between them on the sofa.

Tommy stayed still for a moment, his eyes resting on the paper without any real intention of reading it. His mind was elsewhere, far from Grace’s feverish excitement.

— Who? he asked at last, his voice flat, making no effort to hide his detachment.

— The president of Birmingham’s municipal council! she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with victorious glee.

Tommy’s brow furrowed slightly, and, more out of reflex than interest, he picked up the letter to bring it to his eyes. His tired gaze skimmed the lines with difficulty, absorbing only fragments: acceptance… reception… honored by the invitation… Nothing that could shake him from his inner torpor.

— He accepted our invitation, Grace insisted, unable to contain her pride.

Tommy slowly folded the letter with a methodical gesture, slightly crushing it in his hand before setting it on his lap. He turned his head toward Grace, studying her for a moment.

— Everyone accepted, she added, as if driving the point home.

Tommy let out a low grunt of approval, a dull noise meant as a response but sorely lacking conviction.

— Everyone, Grace repeated again, visibly savoring the weight of those words, as if she wanted to make sure he grasped the full scope of the success.

He leaned forward to place the letter on the coffee table with the rest of the pile, hoping the gesture would signal the end of the conversation. But Grace, still swept up in her euphoria, quickly grabbed his arm, unable to hold back her excitement.

— I keep changing the menu, she added, staring at him with bright eyes, her tone vibrating with a feverish excitement.

Tommy tilted his head slightly, his jaw tight. On the one hand, he was relieved that Grace was taking full responsibility for organizing the event: one less worry for him, already burdened with graver concerns the Father Hughes business, the Russians, the growing tensions with John, not to mention the Changrettas. But on the other hand, her obsession with every little detail of the planning was becoming quickly exhausting.

Every small decision, the table arrangements, the linens, the menu, the seating assignments was a pretext for endless discussions, debates that, in his eyes, held no real weight. Still, he couldn’t deny that the municipal council president’s acceptance was, in business terms, a significant development. It had at least more substance than the endless question of whether they should have one long central table or several small round ones, or which shade of white was best for the napkins.

Grace jumped up from the sofa in a sudden burst of energy and then crouched in front of Tommy, folding her arms on her knees, looking up at him as he leaned slowly forward to pour himself a glass of whisky from the small table. He let the amber liquid flow with the slowness of a man worn out, hoping the sharp burn of the alcohol would help him keep his eyes open a little longer or at least numb the weariness that had clung to his skin for days.

A silence settled for a few seconds, broken only by the faint clink of the glass on the table. Then Grace, in a light voice tinged with a hint of playful complaint, said:

— My hand is all stiff from writing so much…

A small smile brushed her lips as she dramatically massaged her hand. Tommy barely glanced at her, distractedly setting down the whisky decanter before replying, his tone weary, without even thinking:

— Why are you writing by hand? I bought you a typewriter.

At those words, Grace stared at him for a few seconds, her eyebrows raised, her gaze sparkling with a mix of amusement and disbelief, as if that was the most absurd question anyone could ask. Then, with a sly smile, she replied, shaking her head slightly:

— You don’t write this kind of letter on a typewriter, come on.

Tommy gave a small shrug, raising his glass to his lips to take a long sip. The whisky slid down his throat, burning pleasantly all the way, almost drawing a sigh of relief from him.

— Forgive my ignorance, he murmured in a neutral tone after swallowing, his eyes fixed more on the glass than on her.

He wasn’t convinced it mattered at all to the recipient whether the letter was handwritten or typed, but he had no intention of arguing. If Grace firmly believed in that idea, so be it. At least it kept her busy. Since Charlie’s birth, she had thrown herself heart and soul into their charitable project, seeming to regain a new vitality. She was clearly doing better now: she no longer had the pain that had long prevented her from moving freely after being stitched up, and she could carry their son without effort, without that grimace of pain he had noticed in the early weeks.

Grace looked at him for a few seconds, seeming to wait for a sign of interest, then, after a slight sigh, turned toward the coffee table. She grabbed another thick document and said eagerly:

— I also received the plans.

She carefully unfolded the large paper, as big as a road map, and spread it out in front of them.

— The plans for their development project on the estate, she said proudly, pointing to a specific area on the sheet. Here, they’re going to set up a playground for the children.

She turned to Tommy, her face glowing with excitement:

— Look!

Tommy let out a simple grunt of acknowledgment, a sound barely audible, but he didn’t move an inch from his slumped position on the sofa. His gaze remained fixed absently on his glass, his thoughts already elsewhere.

Grace, absorbed in her own explanations, paid little attention to his lack of reaction. She went on:

— And the charity commission has agreed to turn a blind eye to the three rotten boards up there…

While talking, she had moved closer to him again, her fingers sliding absentmindedly along his arm.

— …and they’ll grant us the permit within a month, she added, her tone filled with quiet satisfaction.

Without warning, she suddenly leaned toward him and kissed him. Tommy responded mechanically, eyes closed, the taste of whisky still vivid on his tongue. The fatigue, mixed with the alcohol fumes, was slowly numbing his senses. A part of him, in a confused corner of his mind, hoped that by closing his eyes tightly enough, the image he was trying to hold on to would appear: that of a woman with dark skin, thick black hair styled into a perfect afro, deep eyes and a full, perfectly shaped mouth… Amara.

He clung to it for a second, hoping to prolong the illusion, but the kiss was short-lived. Grace pulled back, her gaze narrowing slightly in irritation.

— You weren’t listening to me, she said, her voice sharper now, almost hurt.

Tommy stayed still for a moment, eyes still closed. He didn’t want to open them, not yet. Opening his eyes meant breaking the soft image he was desperately trying to keep alive in his memory. Almost instinctively, in a slow gesture, he lifted his hand and caressed Grace’s cheek, but it wasn’t really her he was touching in his mind.

— I’m listening, he murmured softly, his voice low, hoarse, tinged with deep weariness.

Grace tilted her head slightly, her smile widening with that mischievous glint she sometimes had when she wanted to be charming or subtly teasing.

— You think I’m a bit obsessed, don’t you? she asked, her voice soft but laced with barely hidden amusement.

Tommy instinctively closed his eyes again, his lashes fluttering briefly as he tried to hold onto that fleeting image he cherished in silence: Amara’s face, her delicate features, her deep skin, her dark eyes looking at him with that quiet intensity. But Grace’s voice shattered the vision, like a sharp noise breaking a fragile dream.

He opened his eyes again, slowly, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She was there, so close, still leaning toward him after their kiss, her eyes shining with false innocence, as if waiting for a compliment or at least a flattering evasion. But Tommy, too tired and drained of any desire to play along, looked her straight in the eyes and answered simply, without sugarcoating:

— Yes.

The word fell, blunt, unvarnished.

Grace didn’t seem hurt; on the contrary, she gave a light little laugh, aware, almost proud, as if this obsession he spoke of was proof of her commitment, of her importance in the household. She placed her delicate hand on his arm, looking at him with a tender expression, and said, raising her eyebrows slightly:

— As a good wife, I suppose I should ask about your day… shouldn’t I?

Tommy held her gaze for a few seconds, weighing his words. He had no desire to dwell on this day, even less to relive what he’d just gone through by recounting it. So, in a neutral but firm tone, he replied:

— No.

A silence stretched out, heavy, but Grace didn’t seem offended. She studied him closely, her fingers playing absently with the fabric of her dress, before concluding, almost in a conspiratorial whisper:

— I suppose it wasn’t as fruitful as mine…

Tommy let out a small joyless laugh, raising his glass to take another sip of whisky before replying, his voice low, weary:

— Depends how you measure success.

He stayed like that for a few seconds, eyes staring into the void, letting the whisky’s fire warm his throat and try to wash away the tension that had built up throughout the day. Then, a memory came back to him, clear this time: what he had brought back from London. He slowly set his glass down on the coffee table, raising his head a bit toward Grace, and said in a firmer voice:

— You see, as far as I’m concerned, I measure it in sapphires.

Grace, who had just started turning away to pick up one of her papers, froze abruptly. Her face immediately lit up with a dazzled smile, and she let out a little cry of delight. She straightened quickly, placing her hands on Tommy’s knees with excitement. Her eyes, wide with surprise and longing, searched for a clearer confirmation:

— In sapphires? she repeated, almost incredulous.

Tommy nodded slowly, a tired smile briefly touching his lips. He didn’t share Grace’s excitement, but he let her savor the moment as much as she seemed to need it.

— Yes, he confirmed, looking at her with a detached air.

Grace straightened a little more, already imagining what she could do with those precious stones. She no longer seemed to notice the fatigue marking her husband’s features, too caught up in the possibilities these sapphires could offer. She flitted around him for a moment, caressing his arm absently, already lost in her own thoughts, her dreams, her plans, while Tommy remained still, his gaze drifting toward the window, his mind still clouded by another face, another presence… one he was struggling to suppress.

Tommy hesitated, staring for a long moment at the empty glass between his fingers, his thoughts torn between duty and desire. A part of him, muted but insistent, wanted to keep what he was about to give Grace. Tell her he had put the sapphire under protection, invent some excuse… and keep it. Keep it carefully for the only person he truly wanted to give it to: Amara.

But he knew it was impossible. He couldn’t go near Amara. He no longer had that right. They were no longer part of each other’s lives, even though his heart screamed the opposite at every moment. Tommy was married, a father, trapped in the life he had chosen for himself. And Amara… Amara was now laughing in the street alongside another man. A man who seemed to make her smile so easily, so genuinely, as if no more worries weighed on her shoulders. That laugh, Tommy had seen it. That smile, he had caught sight of it turning a corner.

That man… That man irritated him to no end, but paradoxically, Tommy couldn’t help but feel a kind of painful respect for him. He made her laugh. He brought her that light Amara so richly deserved. And Tommy… Tommy had only broken her heart, crushed it, pushed her away when she needed him most.

He shook his head to chase away the thoughts slicing through his chest. His gaze settled on Grace, still absorbed in her daydreams, and in a barely audible murmur, he called her back to him:

— Close your eyes.

Grace turned to him, a bit surprised, trying to understand what he meant. But before she could ask a question, she obeyed, leaning in slightly to kiss him again, fleeting this time, almost like an automatic habit. That kiss was a real stab to Tommy. He responded by reflex, his lips pressed to hers, but there was no warmth, no desire. Just a cold void, a gaping chasm that none of their gestures could fill.

Grace pulled back, her eyes sparkling, before turning completely away, sitting on the floor with her back against the sofa. Then she did something childish, placing her hands over her eyes, playing the surprise game with a lightness that might have been touching… if Tommy weren’t so deeply elsewhere.

Slowly, almost mechanically, Tommy slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out the sapphire, that magnificent jewel the Russians had given him in London during that tense meeting. The stone, now set as a pendant on a fine gold chain, shimmered faintly in the dim light of the living room. It was sumptuous. A deep blue, clear, almost unreal.

It was too beautiful for Grace. This jewel wasn’t for her. It wouldn’t suit her, wouldn’t enhance her beauty, not the way it would have on Amara. In his mind, Tommy already saw that sapphire resting against Amara’s dark skin, mingling with her black curls, shining at the hollow of her graceful neck. The image was so vivid it nearly made him dizzy.

His heart clenched. He wanted to put the jewel away. Keep it a little longer. Preserve it for her, even though he knew there would never be a “her” and him. But it was too late. Too many moves had already been set in motion, too many chains had tightened around him. The necklace would end up around Grace’s neck. It was inevitable.

He slowly lifted the necklace above Grace’s head, holding it there for a few seconds, suspended between them, before murmuring in a tired voice:

— Alright, you can open them.

Grace immediately moved her hands away, her eyes widening in astonishment at the sight of the jewel swaying gently in front of her. A breath of admiration escaped her:

— Oh… but… where did you get that?

Tommy, lips tight, barely looked at her. He didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to talk about London, the Russians, the business. This gift was meant to remain a wordless gesture. He shook his head slightly and answered with silence, letting Grace marvel alone, lost in her fascination with the stone… while all he could hear was Amara’s name echoing painfully in his mind.

After a few seconds, while Grace continued to admire the jewel, her fingers caressing the stone with delight, Tommy reached out and took the necklace to fasten it around her neck. Grace lifted her hair with a soft laugh, offering her nape with almost theatrical ease. She whispered as she brushed the stone:

— It’s gorgeous… truly gorgeous.

Tommy said nothing. His gaze was fixed on his own hands, moving just inches from her skin. They were trembling. Light, uncontrollable tremors, as if his own body instinctively rejected this gesture. Rejected fastening this jewel to this neck. Rejected this reality.

He clenched his jaw slightly, fighting against the sudden tension, but the tiny clasp kept slipping, his clumsy fingers struggling to coordinate. A dull anger rumbled within him, though he wasn’t even sure who it was directed at: himself? Grace? The whole situation?

After long seconds, he finally managed to secure the clasp. His hands pulled back quickly as if the jewel had burned him, and he placed them on the sofa beside him, palms flat, trying to steady his breathing, hoping his hands would stop shaking.

To break the silence, Tommy forced his voice to speak:

— You can wear it to the foundation dinner.

Grace turned her head slightly, still brushing the precious stone that now rested against her collarbone. She laughed softly and replied, teasing:

— Don’t you think it’s a bit much… for a charity gala?

Tommy clenched his jaw, holding back the surge rising in him, that furious urge to snatch it all back, to stash the necklace away, to make it disappear and forget he’d ever given it. But instead, his voice responded in a perfectly controlled, almost indifferent tone:

— Grace… we’re in Birmingham. Good taste is for people who can’t afford sapphires.

Grace burst out laughing, a full-throated, unrestrained laugh that echoed through the large living room. Then, without warning, she spun around, grabbed Tommy by the lapels, and gently pushed him back onto the sofa so he lay down. With a smooth motion, she straddled him, her hands framing his face. Her eyes gleamed with mischievous complicity as she whispered against his lips:

— Mr. Shelby…

She didn’t wait for a reply, immediately leaning in to kiss him passionately, seeking his mouth with eager hunger. Tommy closed his eyes, letting her, searching in the darkness of his mind for the only thing he wanted to find: the image of Amara. Her breath, her deep gaze, her dark skin, her full lips. He clung to it with all his might, desperately trying to conjure her in his mind, to erase everything else…

But Grace’s weight on him, the insistent warmth of her kisses, her voice, her scent… all of it blurred the image, made it hazy, until it almost disappeared. Still, Tommy stubbornly held on, eyes shut, mind elsewhere, refusing to let go of that fragile mirage that kept him standing.

Chapter Text

London, June 7, 1922

Amara was sitting behind the barber’s counter, her elbows resting on the polished wooden surface, her head slightly tilted, eyes fixed on the bustling London street beyond the large window. The morning light streamed through the panes, casting pale reflections across her tired face. Outside, the endless flow of passersby, the cars screeching their tires on the wet asphalt, the cries of street vendors… it all seemed distant, almost unreal. She wasn’t really watching what was happening outside; her gaze was more of an escape, a way to avoid looking at William, who was working just a few meters away.

He was focused on his client, his skilled hands moving around the head of a man whose face Amara couldn’t even make out. Everything around her felt blurry, except for the thoughts looping relentlessly in her mind. William hadn’t said a word since she’d arrived that morning. Nor had she. And that silence was heavy, suffocating, despite the familiar noises of the shop: the buzzing of clippers, the snip of scissors, the muffled bursts of conversation between clients and barbers.

Amara wasn’t sure what she could even say. Not sure what William might want to say. And most of all… she had no idea what answers she could give if the conversation she’d been dreading for two days finally happened.

Since Friday night, since that kiss… she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. She had spent her entire weekend shut up in her room at Ada’s, pacing in circles, replaying the moment over and over until she lost sleep. She saw the scene with maddening precision: the way William had looked at her, his eyes locked on hers with that mix of gentleness and determination. The brief hesitation, that suspended breath, then the touch of his lips, unexpected but, in truth, not all that surprising.

What had unsettled her most… wasn’t that he had kissed her. It was the way she had surrendered to it. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if, deep down, she had always known, always waited. And that was what she couldn’t forgive herself for.

Ada had been right. Ada, always more clear-sighted than Amara had ever been herself. Those repeated meetings, those supposedly professional dinners, that slow-building closeness… it hadn’t been just work. It had never been just work. But Amara hadn’t wanted to see it. Or rather, she had refused to see it. Too cautious, too wary, too hurt by the past to dare imagine that someone like William someone good, someone kind, might truly want more than a simple working relationship.

And the truth hurt: she blamed herself, terribly. Not because of William. No. He had been honest, even brave. He had taken the risk. She, on the other hand, had been a coward. She’d left him there, standing in the middle of the street, without a word, running away as she always had since everything in her life had fallen apart. Since Tommy.

And that was really the heart of the problem. Tommy. That story had destroyed her, not just because of lost love, but because of everything it had taught her about herself. She wasn’t Ada. She wasn’t one of those confident women who could look in the mirror and smile at their own reflection. Ada knew she was beautiful, knew she was desirable, knew she could win over any man who crossed her path. Amara… Amara had learned to doubt. With Tommy, she had discovered a harsh truth: she wasn’t the kind of woman a white man could love freely. Or love at all, really. There was always an obstacle, always an invisible but impassable line. She had thought, naively, that she might be different. But life had been quick to remind her of her place.

So no, she didn’t blame William. How could she? He had always been good to her, thoughtful, generous. A respectful boss, a patient friend. He had never crossed the line… until that night. And now that he had crossed it, she was the one who didn’t know how to go back, how to piece together the simple camaraderie that had suited her so well.

She let out a quiet sigh, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself, as if trying to keep her heart from beating too loudly. She knew she couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later, they would have to talk. They would have to put words to what had happened. But for now, she wasn’t ready. She preferred to stay there, still, her gaze lost in the streets of London, desperately trying to delay the inevitable.

A part of her, silent but insidiously painful, kept occupying all the space in her heart: Tommy. It was stronger than her, uncontrollable. Every time she thought back to William’s kiss, no matter how brief, how tender it had been, a lump formed in her throat, heavy and bitter. Her heart refused to let go. She felt guilty, almost tainted, as if she had committed a betrayal she could never wash away. Of course, she wasn’t with Tommy anymore; there was no longer any commitment, no promises left to break. And yet… in her heart, it was as if the bond had never truly been severed. As if she continued, despite herself, to carry this invisible, painful, and absurd loyalty. She hated herself sometimes for it, for this inability to move on, to live fully, to allow herself to love again.

And in this inner storm, there was that other voice, the one that always echoed in moments when guilt took over: her mother’s firm and reassuring voice. Amara still heard it, as if it were yesterday. Her mother, dignified and strong, had once asked their father to “talk to the boys.” She remembered her phrasing with gravity, a mix of maternal worry and deep conviction. Amara recalled it as if it were engraved in her: that Sunday afternoon when it all began.

She saw herself again, a child, sitting quietly in the living room, the old leather couch creaking under her small movements. The big family Bible rested on her lap; she was reading it carefully, even though her eyes often drifted from the lines to watch the scene from afar. In the kitchen, her father, a tall, solid man with a voice that commanded respect without ever raising it had gathered his three eldest sons: Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Elijah. The boys, still young men at the time, sat around the family table, a bit embarrassed, like all boys when serious matters are about to be discussed.

Then she had seen her father approach the living room. He had laid his tender eyes on her, stepping forward slowly.

— My darling, I need the Bible , he had asked gently. Can you lend it to me?

Without protest, Amara had nodded, proud that he addressed her so kindly. She had handed over the book, far too heavy for her small arms, but she held it carefully. Her father had taken it with care, then softly stroked her cheek before placing a kiss on her forehead.

— I’m proud of you, my daughter.

Those rare words had wrapped her in an intense warmth. Her heart swelling with childish pride, Amara had gotten up to find another book, still dreaming of that simple sentence. But as she returned to the couch, she froze. Her father’s voice, deep and calm, rose from the kitchen. Something in his tone intrigued her. She listened closely.

— Proverbs 5:18-19, he recited: Let your fountain be blessed, and rejoice in the wife of your youth. A loving doe, a graceful deer, may her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be intoxicated with her love.

There was the soft sound of pages being set down. Then that deep voice again:

— My sons… listen well. This is God’s word. Your wife, the one the Lord places on your path, will be your blessing. You must remain faithful to her, in your actions and in your thoughts. Faithfulness is not just a duty; it’s a sacred covenant. She will be the mother of your children, your support in hardship, your light in the darkness. You will owe her everything.

He paused, the silence heavy with meaning, before continuing:

— I’m speaking to you man to man today. Only one woman will truly matter in your life: the one God has chosen for you. So don’t go chasing after all the ones the world will put before your eyes. Those are illusions. Guard yourselves. Wait for the right one, the one you will lead to God’s altar. She is the one who will be your true blessing.

Amara, young and awestruck, hadn’t fully understood at the time. But she had felt the immense weight of those words, the spiritual charge they carried.

And it wasn’t over. After a few minutes, her father spoke again, this time reading another passage, his voice slower, more deliberate:

— 1 Corinthians 6:18-20: Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body; but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body. Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit?

Amara had heard her father explain, with infinite patience:

— What it means, my sons, is that your body is not a toy. It’s not something you can give to just anyone, anytime. Your body belongs to God. The world will try to convince you that lust is normal, that you should give in. But you… you must stay pure. Remain virgins until the day you make a covenant with your wife. That day, you will offer her this precious gift, and together you will seal that blessed union.

Amara had then placed her hand on her chest, without fully understanding why, but feeling deep down that these words were important, almost sacred. She had gone back to reading her other book, but her mind was no longer really there: it stayed caught on those words, which she carried with her as she grew up.

And today, sitting behind that counter in London, those memories resurfaced with frightening clarity. She finally grasped their depth, their gravity. She realized that the fidelity her father spoke of… she had carried it within her all her life. Even now, even after so much pain, so many betrayals, she was still carrying it. And it was that invisible fidelity that was making her suffer now. Because deep down, William’s kiss wasn’t just a betrayal of Tommy or a past love. To her, it was a betrayal of her own values, of the upbringing she had received, of the proud little girl she had been when her father kissed her forehead and said, I’m proud of you.

And that, more than anything, was what was tearing her apart.

Amara remembered with almost unsettling precision where her brothers had protested when their father spoke to them about those Bible verses. Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Elijah, usually so respectful toward their father, had, that day, shown visible signs of discomfort and annoyance. Avoiding eyes, impatient movements in their chairs, muffled sighs they thought were discreet but that neither Amara nor their mother missed. Elijah, the youngest, had even dared to mutter, “We already know all this, Dad…” before thinking better of it under their father’s stern but kind gaze.

Amara, who was still just a child, had watched all of this with curious eyes but without understanding the depth of it. To her, those Bible words were the pure truth, immutable laws that naturally applied. She didn’t understand why her brothers seemed so embarrassed, nor why those instructions, which seemed simple and clear to her, provoked such resistance in them. Their father was speaking of fidelity, purity, respect… things that, in Amara’s innocent eyes, left no room for argument.

It was only in her teenage years that she began to understand her brothers’ discomfort that day. And the revelation came, not from her father this time, but from their mother. Amara remembered that evening perfectly. Their mother had called her and her older sister into the living room after dinner. There was a solemnity in the air, almost a silent tension that made their hearts beat a little faster. They sat on the old couch, hands placed neatly on their knees, casting worried glances at each other, not knowing exactly what to expect.

Their mother, with a slow, measured gesture, took out the big family Bible, the one that always sat on the highest shelf, carefully protected by a velvet cover. She opened it to the same verses their father had read years earlier to their brothers. And she read them aloud, calmly, without ever looking away from her daughters.

But what had deeply marked Amara was what followed the reading. Their mother gently closed the holy book, set it down on the coffee table, and looked at them with a soft but firm intensity.

She then explained, with immense tenderness and a wisdom that was almost painful, that these verses were not just instructions for men. They spoke also, and perhaps especially, of the place of women in the sacred covenant of marriage. She spoke of fidelity, of course, but also of everything it truly meant for a woman: mutual respect, patience in moments of doubt, shared intimacy, the vulnerability that comes with love and a body given.

Amara remembered feeling terribly uncomfortable. Just mentioning those topics with their own mother seemed unbearable. She and her sister squirmed in their seats, avoiding their mother’s gaze, trying to escape in their minds. But their mother, with that blend of gentleness and authority that so defined her, eventually broke through the discomfort.

— I know how hard it is to hear these things, she told them. I too, at your age, couldn’t have had this conversation with my mother. But that’s exactly why I’m doing it today. Because I so wish she had done it with me. I wish she had spoken to me honestly, told me what it really means to be a wife. Not just wearing a beautiful white dress, not just holding a man’s hand at the altar… but understanding what it means every day. What it really means to share your life and your body with a man.

She paused, as if to let the weight of her words sink in. Then she added, in a voice so tender that Amara still remembered it word for word:

— My girls… I know sometimes you think I’m too strict with you, that I lecture you too much, that I impose strict rules. But know this: behind all of it, there’s endless love. I am your mother, yes, but also your confidante. You can tell me anything. Absolutely anything. Even your deepest fears, your heaviest doubts. Nothing will ever be too shameful or too difficult for me. I will always be that listening ear, that shoulder you can cry on. Because that’s what being a mother means. No pain, no mistake will ever be too great to keep me away from you.

That night, Amara had understood something fundamental: her mother was much more than just an authority figure. Deep down, she was her first true friend, her first ally, and she would remain so for the rest of her life.

Sitting there, behind the counter, Amara felt a burn rise in her throat. A searing pang in her heart. She would have given anything for her mother to be there at that very moment. To tell her what to think, what to decide, or even… to say nothing at all. Just to hold her in her arms, to squeeze her tightly, to stroke her hair while whispering softly: My love, everything will be alright. I’m here. That embrace alone would have been enough to melt all her anxieties. But her mother wasn’t there. And Amara was left alone, painfully alone, facing her contradictions, her doubts, and her regrets.

She was exhausted. The previous night had been a string of sleepless hours, tossing and turning, her thoughts all over the place, her heart tight with endless questions. Should she face William today? Was it too soon? She had considered giving herself another day or two, time to rebuild a little, to breathe, to sort out her thoughts. But every time she leaned toward that decision, William’s image came back to her: his gentle gaze, his always respectful gestures, his way of being attentive without ever pushing.

He didn’t deserve to be ignored, to be left without an explanation after what he had given her: a salary, a stable position, a respectable workplace, autonomy… even briefly. That would have been cowardly. Too cruel. William had been exceptionally kind, remarkably patient. He didn’t deserve that brutal silence.

So she came. Despite the exhaustion clinging to her skin, despite the hesitations still tugging at her. She came because, deep down, it was the only right thing to do.

A sharp noise abruptly pulled her out of her thoughts: the client William had been cutting earlier was now standing at the counter, freshly shaved, his haircut neat and sharp, his beard carefully trimmed. William, meanwhile, had already slipped away into the adjoining room, probably to clean his tools, as usual. Amara, immediately slipping back into her professional mask, gave the client a polite smile.

— That will be 4 shillings, she announced in a soft but assured voice.

The man nodded silently, reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and pulled out four coins, which he lined up on the counter. Amara quickly gathered them, checked their authenticity with a practiced hand, then looked up with a cordial smile.

— Have a pleasant day, sir.

— Thank you, you too, he replied before turning on his heel and leaving the shop, making the little bell above the front door chime.

Silence fell again, almost oppressively. Amara forced herself not to let the anxiety creeping back overtake her and refocused her attention on the ledger in front of her. She carefully noted the transaction: haircut + beard = 4 shillings. But as she drew the last stroke of the “4,” she felt that familiar apprehension knotting her stomach. The hour she had dreaded since the start of the morning had arrived: that one-hour slot, every day at roughly the same time, when no client was expected.

And she knew she wasn’t the only one dreading that moment. William, usually so quick to clean his tools and return to the main room, was taking an unusually long time today to come out of the back. Amara felt a strange wave of gratitude for this calculated slowness. In his quiet way, he was offering her a little extra reprieve. Because she… she wasn’t ready. Not ready to talk, to put words to what had happened. And she didn’t even know if she ever would be.

The minutes stretched on in an almost suffocating silence. Finally, William reappeared, his arms full of carefully disinfected tools. He walked past the counter at a measured pace, eyes stubbornly fixed straight ahead, carefully avoiding meeting Amara’s gaze. Without a word, he went to his workstation. There, methodically, he began setting out his tools on the side table next to the barber chair: the scissors first, lined up neatly in descending size, then the clipper, placed right beside them, the head facing him, ready to use. Next, the fine-tooth comb, laid parallel to the scissors, and finally the bottle of antiseptic lotion, set slightly back but within easy reach. Every object had its place; every movement seemed almost ritualistic, precise, as if to keep his hands busy and avoid facing too soon what was weighing in the air.

When he had finished, William stood still for a few seconds, head bowed, hands resting on the table. Then, with a deep sigh, he slowly turned and finally met Amara’s eyes. His gaze, usually full of confidence, was now shifty, marked by embarrassment and a barely hidden guilt.

— Listen, Amara… he began hesitantly, his voice almost breaking under the tension, I… I’m sorry.

He paused, his fingers twisting nervously, and went on, his tone heavy:

— I shouldn’t have… done that. I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was irresponsible of me, and definitely unprofessional.

He fell silent again, his eyes drifting to the floor, as if trying to flee his own shame. Amara, meanwhile, remained frozen behind the counter. Words crowded her mind, half-formed sentences, fragments of explanations or responses, but nothing seemed right or clear enough to say. She felt paralyzed by the complexity of the moment, by the painful mix of confusion, awkwardness, and a deep, quiet sadness.

Seeing that she said nothing, William continued after a few seconds, just as uncertain:

— I… I misread things. It’s my fault, Amara. I got carried away… I should never have done that.

His words now floated between them, hanging in the heavy silence, thick with shared regret. And Amara, her eyes locked on him, felt her heart tighten a little more at seeing how tortured he seemed too.

William took a deep breath, still avoiding her gaze, then slowly lifted his head, as if forcing himself to face what came next. His voice, trembling but sincere, cut through the silence again:

— I… I really felt awful when you left so quickly the other day. I knew right away I’d crossed a line. And… I was worried, Amara. Really worried. I didn’t know how you were doing, if you’d come back… and especially if you’d gotten home safely.

He paused, carefully choosing his words, his eyes finally meeting Amara’s, almost pleading:

— What I want to say is… I don’t want you to feel bad here. Or uncomfortable, or like you have to put up with that awkwardness. This salon, it’s as much your space as it is mine. And the idea that you might feel uneasy because of me… it eats at me. I should have been more… thoughtful. And I’m sorry, truly.

He stopped again, letting the words settle heavily in the room. Amara’s gaze had clouded with conflicting emotions. She didn’t know where to look, or what to think. The sentences swirled in her head, but none felt solid enough to say out loud. She just lowered her eyes slightly, feeling William’s guilt mix with her own confusion.

After a few seconds of almost painful silence, she finally murmured, her voice barely audible, almost like a breath:

— It’s… it’s okay.

Those few fragile words hung between them, like a thin thread trying to stitch back together what had been broken, awkwardly, but with deep sincerity.

For long moments, a heavy, suffocating silence stretched between them, like a thick, damp veil that refused to lift. William remained there, unmoving, his hands still resting on his neatly arranged tools: the gleaming clipper, the perfectly sharpened straight razor, the precisely curved scissors, the soft-bristled brush… Everything was arranged with almost military meticulousness, each tool in its exact place, as if strict order might help him keep his composure.

Amara, seated behind the counter, nervously fidgeted with the pencil in her hands, her eyes lowered to the account ledger without really seeing it. The tension, almost palpable, filled the shop’s air so much that she felt even the clock hanging on the wall hesitated to let out its regular tick-tock.

Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she finally broke the silence, as if these words had been burning her throat for long minutes:

— Would… would it be okay if I took a few days off?

William didn’t move a muscle. His body seemed frozen, like carved from stone, but his eyes… his eyes spoke for him. A fleeting spark of pain, of sadness, and a trace of regret crossed his gaze. He blinked quickly, as if to chase away that embarrassing emotion, then lowered his eyes to his hands, his shoulders lifting slightly in a quiet sigh.

When he finally looked up again, he forced a small smile – a timid, unsure smile, almost sheepish, like a child caught doing something wrong:

— Of course you can, Amara.

He hesitated for a second, visibly searching for his words, his eyes briefly darting away from Amara’s before returning, full of that same clumsy gentleness:

— Take as many days as you need.

Amara simply nodded, trying to keep her composure despite the tightness in her chest.

— Thank you, William.

He nodded silently, pressing his lips together again, then, as if suddenly nervous, started fiddling with the towel draped over the barber chair. His fingers, tense, crumpled the fabric mechanically, looking for an outlet for a discomfort no words could ease. After several long seconds of heavy silence, William abruptly looked up, his eyes shining with painful hesitation:

— Amara… is it… is it because of me that you need to take those days?

The question, asked so frankly, caught Amara off guard. She opened her mouth, closed it, then met his gaze for a moment, searching for her words like someone gasping for air after being underwater too long. She tried to smile – or at least she meant to but the smile trembled, threatening to collapse into a grimace:

— No, it’s not because of you. It’s… for Ada.

That was true. Even though deep down she knew those few days away from the shop would also give her a bit of distance from the silent tension that had settled in. Ada had asked her, over a week ago, if she could watch Karl for a few days during her trip to Birmingham to attend the big charity gala organized by the Shelby family.

Amara hadn’t been surprised that Polly was behind this initiative. As tough and relentless as she might seem at first glance, Polly had a tender heart, that of a wounded mother who, despite her steel exterior, had never stopped loving and wanting to protect the most vulnerable. By helping other people's children, she eased a little the pain of losing her own, filling the insatiable void with selfless acts.

The truth, however, was that Ada had offered her to come with her to Birmingham. But Amara had declined almost immediately. She wasn’t ready. Not ready to see those familiar streets again, to perhaps run into Tommy by chance… to see him, maybe, with Grace or carrying their baby in his arms. No, just thinking about it made her throat tighten and her stomach knot painfully. So, rather than putting herself through that ordeal, she had preferred to agree to look after Charlie, far away from Birmingham, where the memories weren’t as heavy to carry.

William nodded slowly, his features barely relaxing:

— I’ll pay you your full salary during those days, then.

Amara immediately lifted her head, surprised, and almost reflexively responded, her voice a little too quick:

— You don’t have to do that.

William immediately lowered his eyes, his hand tightening around the towel as if to hold on to it, and replied in a breath, his voice breaking with the emotion he struggled to contain:

— No… but I want to.

Then the silence fell again, softer this time, but still heavy with everything they didn’t dare to say. The clock on the wall resumed its steady ticking, regular and relentless, as if reminding them that time kept moving forward, that the days would pass… and that, someday, they would have to face what still bound them together, painfully, silently.

Chapter Text

Arrow House, Warwickshire, June 10, 1922

Night had already fallen when Thomas Shelby screeched the tires of his car in the driveway of Arrow House.

The engine gave one last roar before cutting off with a sharp click. Inside the car, the hot smell of oil and burnt metal mingled with the cold sweat on the back of his neck. Tommy stayed frozen for a moment, hands clenched around the steering wheel, eyes locked on the emptiness ahead, as if he hadn’t truly left the road yet.

He had driven on instinct, never slowing down. Foot glued to the accelerator, jaw clenched, thoughts spiraling. He hadn’t seen the trees flashing past, nor the villages he’d driven through it had all been a blur. The only thing clear in his mind was a face.

Father Hughes’s face.

Since leaving Birmingham, the scene in the cell had played over and over in his mind, like a phonograph needle stuck in a scratch. The memory came back with an almost sickening precision.

The click of the priest’s footsteps on the stone floor. The sound of the door shutting behind him. And that absurd image: a dog, a Doberman, sliding into the cell like a well-trained demon, held on a short leash, gleaming with muscle and darkness.

Hughes wore a long, dark wool coat, impeccably tailored. His silhouette was upright, almost military. On his head, a short-brimmed Italian-style hat, carefully tilted. And on his face, that cold, controlled smile, the assurance of a man who believes nothing can touch him.

A priest. But who stood like a man of power. Not of faith. Of power.

He removed his hat with a slow, calculated gesture, as if bowing to an invisible crowd, and murmured:

— Sit.

The dog obeyed without hesitation, sitting in one fluid motion. It licked its chops, eyes gleaming, ears alert. It didn’t growl. It didn’t need to.

Tommy, still standing in front of the cold bench in the cell, watched without moving. He hadn’t yet looked up at the priest. He knew what he was doing: giving him silence. The silence to reveal himself, to grow impatient, to show what he was really hiding.

But Hughes didn’t flinch. His voice rose, calm, authoritative, almost mocking:

— I’m speaking to you, Mr. Shelby.

Then, slowly, Tommy raised his head. His gaze slid from the dog to the man, in silence, like a blade drawn without haste. He stared at him, for a long moment. That stare had become a weapon. A way to remind people that Thomas Shelby didn’t like taking orders even if, sometimes, he ended up following them.
 

A way of letting the other man know he might obey… but he’d never forget. Father Hughes held the gaze without blinking. He stepped forward with a slow, almost ceremonial movement, and stopped a meter away.

There was no Bible in his hands. No cross around his neck. Nothing that hinted at God. Only a cold, bureaucratic certainty, the kind men have when they kill with well-phrased words and orders passed down from wood-paneled rooms.

Tommy judged him without blinking, heart steady, face unreadable. But inside, a black fire was taking root.  Because he already knew what this visit meant: something serious, something more dangerous than street men, more twisted than rival bookies or crooked politicians.

The kind of man you couldn’t just shoot with a revolver.

That look the one he gave Father Hughes was one of the few things Tommy had inherited from Polly. Not elegance, not tenderness, not even the taste for tragedy: the look. The one that judged without raising its voice. The one that knew without asking. The one that said: I see right through you.

It had always struck him, since childhood. The way his aunt looked at them, him and his brothers after they’d done something wrong. Without yelling, without punishing. Just with her eyes. Wolf eyes that had seen too much to be shaken by her nephews’ foolishness.

He remembered, with almost painful clarity, one autumn evening, long before the Shelbys became businessmen. He was young. Arthur a little older. Their task had been to walk John and Ada to school.  But that day, the fair was in town. The horses. The barkers. The makeshift betting. And the kids had never made it to school.

When they came home, Polly was in the kitchen, cutting carrots. She didn’t look up. Didn’t ask a single question. Dinner went on as usual: quiet, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery on chipped plates.
She even asked John, with perfect calm:

— And school? Was it good today?

The youngest Shelby had nodded, mouth full of potatoes.
Arthur had smiled.
Ada had said nothing.

But Tommy he had seen it. He caught the look she gave him over her shoulder, fleeting, icy, almost amused. She knew. And she was waiting to see how far they’d dare to lie.

That look, Tommy had never forgotten. He thought it would remain a childhood memory, a tender relic from a simpler time.  But he was wrong.

The last time Polly gave him that look was on the day of his wedding to Grace.
Not a word. Not even an objection when the priest paused in the chapel and asked if anyone opposed the union. No. Polly stayed upright, dignified but her eyes… her eyes said everything.
They screamed that she disapproved. That she knew Tommy was confusing his brain with his heart. That he was chaining himself to something he didn’t understand to someone he didn’t love.

The memory drew a brief, bitter chuckle from him. A short, dry breath, barely audible. He was still staring at Hughes, unmoving. Then, without a word, he let himself fall onto the stone bench. The wood creaked under his weight.

Father Hughes, unbothered, immediately resumed speaking, as if no silence had passed between them:

— The Odd Fellows want you to know that any deviation from the instructions you were given… will have consequences, Mr. Shelby.

Tommy took the words like one takes a drizzle: without really caring. He brought a hand to his chin, scratching at his few days’ growth of beard. Then, without taking his eyes off the dog, he said in a neutral voice:

— What’s his name?

He meant the Doberman, still seated, calm, silent. The beast hadn’t moved since the exchange began. Just staring at him, as if waiting for an order.

Hughes remained silent for a moment, staring back. Then chose to ignore the question:

— You met your sister.

Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn his head. He leaned in slowly toward the dog, closing the distance between them until he could see the veins in its legs, the tension in its jaw, the subtle twitch of its nostrils.

And in a low voice, almost tender, he murmured:

— Hmm… What’s your name, old boy?

The dog let out a faint growl, a low rumble, barely contained, but unmistakably irritated by Tommy’s closeness. Before it could go further, Father Hughes applied a slight pressure to the leash, firm enough to squeeze the throat, but not to choke. Just enough to remind the animal who was in control.

Then, as if picking up where a lecture had been interrupted, Hughes spoke calmly, in his steady, almost doctrinal tone:

— Your sister represents a risk of exposing our secrets. She maintains ties with the Bolsheviks in London… and those people are in direct contact with the Soviet Embassy.

Tommy slowly pulled back, wordless, until he leaned against the cold wall of the cell. He crossed his arms, still unmoved by the attempt at intimidation, and even less by the priest’s speech.

He didn’t even look up, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He savored the tightness in the priest’s voice, that underlying tension, invisible to a distracted ear but palpable to Tommy. It had become a game. A dance.

— I think I’ll call him Old Boy , he said at last, eyes sliding slowly from the dog to the priest.

And after a pause, he added, quieter, almost conspiratorial:

— You love him, don’t you? Your Old Boy...

Hughes clenched his jaw. This time, he didn’t bother replying. But his eyes darkened. Hardened. For a split second, the superior man’s mask cracked.

— Understand one thing, Mr. Shelby, he said slowly, you may have the Birmingham police in your pocket… but we have Scotland Yard. They follow our commands to the letter. Like this dog. Without hesitation. Without question.

Tommy didn’t react. But he’d seen it. He remembered.

Three vans, dark and silent, parked outside the betting shop that very afternoon.
Not local police, no. The uniforms were different. The faces, too. Men from London.
Scotland Yard. A surgical raid. Cold. Precise. They had waited until he walked in. Five minutes later, the door was blown off its hinges. Just enough time for Tommy to hand a weapon to John, to grab one for himself.

But in that moment, as through the whole exchange, Tommy deliberately ignored the subject.

He let the silence stretch, then, with feigned nonchalance, said as he nodded toward the dog:

— Take off his leash.

Father Hughes raised an eyebrow, slightly intrigued.

— Did you hear me clearly, Mr. Shelby?

Tommy stared at him. For a long time.His gaze was calm, unreadable. But underneath, something pulsed. An old tension. A shadowed place.

— I know how to charm dogs… like any self-respecting gypsy.

A new silence settled in, heavier.

Then Tommy added, voice lower now, almost icy:

— And the ones I can’t charm… I can kill with my bare hands.

Tommy had no interest in talking about his short visit to London. Business lately tormented his mind as much as the laugh of a woman. Not just any woman. Amara’s laugh. The one he’d heard light, clear as he saw her walking down the street beside an unfamiliar man.

It wasn’t the Russians, nor the meeting in the library with Ada, that kept replaying in his memory. It was her. Amara. And her smile sincere, unreachable. Her unhidden joy. That light she carried without knowing… and which now fell on someone else.

Tommy cursed his own mind. Cursed the way he clung to what he couldn’t possess… what he no longer possessed… what could never be his again.

He saw her afro worn like a crown, framing her face with quiet majesty. Her skin, dark and radiant at once, more revealed than usual under the rare, warm London sun.

Amara.

Her name alone was enough to shake him. To blur the lines between business and desire, between power and vulnerability.

But Tommy Shelby didn’t have the luxury of nostalgia. Not today. Not in this cell. Not in front of this man.

He forced himself back to the present, inhaled softly, and locked eyes once more with the priest.

— These are things we learn on the boats, he said calmly. Dogs lose their minds in the tunnels.

He paused, letting silence echo, then added:

— And in moments like that, you either kill… or get killed.

Father Hughes placed his hand calmly on the leash, without a word.
A gesture of authority or challenge. Tommy couldn’t tell.

— Take off his leash, he repeated, this time with icy firmness.

Then, as if reciting some old truth, he added:

— And give your orders in Gaelic. I’ve been told you do that when someone angers you… or betrays you.

A flicker passed through Hughes’ eyes. Then, in a dry, flat voice:

— Visit your sister again… and she’ll die crossing the street.

Tommy stood still for a moment. Slowly, he got to his feet, never looking away from him, and reached out a hand toward the dog. The animal stepped forward, intrigued, then straightened under the caress. Tommy withdrew his hand and murmured in Gaelic:

— Marbh é. (Kill.)

Then he turned his head toward Hughes.

— Go on. Say it.

The priest remained silent, eyes locked on Tommy, unblinking.
But Tommy added, in a breath, almost mocking:

— If you wanted me dead… I’d already be, wouldn’t I?

A faint chuckle escaped Father Hughes’ lips.

— That’s true , he finally said . Yes, we need you alive.

But he paused, then added in a lower voice, almost fond:

— When you get home today, Mr. Shelby… take a look behind your little boy’s ear.

Tommy froze. His gaze sharpened instantly, turning to steel.Charlie. The name rang like an alarm in his mind.

Who had gotten into Arrow House? How? When? Dozens of scenarios rushed through his head, but none could erase the metallic taste left by that veiled threat.

Father Hughes gave a smile almost soft, almost satisfied:

— The tooth fairy paid a visit.

That wasn’t how it worked. Tommy knew that. But lately, everything exhausted him the business, the alliances, the lies, himself.
And now, Charlie.

His fist clenched. He wanted to put a bullet in his skull or better yet, kill him with his bare hands. But he knew it would be useless. Not tonight.

The priest added, like a final twist of the knife:

— We can reach anyone. Anywhere.

Then he stood up slowly, unhurried, and knocked on the cell door.
A signal.

End of conversation.

The door opened seconds later.  Tommy stepped out with a tense stride, his mind already at Arrow House on Charlie, on his son’s safety.

And in the heart of his anger, one thought emerged with cutting clarity:

The war had just begun.

Tommy stepped out of the car without even slamming the door.
As he rushed through the gates of Arrow House, tension coiled in every muscle.

The mansion’s imposing silhouette loomed in the night like a familiar fortress cold, silent, almost indifferent to the storm raging inside him.

Tommy’s boots echoed on the marble floor of the hall. The vestibule was empty, the dim lighting casting a false warmth that clashed cruelly with the icy dread twisting in his gut. He walked down the long corridor with its Victorian moldings, passing the drawing room with its heavy drawn curtains, the closed office, the portraits of Shelby ancestors glaring at him from the walls. Then he climbed the stairs, four at a time, his hand sliding over the mahogany banister without pausing.

Upstairs, silence reigned. Only the creak of old floorboards and his heavy breath accompanied his steps. The bedroom doors passed on his left, the many guest rooms, the master, and then finally… Charlie’s.

It wasn’t closed.
Just ajar.
The door rocked slightly, as if stirred by a breath long gone.

Tommy paused for half a second.
His heart beat so loud it felt like it filled the entire room.
He placed a hand on the handle, inhaled, then pushed the door.

Moonlight flooded the room in a soft golden glow. Toys neatly arranged, the small bookshelf lined with children’s books, Charlie’s teddy bear at the foot of the crib. Everything looked normal.

And yet…

He stepped forward slowly. Toward the crib, like walking toward a verdict. His breath caught as he leaned over. Charlie was asleep.

Peaceful breathing, tiny hands by his face, the soft rise and fall of his chest… Tommy closed his eyes for a second, a sigh finally slipping from his lips. He allowed himself that moment. That very brief relief.

Then, gently, he slipped his hands into the bedding. Loosened the pillow, careful not to wake him. His fingers searched inside. For a moment nothing. Then…

Cardboard. A flat, rigid object. He took it and slowly pulled it out. A black and white card.

On the front, a name:

NORTH BIRMINGHAM FUNERAL COOPERATIVE

An ivory background, black letters, stark and bare. A single black line underlined the card, like a blade.

Tommy turned it over.

"Rest in peace, Charles Shelby."

 Written in gothic script. Neat. Cold. Final.

A chill shot up his spine. His breath quickened sharply, his heart pounding against his ribs. He took a step back. Then another. As if the room itself were closing in on him.

He started pacing, the card in one trembling hand, the other running nervously through his hair. His gaze flicked from the floor to the ceiling, then from Charlie to the card. Charlie, who stirred in his sleep, unsettled by his father’s restless presence. A whimper rose. Light. Fragile.

Tommy bent over immediately. He gently stroked his son’s round face. That soft skin under his fingers, so fragile, so real. He closed his eyes for a second. Then, standing again, he resumed his frantic pacing around the room.

He stopped suddenly in front of the wardrobe. Placed both hands on the cold wood. Then his head. And stayed there.