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Chapter Text

The Garrison, December 1918

The Garrison pub hummed with its usual evening crowd - laborers washing away the day's toil, bookies settling accounts, and women seeking warmth and distraction from Birmingham's bitter winter. Flora Green sat alone at a corner table, still in her clinic uniform with only her overcoat thrown across her shoulders. The whiskey in her glass caught the dim light as she swirled it, watching the amber liquid climb the sides before settling.

Her shift had been particularly difficult - three cases of influenza, a child with pneumonia unlikely to see Christmas, and a factory worker with fingers mangled beyond saving. The whiskey was medicinal tonight, not recreational.

The pub's atmosphere shifted as the door swung open, a blast of cold air preceding the Shelby brothers. Tommy entered first, his cap pulled low, followed by Arthur, John, and two men Flora recognized as their cousins. The room quieted immediately, conversations dropping to whispers or ceasing altogether.

Flora took another sip, observing the brothers settle at their regular table. A serving girl rushed over with a bottle without being asked. Since returning from France, Tommy Shelby had wasted no time reestablishing the family business - with new ambitions that had the neighborhood both fearful and fascinated.

Arthur Shelby was clearly in one of his states tonight - eyes wide, movements jerky, laughing too loudly at nothing in particular. Flora had seen enough shell-shocked soldiers to recognize the signs. He was dangerous like this - a grenade with its pin halfway out.

It happened quickly. A drunken docker, new to Small Heath by the look of him, stumbled backward into Arthur's chair. Whiskey splashed onto Arthur's vest.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" Arthur was on his feet instantly.

"Sorry, mate. No harm—" The man never finished his sentence before Arthur's fist connected with his jaw.

The brawl erupted like wildfire. The docker's friends joined in, chairs toppled, glasses shattered. John Shelby laughed as he threw a man across a table. Tommy stood back, watching with cold calculation rather than participating.

Patrons scrambled toward the exits, trampling each other in their haste. Flora remained seated, deliberately finishing her drink as chaos swirled around her. She'd seen worse in France. Much worse.

When police whistles sounded outside, Tommy's voice cut through the chaos: "Everyone who's not family, out! NOW!"

The fighting slowed as bloodied men gathered their dignity and limped toward the door. Flora finally stood, reaching for her hat pin as Tommy's eyes fell on her. Recognition flickered across his normally impassive face.

"Flora Green," he said, not quite a question.

She nodded, securing her hat. "Thomas."

Her gaze shifted to Arthur, now slumped in a chair, breathing heavily. His face was a mess - split eyebrow, bloodied nose, a gash along his cheekbone that would scar badly without proper treatment.

"You should go," Tommy said, not unkindly.

Flora paused, medical instinct overriding self-preservation. "That cut needs proper stitching," she said, nodding toward Arthur. "Better than whatever back-alley quack you boys usually use."

Arthur's wild eyes snapped to her. "Don't need help from no—"

"Sit down and shut up, Arthur Shelby," Flora commanded in the tone she'd used on delirious soldiers. To everyone's surprise, including her own, he obeyed.

She removed her hat again and reached for her nurse's bag. "I'll need clean water and better light."

Tommy studied her for a long moment before the corner of his mouth twitched - not quite a smile, but close. "John, get water. Harry, bring the lamp closer."

Flora rolled up her sleeves, her face professionally blank as she extracted needle and thread.

"This will hurt," she told Arthur matter-of-factly. "But you've had worse, haven't you?"

Arthur glared at her but remained seated as she threaded the needle. The pub had emptied now, save for the Shelbys and a few of their men. Outside, police whistles continued to sound, growing more distant.

"Where'd you learn to stitch, girl?" Arthur asked as she leaned closer, inspecting the wound.

"France," Flora replied, carefully cleaning the cut with alcohol. "Field hospital near Verdun. When shells hit too close, we didn't have time for pleasantries."

Arthur hissed as the alcohol burned. "Fucking hell!"

"I said it would hurt." She began the first stitch with precise, practiced movements. "Though I'm told your brother's razor caps hurt worse."

The room went still. Tommy, who had been conferring quietly with John by the door, turned to look at her. Even Arthur, mid-wince, raised his eyebrows.

"What would you know about that?" Tommy asked, his voice deceptively soft as he approached.

Flora kept her eyes on her work, needle moving steadily. "I treated Billy Marshall last month. Said he'd had a 'disagreement' with the Blinders." She tied off the first stitch and started another. "The scar pattern was distinctive."

Tommy moved behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence without turning. "And what did you tell Billy Marshall about his... disagreement?"

"I told him what I tell all my patients. Keep the wound clean, avoid further fights, and pay his debts." She turned her head slightly, meeting Tommy's gaze briefly. "Especially the gambling kind."

A moment of silence, then the ghost of a smile touched Tommy's lips. "Sensible advice."

John returned with a bowl of clean water. Flora dipped a cloth into it and continued cleaning as she worked, the water turning pink with Arthur's blood.

"You've steady hands," Tommy observed, watching her work.

"Need 'em, for this job and the last."

"The war changes a person," Tommy said quietly, as if they were having a private conversation despite the others in the room.

Flora nodded, focused on placing the next stitch precisely. "It does."

"Yet here you are, back in Small Heath."

"For now," she said, her tone making it clear she didn't consider this her final destination.

Arthur, surprisingly docile under her ministrations, studied her face. "You were with the nurses at Verdun? Bad fucking business, that. We were in the Somme."

"I know," Flora said, surprising them. "You were a sergeant, weren't you? Tunnels."

Arthur looked at her sharply. "How'd you know that?"

"Small Heath talks. And I have good ears." She tied off another stitch, her hands never faltering despite the intensity of the attention now focused on her.

Tommy lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face in the dim pub. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled a cloud of smoke that hung in the still air between them.

"And what does Small Heath say about me?" he asked, steel beneath the casual tone.

Flora met his gaze directly this time. "That you came back with plans. Big ones." She returned to her stitching. "That you see things differently now."

"And do you?" Tommy asked. "See things differently?"

The question seemed weighted with meaning beyond the simple words. Flora considered it as she worked on the final stitch.

"I see everything differently," she said finally. "Including what's worth fearing and what isn't."

She tied off the last stitch and reached for a clean bandage, wrapping it carefully around Arthur's head to protect the wound. "Keep this clean. No fights for at least a week."

Arthur touched the bandage gingerly. "Not bad," he conceded, then reached for the whiskey bottle. "Fucking hurts, though."

"It will," Flora agreed, wiping her hands on a clean cloth. "The face bleeds dramatically but heals quickly."

She began packing her supplies, aware of Tommy's eyes still on her. The police whistles had faded entirely now; Small Heath would be settling back into its normal rhythms outside.

"How much?" Tommy asked abruptly.

Flora looked up, surprised. "For what?"

"Your services."

She shook her head. "Nothing. I'm a nurse; it's what I do."

"Everyone has a price in Small Heath," Tommy said, his voice neutral.

"Then consider it an investment," Flora replied, fastening her bag. "Maybe next time one of yours needs medical attention, they'll remember I didn't charge for Arthur."

A calculating look crossed Tommy's face. "That's a dangerous assumption, Miss Green. That we'd show gratitude."

"Not gratitude," she clarified, meeting his gaze steadily. "Practical business. In my experience, the Shelbys are nothing if not practical."

For a long moment, Tommy just looked at her, as if reassessing everything he'd assumed. Then he reached into his waistcoat and produced a crisp pound note, holding it out to her.

"Take it," he said, his tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion.

Flora hesitated, then accepted the money. "Thank you."

Tommy nodded once. "John will walk you home."

"There's no need—"

"It's late," Tommy cut her off. "And the dockers might still be about, looking to continue their disagreement."

Flora recognized the logic, even as she bristled slightly at the assumption she needed protection. "Very well."

As she retrieved her coat and hat, Tommy moved closer, speaking so only she could hear. "You're right about one thing, Miss Green."

"What's that?"

"I do see things differently now." His blue eyes were intense in the dim light. "Including who might be valuable in Small Heath."

The words hung between them, an assessment and perhaps something more. Flora felt a flutter of something unexpected in her chest—a recognition that tonight had shifted something between them, created a connection neither had anticipated.

"Goodnight, Mr. Shelby," she said, her voice steady despite the strange tension in the air.

"Goodnight, Miss Green." He stepped back, nodding to John who moved toward the door. "Until next time."

As John escorted her through the darkened streets of Small Heath, Flora found herself wondering exactly what form that "next time" might take—and why the prospect sent a thrill of both apprehension and anticipation through her.

A Week Later - Flora's Apartment

The evening had settled into a comfortable routine. Flora sat in the worn armchair by the small fire, reading her medical journal, while Eleanor occupied the sofa, mending a stocking with meticulous stitches. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, turning the Birmingham streets into glistening ribbons of coal-black.

"I've had a letter from Robert," Eleanor announced, breaking the companionable silence between them. "He's found us a place in Moseley. Two bedrooms and a proper garden."

Flora looked up from her reading, offering a genuine smile. "That sounds lovely, El. When will you move?"

"After the wedding. Six weeks." Eleanor hesitated, setting her mending in her lap. "I'll miss this, you know. Our evenings together."

"As will I," Flora admitted. The thought of the apartment without Eleanor's steady presence left her with an emptiness she wasn't quite ready to examine.

Eleanor studied her friend's face for a moment. "Robert's cousin is coming to the wedding. Peter. He's a solicitor's clerk. Very respectable." Her tone carried the unmistakable lilt of matchmaking.

Flora raised an eyebrow. "Eleanor Wright, are you trying to marry me off before you've even walked down the aisle yourself?"

"I worry about you, Flo." Eleanor's voice softened. "Living alone isn't proper for a woman. And after I'm gone..."

"I've managed in far worse circumstances than living alone in Birmingham," Flora reminded her gently.

"It's not just about managing." Eleanor leaned forward, her expression earnest. "You deserve a life, Flo. A husband, children perhaps. A future beyond just... surviving."

Flora set her journal aside, considering her words carefully. The war had changed everything—not just the world around them, but something fundamental within herself. How could she explain that the neat, orderly life Eleanor envisioned felt like a cage to her now?

"Not everyone is meant for the same path, El," she said finally. "What works for you might not work for me."

"But surely you think about settling down?" Eleanor pressed. "You're twenty-four. Most girls our age..."

"Most girls our age haven't held men together while they died in field hospitals," Flora said, more sharply than she intended. She softened her tone at Eleanor's hurt expression. "I'm sorry. I just mean... I need something different."

"Like what?" Eleanor asked, genuine curiosity replacing her earlier certainty.

Flora gazed into the small fire, watching the flames dance. What did she want? The savings hidden beneath the loose floorboard under her bed spoke of escape—London perhaps, or even Paris. Somewhere she could reinvent herself away from the smoke and memories of Birmingham.

"I think about freedom," she said slowly. "About building something that belongs to me alone. About waking up one day without hearing artillery in my dreams."

Eleanor's eyes filled with sympathy. "Oh, Flora."

"I'm not saying I'll never marry," Flora clarified, uncomfortable with the pity in her friend's gaze. "Just that when I do, it will be because I've found someone who understands that part of me died in France. Someone who doesn't expect me to pretend otherwise."

Eleanor considered this. "And have you met anyone who understands that?"

An image of Thomas Shelby flashed unbidden in Flora's mind—his eyes, the quiet recognition in his voice. She pushed the thought away almost immediately. Thomas Shelby was not someone to build dreams around.

"I've met men who've seen what I've seen," she said carefully. "Whether that's enough, I don't—"

The knock at the door came suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. Flora and Eleanor exchanged startled glances.

"Are you expecting someone?" Eleanor asked, setting aside her work.

Flora shook her head and went to the door, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself. When she opened it, Thomas Shelby stood on her doorstep, his cap pulled low, supporting a young man whose jacket was darkened with blood.

"Thomas," she said, surprise evident in her voice.

"We need your help," Tommy said without preamble. He held out several folded pound notes. "For your trouble."

Flora hesitated only briefly before stepping aside. "Bring him in."

The injured man was barely twenty, face pale from blood loss. A knife wound, by the look of it, slicing across his ribs.

Eleanor stood frozen in the living room, her eyes widening at the sight of Tommy Shelby and his bleeding companion. She recognized Tommy immediately – everyone in Small Heath knew the Shelby brothers.

"Flora," she hissed in alarm.

"It's alright, Eleanor," Flora said, already clearing the kitchen table. To Tommy, she added, "Lay him down here."

Eleanor hovered uncertainly, then gave Flora a meaningful look. "We're going to talk about this," she whispered, before retreating to her bedroom, closing the door with a decisive click.

"Your roommate doesn't approve," Tommy observed, helping the injured man onto the table.

"Eleanor prefers a quiet life," Flora replied, rolling up her sleeves. "What happened to him?"

"Disagreement with the Italians." Tommy watched as she examined the wound. "Nothing that concerns you."

"It concerns me when he's bleeding on my table," Flora said, but without rancor. She gathered her supplies from the medical bag she kept ready. "What's his name?"

"Billy. Billy Kitchen."

Flora nodded to the young man. "Hello, Billy. I'm going to clean and stitch this. It'll hurt."

Billy managed a weak nod. "Do what you have to, miss."

As she worked cleaning the wound, Flora reached for a small tin from her bag. She opened it to reveal a dark green salve with a pungent, earthy scent.

Tommy watched curiously. "What's that?"

"Yarrow and comfrey. Helps with bleeding and healing," Flora replied, applying the mixture around the wound edges.

A flicker of recognition crossed Tommy's face. "Romani medicine."

Flora glanced up briefly. "Yes. My mother was drabarni - a healer."

Billy winced less than expected as the needle pierced his skin. The salve seemed to numb the area somewhat.

"My grandmother used something similar," Tommy said, his voice unusually soft. "For wounds that wouldn't close."

Flora nodded, focused on her stitching. "Probably the same. Some knowledge travels across generations, even when people don't speak to each other."

As she finished, the room fell silent except for Billy's occasional sharp intake of breath. Tommy stood back, observing her methodical movements.

"You've good hands," Tommy said eventually.

"So I've been told," Flora replied, not looking up from her work. "Hand me that clean cloth."

Tommy did as instructed, and their fingers brushed briefly. Flora ignored the unexpected jolt the contact sent through her.

"This needs to be wrapped," she said once the stitching was complete. "And he should rest. He's lost blood."

"He can rest at home," Tommy said. "I'll have someone take him."

As she finished bandaging Billy's torso, Tommy moved to the window, peering out through a gap in the curtains. His profile in the lamplight was sharp, almost predatory.

"There," Flora said, helping Billy sit up. "Keep it clean and dry. Come to the clinic in three days so I can check it."

Billy nodded gratefully. "Thank you, miss."

Tommy helped him to his feet. "Wait outside. I'll be there in a moment."

Once Billy had gone, Tommy turned back to Flora. She was washing her hands in a basin, blood tinting the water pink.

"I have a proposition," he said.

Flora dried her hands, facing him with a measured look. "I'm listening."

"I need someone with your skills. On call. For situations like this." Tommy reached into his pocket and produced more money - two pounds and ten shillings. "This would be weekly."

Flora tried not to show her shock. A skilled nurse at the clinic earned around one pound and fifteen shillings per week. This was almost double her salary.

"Why me?" she asked. "Small Heath has other nurses."

"None who can stare down Arthur Shelby and command a room full of Blinders without flinching." The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "You're not afraid."

Flora considered the offer, aware of how much she could do with that money. Her savings to leave Birmingham would grow twice as fast.

"I have conditions," she said finally. "You don't bring people to my door again. Eleanor doesn't deserve that fright, and I don't need the neighbors talking."

Tommy nodded. "Agreed."

"And I keep my position at the clinic," she added, watching his reaction carefully.

Tommy's expression tightened slightly. "The clinic. That could be... complicated."

"How so?"

"My business requires discretion," he said. "Having you work at the clinic means divided loyalties."

Flora crossed her arms. "I'm a nurse, Thomas. My loyalty is to whoever needs healing. I won't abandon the people who depend on that clinic."

Tommy studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes calculating. Flora met his gaze steadily.

"I suppose the clinic position provides useful cover," he conceded finally. "But if there's ever a conflict—"

"I'll use my judgment," Flora said firmly.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "That's what I'm counting on." He handed her the money. "We have a deal then."

She accepted the notes, folding them carefully. "We do."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither spoke. Flora was acutely aware of how close they stood in her small kitchen, of the lingering scent of his cigarettes and whiskey.

"I'll send word when you're needed," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Good night, Flora."

After he left, Flora leaned against the closed door, the money still clutched in her hand. Eleanor's door opened, and she emerged with wide eyes and a thousand questions written on her face.

"Flora Green," she began, "have you gone completely mad? The Peaky Blinders? In our home?"

Flora held up the money. "Two pounds ten a week, El. Just for patching up their men when needed."

Eleanor's eyes widened. "That's more than I make in a fortnight at the hospital."

"So am I crazy or brilliant?" Flora asked with a small smile.

Eleanor sighed. "Both, I think. Just... be careful."

But as she prepared for bed later, Flora wondered if she had indeed gone mad. Thomas Shelby was not a man to be trifled with. She had just aligned herself with the most dangerous family in Small Heath.

And yet, as she recalled the intensity in his blue eyes, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Perhaps this was the answer to the question Eleanor had posed earlier—not the conventional path of marriage and respectability, but something altogether different. Something dangerous, yes, but also alive in a way that matched the person she had become in France.

For the first time since returning to Birmingham, Flora felt as though she might be moving toward something rather than merely running away.

Chapter Text

The Clinic - Three Days Later

The clinic waiting room bustled with the usual morning crowd—mothers with feverish children, factory workers with minor injuries, and elderly folk with persistent coughs. Flora moved efficiently between patients, checking temperatures and changing dressings as she waited for Dr. Harrison to arrive.

She was examining a young boy's infected finger when the door swung open, and Billy Kitchen walked in, cap in hand. Though dressed in workman's clothes, his stiff posture and wary eyes instantly marked him as one of the Blinders. The room quieted, other patients shifting subtly away.

"Morning, Miss Green," Billy said, nodding respectfully. "Come to have these stitches checked, like you said."

Flora smiled professionally. "Of course. Take a seat there, I'll be with you in a moment."

As she finished with the boy's finger, she noticed Mrs. Wallis, the clinic supervisor, watching from her office doorway with narrowed eyes. The older woman had worked at the clinic for twenty years and prided herself on running a respectable establishment.

When Flora approached Billy, Mrs. Wallis intercepted her.

"A word, Nurse Green," she said quietly, guiding Flora toward the supply closet.

Once the door closed behind them, Mrs. Wallis folded her arms. "That's Billy Kitchen. Peaky Blinders."

"He's a patient with stitches that need checking," Flora replied evenly.

"Where did he get those stitches? Not here."

Flora met her supervisor's gaze. "I treated him. After hours."

Mrs. Wallis's thin lips pressed together. "I see. And does Thomas Shelby know you're tending his men?"

The question caught Flora off guard. "I don't understand."

"Small Heath talks, Nurse Green. You were seen at The Garrison with the Shelbys." Mrs. Wallis shook her head. "This clinic cannot be associated with their business."

"He's just here to have stitches checked," Flora insisted.

"Today it's stitches. Tomorrow it's a gunshot wound. Then police questioning our staff." Mrs. Wallis lowered her voice. "I've worked too hard to maintain this clinic's reputation."

Flora felt her position slipping away. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you have a choice to make." Mrs. Wallis's expression softened slightly. "You're a good nurse, Flora. One of our best. But if you're working with the Blinders, you can't work here."

The ultimatum hung between them. Flora thought of the patients who depended on her, the security of regular work. But she also thought of Tommy's offer—two pounds ten shillings weekly, enough to build her escape fund faster than she'd dreamed possible.

"I understand," Flora said finally. "Let me finish with Billy, and I'll collect my things."

Mrs. Wallis nodded once, regret flickering across her features. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Flora returned to the waiting room where Billy sat awkwardly among the other patients. "This way," she said, leading him to an examination table.

As she checked his wound, which was healing nicely, Billy kept his voice low. "Trouble because of me?"

Flora offered a tight smile. "Nothing to worry about."

"Tommy won't like that."

"Tommy doesn't need to know," Flora said firmly. "This was my choice."

After removing Billy's stitches and applying a fresh dressing, Flora wrote down care instructions. "Keep it clean. You should be fine now."

Billy hesitated. "Miss Green, if you're in a spot because of us—"

"I'll be fine," she assured him, though uncertainty gnawed at her. The clinic job had been steady, predictable.

When Billy left, Flora packed her personal items from the small staff room—her spare uniform, a few medical texts, the photograph of her family taken before the war. Mrs. Wallis provided a letter of reference, her expression torn between disappointment and understanding.

"You've a good heart, Flora," the older woman said as they parted at the door. "Don't let them change that."

Flora walked home through the gray Birmingham streets, snow beginning to fall in soft flakes that melted on her coat. The weight of her decision settled on her shoulders. She had just sacrificed security for the uncertain promise of Tommy Shelby's world.

By the time she reached her apartment, resolve had hardened within her. She would make this work. The Shelby money would help her leave Birmingham faster, and in the meantime, she'd find other ways to use her skills.

Eleanor wouldn't be home for hours yet. Flora sat at the kitchen table and began composing a list of private nursing possibilities—wealthy families who might need a nurse for elderly relatives, midwifery services she could offer.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find Thomas Shelby, his cap dusted with snow, blue eyes intense against his pale skin.

"Billy said there was trouble at the clinic," he said without preamble.

Flora sighed. "I asked him not to tell you."

"My business, my concern." Tommy stepped inside, uninvited. "You've been let go?"

"I made a choice," Flora corrected, shutting the door against the cold. "Mrs. Wallis gave me an ultimatum. I chose."

Tommy studied her, removing his cap. "You chose the Blinders."

"I chose myself," Flora replied. "Your money gets me out of Small Heath faster."

Something flashed in Tommy's eyes—surprise, perhaps even respect. "And now?"

"Now I find other work to supplement. Private nursing, perhaps."

Tommy nodded thoughtfully. "I can help with that. There are people in our neighborhood who need care but can't afford the doctor. People who don't ask questions."

"And who would pay me?" Flora asked skeptically.

"We would," Tommy said. "Consider it part of your arrangement. You treat our men, you treat our neighbors when needed. The Blinders look after Small Heath."

Flora raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"

A ghost of a smile touched Tommy's lips. "Things are changing."

She understood what remained unsaid. Tommy Shelby had plans—ambitions that extended beyond the small-time betting operation the family had run before the war. This was part of building something larger.

"You'd be treating people in their homes," Tommy continued. "Or they could come here, if you prefer."

"Not here," Flora said quickly, thinking of Eleanor's dismay. "I'll make house calls."

Tommy nodded, satisfied. "Three pounds a week, then. For the added responsibility."

Flora tried not to show her surprise at the increase. Three pounds was more than many men made in skilled trades.

"And if I need supplies?"

"Make a list. You'll have what you need."

Their eyes met, challenge and possibility hanging in the air between them. Flora knew accepting would bind her closer to the Shelby family, make her part of their world in a way that casual arrangement wouldn't. Yet the prospect stirred something in her—a chance to use her skills freely, without the constraints of the clinic's rigid structure.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'll do it."

Tommy nodded, satisfied. "Good."

As he moved to leave, he paused at the door. "You made the right choice, Flora."

She raised an eyebrow. "We'll see, won't we?"

After he left, Flora returned to the kitchen table, her thoughts racing. She had just taken another step into Thomas Shelby's world—a world she knew was dangerous but increasingly difficult to resist.

Second-Hand Shop - January 1919

The bell above Madame Renard's Secondhand Finery jangled as Flora pushed through the door, shaking snowflakes from her coat. The shop was blessedly warm after the bitter Birmingham cold, smelling of mothballs and perfume from decades past.

"Good morning, Miss Green," called Madame Renard, a formidable French woman who had married an Englishman before the war and stayed even after his death at Ypres. "Come to find something pretty, yes?"

"Something practical that happens to be pretty," Flora corrected with a smile. "I need a new dress for house calls. Something respectable but not too dear."

Madame Renard nodded knowingly. "I have just the thing. Navy blue, good wool, hardly worn."

As the shopkeeper disappeared into the back room, Flora browsed the racks of secondhand garments. Her fingers lingered on a deep green silk evening dress, far too extravagant for her needs but beautiful nonetheless. She checked the price tag and winced. Even at secondhand prices, it might as well have been hanging in a shop window on Bond Street in London.

The bell jangled again. Flora glanced up to see Ada Shelby enter the shop, her cheeks flushed from the cold or perhaps something more. At twenty-one, Ada had a defiant energy about her that seemed to fill the small shop. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman who knew her brothers' reputation would shield her from most consequences.

Their eyes met. Recognition flickered across Ada's face, then something more calculating.

"Flora Green," Ada said, unwinding her scarf. "Heard you'd taken up with my brothers."

Flora raised an eyebrow. "I provide medical services. That's hardly 'taking up' with anyone."

Ada snorted, browsing through a rack of blouses with casual disinterest. "That's not how Small Heath sees it. The Shelby nurse, they're calling you."

"People will talk," Flora replied, keeping her voice neutral. "I've found it's best not to listen."

Ada glanced up, a hint of respect in her expression. "True enough." She pulled out a blouse, examined it critically, then replaced it. "Tommy speaks highly of you. That's rare."

Flora wasn't sure how to respond to this unexpected information. She was saved by Madame Renard's return with the navy dress.

"Here we are," the shopkeeper announced. "Perfect for a nurse making her rounds."

Flora examined the garment. The cut was modest but feminine, the wool of good quality. "May I try it?"

Madame Renard nodded toward a curtained alcove. As Flora changed, she could hear Ada speaking to the shopkeeper in a lowered voice.

"The green silk in the window. I'd like to try it."

"Ah, for a special occasion, perhaps?" Madame Renard's voice carried a hint of suggestion.

"Just curious," Ada replied, a touch defensively.

When Flora emerged in the navy dress, she found Ada examining the same green silk she'd admired earlier. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"That suits you," Ada offered, her assessment frank and surprisingly genuine. "Very proper nurse."

"That's the idea," Flora said, smoothing the fabric over her hips. The dress fit well enough, though it would need taking in at the waist. "And that would suit you. Though it's rather fine for Small Heath, isn't it?"

A secretive smile played at Ada's lips. "Maybe I don't plan to stay in Small Heath forever."

Something in Ada's tone caught Flora's attention. "Do you have plans to leave, then?"

Ada's expression closed immediately. "Just talking. You know how it is."

But Flora recognized the look - a young woman with secrets, perhaps a man her family wouldn't approve of. She'd seen enough girls in France with that same look, sneaking off with soldiers bound for the front.

"Well, it's a beautiful dress," Flora said, returning to the curtained alcove to change back into her own clothes. "Worth saving for."

When she emerged, Ada was trying on a much more modest dark red dress, appropriate for Sunday church or perhaps a family dinner. Their eyes met again in the mirror, and Flora saw calculation in the younger woman's gaze.

"Hear you lost your clinic position," Ada said, turning to examine how the dress fit. "Because of my brothers."

Flora picked up the navy dress, checking the seams critically. "Because of my choices. Your brothers merely provided an alternative."

Ada turned, her expression suddenly serious. "Tommy doesn't offer alternatives lightly. Or to just anyone."

"I'm useful," Flora replied simply. "I stitch wounds without asking questions."

"It's more than that," Ada said, her voice lowered as Madame Renard bustled around the shop. "Tommy respects you. I can tell by how he talks about you."

This information startled Flora. Earning Thomas Shelby's respect was no small matter.

"That's... interesting," Flora said carefully.

Ada shrugged. "Just thought you should know. The Shelbys don't usually let outsiders close." She paused, then added with surprising candor, "It can be suffocating sometimes, being in the family fold."

The unguarded admission revealed more about Ada than perhaps she intended. Flora recognized the restlessness of a young woman testing boundaries in a world that allowed women precious little freedom.

"Freedom has its price," Flora said quietly. "I learned that in France."

Ada's eyes widened slightly. "You never talk about it. The war."

"Neither do your brothers," Flora pointed out.

Ada nodded, conceding the point. She disappeared behind the curtain to change back into her own clothes. When she emerged, she handed the red dress to Madame Renard.

"I'll take this one," she said, then hesitated. "And hold the green silk for me. I'll be back for it."

As Madame Renard wrapped Ada's purchase, the younger woman turned to Flora. "There's a dance hall on Coventry Road. New place. Not many Small Heath people know it yet." She hesitated, then added, "I go sometimes. Thursdays."

Flora understood the invitation for what it was - not friendship exactly, but an acknowledgment, perhaps even a tentative alliance between two women navigating the complicated waters of the Shelby orbit.

"Thursdays," Flora repeated with a small smile. "I'll remember that."

Ada nodded, collected her package, and headed for the door. Just before leaving, she turned back. "Be careful with Tommy," she said, her expression unreadable. "He's not the same since France."

Then she was gone, the bell jangling in her wake.

Madame Renard watched her leave with pursed lips. "That one is looking for trouble," she observed. "All the Shelby women do."

"And the men don't?" Flora asked wryly, bringing her navy dress to the counter.

The shopkeeper laughed. "The men find it without looking, chérie." She named a price for the dress that was slightly less than the tag indicated.

As Flora counted out her coins, she couldn't help but wonder about Ada's warning. Be careful with Tommy. As if that were even a question. Every interaction with Thomas Shelby felt like navigating a minefield - dangerous but strangely exhilarating.

She left the shop with her wrapped package, the navy dress that would mark her as respectable to her patients. But her thoughts kept returning to Ada's secret visits to the dance hall, to the green silk dress held in reserve. To the quiet rebellion brewing beneath the surface.

Perhaps she and Ada Shelby had more in common than she'd realized.

Chapter Text

Eleanor's Wedding - Late January 1919

The parish hall glowed with warmth against the bitter January cold outside. Paper decorations and winter flowers transformed the humble space into something almost magical for Eleanor's wedding reception. Flora stood at the edge of the dance floor, her bridesmaid's dress—a pale blue affair borrowed and hastily altered—feeling stiff despite her efforts to soften it.

She watched Eleanor dance with her new husband, Robert, their faces flushed with happiness and cheap champagne. The war had taught Flora to savor such moments of joy, even when they belonged to others.

"You've hardly touched your drink," came Eleanor's voice suddenly at her side. The bride had appeared, radiant in her simple white dress, wisps of blonde hair escaping from beneath her veil.

"Saving it," Flora replied with a smile, raising her glass. "To the bride. You look beautiful, El."

Eleanor beamed, then leaned closer. "Have you met Robert's friend yet? Henry? He's been watching you all evening."

Flora followed Eleanor's gaze to a well-dressed young man standing with a group of other guests. He was handsome enough—tall, with a well-groomed mustache and warm brown eyes that indeed seemed to find their way to her regularly.

"I haven't had the pleasure," Flora said, taking a strategic sip of champagne.

"Well, you're about to," Eleanor whispered with clear delight. "I may have mentioned you were unattached."

Before Flora could protest, Eleanor was waving Henry over. He approached with the confident stride of a man accustomed to favorable attention.

"Henry, this is my dearest friend, Flora Green. Flora, Henry Ainsworth. Henry works at the bank with Robert."

Henry bowed slightly. "Miss Green. I've heard much about you."

"All exaggerations, I'm sure," Flora replied with practiced lightness.

Eleanor gave Flora a meaningful look before disappearing back to her husband's side, her matchmaking mission accomplished.

"Would you care to dance?" Henry asked, extending his hand.

Flora hesitated only briefly before accepting. "Why not?"

As they joined the other couples on the floor, Henry proved to be a competent dancer, guiding her smoothly through the waltz. His hand at her waist was properly placed, his conversation pleasant if somewhat predictable.

"Eleanor tells me you served as a nurse in France," he said, negotiating a turn.

"I did. Near Ypres, mostly."

"How brave. Though I imagine it must be a relief to return to normal life," Henry continued. "To proper society and domestic concerns."

Flora's smile tightened slightly. "I wouldn't call Small Heath 'proper society.'"

Henry laughed. "No, I suppose not. But still, a woman belongs in the domestic sphere, doesn't she? War work was necessary, of course, but now it's time for England to return to its natural order."

The music swelled around them as Flora felt a familiar disappointment settle in her chest. Another man who saw the war as an unfortunate interruption rather than the cataclysm that had forever altered her world.

"And what might that natural order be, Mr. Ainsworth?" she asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

"Well, men to their work and women to their homes," he replied with the confidence of someone stating the obvious. "My mother always says a woman's greatest calling is to create a peaceful haven for her husband and children."

"How fortunate for your father," Flora said dryly.

Henry missed her tone entirely. "Indeed! And any man would be fortunate to have a wife with your...experiences. Practical medical knowledge is quite useful in a household with children."

As the music drew to a close, Flora stepped back from his hold. "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Ainsworth."

"Perhaps another?" he suggested, still holding her hand. "Or we might find somewhere quieter to talk. I'd be very interested to hear more about your plans now that you're home."

"My plans?" Flora smiled thinly. "I'm afraid they wouldn't interest you. They involve neither marriage nor creating a peaceful haven for anyone but myself."

Henry's expression flickered between confusion and disapproval. "Surely you don't mean to remain unmarried? A woman of your age—"

"A woman of my age who has held men as they died?" Flora interrupted quietly. "Who has worked thirty-six hours without sleep while artillery fire shook the hospital walls? That woman finds it difficult to concern herself with what society expects of her."

She withdrew her hand from his. "If you'll excuse me."

Leaving Henry standing alone on the dance floor, Flora made her way to Eleanor, who was chatting with relatives near the refreshment table.

"I'm going to head home, El," she said, embracing her friend. "I've an early start tomorrow."

Eleanor's face fell. "Already? But it's not even nine o'clock."

"Headache," Flora lied, touching her temple. "Nothing serious, but I should rest."

Eleanor glanced toward Henry, who was now deep in conversation with another guest, his back pointedly turned to Flora. Understanding dawned in her eyes.

"Oh, Flora. Was he terrible?"

"Not terrible," Flora said, her smile softening for her friend's sake. "Just... ordinary. And I'm afraid I'm not."

Eleanor squeezed her hand. "No, you certainly aren't. I shouldn't have pushed."

"It's your wedding day. You're entitled to want everyone as happy as you are." Flora kissed Eleanor's cheek. "Be blissfully ordinary together, you and Robert. The world needs more of that kind of happiness."

Outside, the night air bit at her skin, a welcome shock after the stuffy warmth of the parish hall. Flora lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as she began the walk home. The streets of Small Heath were quiet, most people sensibly indoors on such a cold night.

As she walked, Henry's words echoed in her mind. A woman belongs in the domestic sphere. She had heard variations of this sentiment countless times since returning from France, as if the war had been a temporary aberration rather than the thing that had irreversibly changed her.

What none of them understood—the Henrys of the world with their neat mustaches and conventional ideas—was that there was no going back. Not for her, not for the men who had returned with empty sleeves and haunted eyes, not even for the women who had tasted independence only to be told to surrender it again.

Small Heath - Two weeks later

Winter tightened its grip on Small Heath. Smoke from countless chimneys hung in the air, mixing with the industrial fog that never truly cleared. Flora pulled her coat tighter as she made her way through the narrow streets, medical bag in hand. Her breath puffed white in the cold as she checked the address scrawled on the slip of paper Tommy had sent that morning.

The past month had transformed her life in ways she couldn't have anticipated. Her days were now filled with house calls to families throughout Small Heath and the neighboring areas—treating everything from coughs and fevers to workplace injuries too minor for the hospital but too serious to ignore. Word had spread quickly that Nurse Green was available, and that the Peaky Blinders would cover the cost for those who couldn't pay.

She found the house—a small, two-room dwelling with laundry frozen stiff on the line outside. A tired-looking woman answered her knock, a baby on her hip and relief in her eyes.

"Nurse Green? Thank God. It's my boy—the fever won't break."

Inside, Flora found a six-year-old child burning with fever, his breathing labored. As she examined him, the familiar focus of her training took over. Pneumonia, but caught early enough.

"He needs penicillin," Flora told the mother, though she knew such medication was expensive and hard to obtain.

"We can't afford—"

"It's taken care of," Flora assured her, reaching into her bag for the medication she now carried routinely, supplied by Tommy through channels she deliberately didn't question.

She hesitated, then reached for another small packet in her bag. "And this. Elderberry and thyme." She showed the mother how to brew it. "Give it to him with the medicine. It will help clear his lungs."

The mother looked at the herbs uncertainly. "Like the old ways?"

Flora nodded. "My mother was Romani. Some things modern medicine hasn't improved upon." She smiled gently. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on him."

By late afternoon, she had visited five households, administered medicine to seven patients, and changed dressings on two wounds. As darkness fell, she made her final stop of the day—the Shelby home on Watery Lane.

Polly Gray opened the door, cigarette between her fingers, dark eyes assessing Flora with unconcealed curiosity.

"So you're the nurse Tommy's got everyone talking about," she said, stepping aside to let Flora in. "About time we met properly."

The house was warmer than most in Small Heath, a fire crackling in the grate. Arthur sat at the table, a glass of whiskey in hand, while John was nowhere to be seen.

"Arthur's hand needs looking at," Polly explained. "Cut it on some broken glass. Says it's nothing, but it's festering."

Arthur glared at his aunt. "Told you I'm fine, Pol."

"And I told you the nurse is looking at it," Polly replied firmly. "We don't need you losing a hand to gangrene."

Flora set her bag on the table. "Let me see, Arthur."

Grudgingly, Arthur extended his hand. A deep gash across his palm had indeed become infected, the skin around it angry and swollen.

"This needs cleaning and proper stitching," Flora said, opening her bag. "And you'll need to keep it clean after."

"Just wrap it up," Arthur grumbled.

"I'll stitch it properly," Flora insisted, meeting his gaze evenly. "Or shall I tell Tommy you refused treatment?"

Polly's lips curved in amusement as Arthur relented with a colorful curse. As Flora worked, cleaning the wound with antiseptic that made Arthur hiss through his teeth, she also took out the tin of salve she'd used on Billy.

"What's that?" Polly asked sharply, watching as Flora applied it around the edges of Arthur's wound.

"Yarrow and comfrey salve. Reduces pain, helps healing," Flora answered, not looking up from her work.

Polly moved closer, examining the mixture, then took a small sniff. "With wild garlic and something else..."

"Nettle. Good for infection." Flora glanced up, meeting Polly's gaze. "My mother's recipe."

Understanding dawned in Polly's eyes. "Your mother was drabarni?"

Flora nodded, returning to her stitching.

"Tommy didn't mention that," Polly said, her tone shifting subtly.

"It doesn't usually come up in polite conversation," Flora replied dryly.

A smile touched Polly's lips. "No, I suppose not. Though there's precious little polite conversation in this house."

As Flora continued working, the front door opened. Tommy entered, bringing with him the cold air and the scent of cigarettes.

He paused, taking in the scene—Flora bent over Arthur's hand, Polly watching with newfound approval.

"I see you've met our nurse," Tommy remarked, removing his cap.

"About time," Polly said. "Should have introduced her weeks ago." She gave Tommy a significant look that Flora couldn't interpret.

Flora continued working, aware of Tommy watching her hands as she placed careful stitches in Arthur's palm.

"How's business?" Polly asked Tommy, pouring him a whiskey.

"Expanding," he replied simply. "Johnny arranged a meeting with the Lee family."

Flora kept her focus on Arthur's hand, though her ears caught every word. Over the past month, she'd begun piecing together the scope of the Shelby ambitions—their plans extending well beyond the small betting operation they'd run before the war.

"There," she said finally, tying off the last stitch. "Keep it dry and clean. I'll check it in three days."

Arthur flexed his fingers cautiously. "Not bad." It was as close to a compliment as she'd get from him.

As she packed her supplies, Tommy approached. "A word, Miss Green?"

She followed him into the adjacent room, a small office with papers scattered across the desk.

"How was your day?" he asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Busy. The Pearson boy has pneumonia. He'll need daily checks."

Tommy nodded. "And how many today?"

"Seven households. Twelve patients." Flora rubbed her neck, feeling the fatigue of the long day.

"Too many?"

She shook her head. "I can manage."

Tommy studied her face, his blue eyes seeing more than she was comfortable with. "You haven't been sleeping."

It wasn't a question. The nightmares had returned this past week—visions of the field hospital, the sounds of shelling, men screaming for morphine she couldn't give them.

"I'm fine," she said automatically.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "Your hands still steady?"

"Always." It was the one thing she could count on—even when her mind betrayed her, her hands remained steady.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope. "This week's payment. Plus extra for the medicines you've been providing."

Flora accepted it with a nod. The envelope felt heavier than usual.

"I've added something," Tommy continued. "For you."

She raised an eyebrow, opening the envelope to find not just the usual notes but a small brass key.

"What's this?"

"Office space. On Coventry Road. Next to the tailor's." Tommy's expression gave nothing away. "It has a separate entrance. Private. No one needs to know who funds it."

Flora stared at the key, understanding slowly dawning. "A proper surgery?"

"You've earned it. People trust you." Tommy turned to gaze out the small window at the darkened street. "And I prefer my nurse not work herself to exhaustion making house calls in the snow."

The gesture was unexpected, practical yet surprisingly thoughtful. A surge of emotion caught Flora off guard.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Tommy nodded once, still looking out the window. "There's a flat above it. Small, but warm. If you wanted to move closer to work."

Flora considered this. It would mean stepping fully into Tommy's world.

"I'll think about it," she said carefully.

He turned back to face her. "Polly seems to have taken to you."

"I noticed."

"She recognized your mother's remedies," Tommy said. It wasn't a question.

Flora nodded. "She knows the old ways."

"My grandmother was the same," Tommy said, watching her closely. "Used to brew a tea for nightmares. Valerian and something else."

"Chamomile and lavender," Flora supplied automatically. "With a pinch of dried mugwort if it's really bad."

Something flickered in Tommy's eyes—recognition, perhaps even vulnerability. "Does it work?"

"Sometimes," Flora said softly. "I could make some. If you wanted."

They stood too close in the small room, the air between them charged with unspoken possibilities.

"I should go," Flora said, breaking the silence.

Tommy nodded. "I'll walk you."

"There's no need—"

"It's dark," he said simply. "And you're under my protection now."

Outside, the night had turned bitterly cold, stars sharp points of light in the black sky above the smoke of Small Heath. They walked in companionable silence, their breath mingling in the frosty air.

"How did you learn to be a nurse?" Tommy asked suddenly.

"My mother taught me her ways before she died. Then I trained properly before the war." Flora glanced at him. "And France taught me the rest."

"The things we learned in France," Tommy murmured, almost to himself.

"Not all of it useful for civilian life," Flora agreed softly.

Tommy looked at her then, really looked at her, as if seeing past the careful mask she maintained. "The nightmares. They're about the field hospital?"

Flora swallowed hard. No one had asked her directly about the nightmares before—not even Eleanor, who heard her cries at night.

"Sometimes. Sometimes they're about the patients I couldn't save." She hesitated. "Sometimes about the German soldier I killed when they overran our position."

Tommy nodded, understanding in his eyes that no one else could offer. He had seen the same war, breathed the same fear.

"It doesn't go away," he said. "But it changes."

"Into what?"

"Something you can carry."

They had reached her door. Flora turned to face him, struck by how different he looked in the moonlight—younger somehow, the hardness momentarily softened.

"Goodnight, Thomas," she said.

He reached out unexpectedly, his gloved hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch, so brief and light, sent electricity through her.

"Goodnight, Flora."

As she watched him walk away, disappearing into the shadows of Small Heath, Flora knew she was falling into something she couldn't control—something that both frightened and exhilarated her. Thomas Shelby was a dangerous man, but in that moment, the danger seemed a price worth paying for the understanding in his eyes when he spoke of nightmares and the things they'd both carried home from France.

Chapter Text

The Garrison - March 1 1919

The Garrison was unusually crowded for a Tuesday night. A shipment of Irish whiskey had made it through to Small Heath despite the harsh weather, and the neighborhood had turned out in force to sample it. Flora sat at a small table near the back, nursing her second drink of the evening. She'd spent the day treating frostbite and influenza, and the whiskey was a welcome respite from the bitter cold that seemed to have settled permanently in her bones.

From her vantage point, she watched the Shelby brothers holding court at their usual table. Business was thriving; everyone in Small Heath could see it. The betting shop employed more men each week, and the family's influence continued to expand beyond their traditional territory.

Tommy sat with his back to the wall, as always. His face revealed nothing as men approached, spoke briefly, and departed with nods or handshakes. He hadn't acknowledged Flora's presence, though she knew he'd seen her the moment she'd walked in. Tommy Shelby missed nothing.

She was halfway through her drink when Harry, the barman, approached her table.

"Miss Green," he said quietly. "Mr. Shelby would like a word. In the back room."

Flora glanced toward Tommy, who now looked directly at her, blue eyes unreadable across the crowded pub. He inclined his head slightly toward the door behind the bar.

"Did he say what about?" she asked, though she knew Harry wouldn't have been told.

"No, miss. Just that it's private."

Flora finished her drink, taking her time. Let Thomas Shelby wait a moment; it wouldn't hurt him. She smoothed her dress—a deep green wool that brought out the color in her eyes—and made her way toward the back room, conscious of the eyes that tracked her movement across the pub.

Tommy was already waiting when she entered, leaning against a desk, cigarette between his fingers. The room was small, used for private business dealings and conversations that couldn't happen in the public bar. A single lamp cast shadows across his sharp features.

"Flora," he said, straightening as she closed the door behind her.

"Thomas." She stayed near the door, maintaining her distance. "You wanted to see me?"

He took a drag from his cigarette. "I have a situation that requires discretion."

"Medical?"

"In a manner of speaking." He gestured for her to come closer.

Flora moved forward cautiously. In the weeks since he'd given her the surgery on Coventry Road, their interactions had developed a rhythm—professional yet charged with something neither acknowledged. She'd treated his men, tended to families he'd directed her way, and occasionally found herself in this very room, reporting on matters that required his attention.

"There's to be a police raid tomorrow," Tommy said, his voice low. "Inspector Campbell. Newly arrived from Belfast."

Flora raised an eyebrow. "That concerns me how?"

"He's bringing a doctor with him. To examine certain women."

Understanding dawned. "The Garrison Lane girls."

Tommy nodded once. "Campbell thinks moral decay is the root of all crime in Birmingham. He's starting with the prostitutes."

"Looking for disease," Flora said flatly. She'd seen how such examinations were conducted—humiliating, often painful procedures carried out with little regard for the women's dignity.

"I need someone to see them first. Tonight." Tommy stubbed out his cigarette. "Someone they'll trust."

"You want me to examine prostitutes for venereal disease by candlelight?" Flora's tone was incredulous. "I'm a nurse, Thomas, not a miracle worker."

"You're both," he said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "And more."

He moved closer, close enough that she could smell the familiar blend of whiskey, cigarettes, and something distinctly him. Flora held her ground, though her pulse quickened.

"The girls trust you," Tommy continued. "You've treated some of them already."

"And what am I supposed to do if I find disease?"

"Warn them. Let them decide whether to face Campbell's doctor or disappear for a few days." Tommy's eyes were intent on hers. "I can arrange transportation out of Birmingham if needed."

Flora studied him. "Why do you care what happens to these women?"

"It's business," Tommy said automatically, then seemed to reconsider. "And they're under my protection, same as anyone in Small Heath."

"Same as me?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Something shifted in Tommy's expression. He moved closer still, until barely a handspan separated them. "Not quite the same," he said, his voice dropping lower.

Flora felt heat rising to her face but refused to step back. "In what way?"

Tommy's eyes dropped briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes. His hand came up, fingers brushing lightly against her cheek, tracing a path to her jaw. The touch was feather-light but sent electricity coursing through her.

"I think you know," he murmured.

For a moment, Flora allowed herself to lean slightly into his touch. The tension that had simmered between them for weeks seemed to crystallize in the small space of the back room, the air heavy with possibility.

Then reality reasserted itself. Just yesterday, she'd treated Lizzie Stark for a sprained wrist, listening to her casual mention of Tommy's visit the previous night. And there had been others—women who spoke of Thomas Shelby with the same mixture of desire and resignation.

Flora stepped back, breaking the contact. "I know exactly what this is, Thomas."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly masked.

"You need a nurse for your business," she continued, her voice steady. "And occasionally, you consider other possibilities. Like you do with Lizzie. And others."

Tommy's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "That's different."

"Is it?" Flora challenged. "How many women in Small Heath have felt your hand on their cheek like that? How many have thought themselves special, only to discover they're merely... convenient?"

Tommy was silent, his face unreadable again. Flora could feel her heart racing, but she maintained her composure.

"I'll examine the girls," she said finally. "Have them come to the surgery after midnight. One at a time, ten minutes apart."

Tommy nodded once, professional again. "I'll arrange it."

Flora turned to leave, then paused at the door. "For the record, Thomas," she said, not looking back, "I'm not available for the kind of arrangement you have with Lizzie."

She could feel his eyes on her as she reached for the door handle.

"What if I'm not offering that kind of arrangement?" His voice was quiet.

Flora turned, meeting his gaze directly. "Then you'll need to be clearer about what you are offering."

A muscle ticked in Tommy's jaw. For a moment, he looked as though he might say more, might cross the room and close the distance between them again. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken words.

Then the moment passed. He reached for another cigarette. "The first girl will be at your surgery at midnight."

Flora nodded, slipping out of the room and back into the noise of the pub. Her hands were steady as she put on her coat, but her heart continued to race long after she'd left The Garrison behind.

Walking through the cold streets toward her flat, she wondered what would have happened if she'd stayed, if she'd allowed Tommy Shelby to continue what he'd started. The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

Because despite her brave words, Flora knew that if Thomas Shelby decided to truly pursue her, her resistance might prove as insubstantial as smoke.

The Surgery - Midnight

Flora's surgery on Coventry Road stood in darkness save for a single lamp in the examination room. She'd drawn the curtains and locked the front door, leaving only the back entrance accessible for the women Tommy would send. The small medical space—normally bathed in daylight—felt different in the midnight hours, almost conspiratorial.

She arranged her supplies methodically: clean cloths, antiseptic solutions, examination gloves, and a stack of pamphlets on venereal disease symptoms she'd acquired from the public health office months earlier. Next to these, she placed bottles of the treatments she could offer—limited, but better than nothing. From her personal stores, she added tinctures her mother had taught her to brew, remedies the medical establishment might scoff at but which Flora knew could provide relief when modern medicine failed.

The soft knock at the back door came precisely at midnight. Flora opened it to find a young woman—barely twenty by the look of her—shivering in the cold.

"Mr. Shelby sent me," the girl whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder.

"Come in," Flora said, ushering her into the warmth. "What's your name?"

"Mary," the girl replied, her Birmingham accent thick with anxiety.

"Well, Mary, I'm Nurse Green. I'm going to examine you tonight, with your permission." Flora's voice was professional but gentle. "What I find stays between us, understand?"

Mary nodded, visibly relaxing somewhat.

"Mr. Shelby explained why I'm here?"

"Said there's police coming tomorrow. With a doctor who'll lock us up if we're sick." Mary twisted her hands in her thin coat. "Said you'd help."

"That's right." Flora gestured to the examination table. "Let's get started."

As she examined the frightened young woman, Flora maintained a steady stream of calm, matter-of-fact conversation. She'd learned in France that fear often receded when faced with quiet competence. Mary, thankfully, showed no signs of disease, though her malnourished state concerned Flora enough that she pressed a small package of vitamins into the girl's hand as she left.

"Take these daily," she instructed. "And try to eat more if you can."

The next three women came and went in similar fashion—nervous, grateful for Flora's professional manner, and mercifully free of serious conditions. The fifth, a weathered woman in her thirties named Catharine, wasn't so fortunate.

"It's syphilis, isn't it?" Catharine asked flatly when Flora's expression changed during the examination. "Thought as much. Been feeling poorly."

Flora nodded gravely. "Early stages. You need proper treatment."

"Which I can't get without questions I can't answer." Catharine's laugh held no humor.

"I have something that can help manage symptoms," Flora said, reaching for one of her mother's tinctures. "But you'll need to leave Birmingham for a while. Find a doctor in another city, one who doesn't ask questions."

"With what money?" Catharine asked bitterly.

"Mr. Shelby has arrangements for transportation," Flora replied, writing a note. "Give this to the man waiting outside. He'll see you get where you need to go."

After Catharine left, clutching the medicine and note, Flora took a moment to steady herself. The next knock came before she was ready.

Lizzie Stark entered like she owned the place, cigarette dangling from red-painted lips, her expensive coat a stark contrast to the other women's worn garments.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Nurse Green," Lizzie said, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Tommy's got you working all hours now, has he?"

"Just doing my job, Miss Stark," Flora replied evenly. "Shall we begin?"

Lizzie snorted but shrugged off her coat, revealing a dress that cost more than Flora earned in a month. "Might as well get it over with."

As Flora prepared her examination tools, Lizzie watched her with calculating eyes.

"So you're the famous nurse the Shelbys have everyone talking about," Lizzie remarked. "Thought you'd be older, the way Tommy goes on about your skills."

Flora kept her expression neutral. "Please sit on the examination table."

Lizzie complied with a theatrical sigh. "Tommy was round my place two nights ago, you know. Late. After The Garrison closed."

The statement hung in the air, a deliberate provocation. Flora focused on washing her hands, keeping her back turned so Lizzie wouldn't see the flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

"That's none of my business, Miss Stark," she said finally, turning back with her professional mask firmly in place.

"No?" Lizzie's smile was sharp. "Seemed like you might have made it your business, the way you two were looking at each other in The Garrison last week."

Flora met Lizzie's eyes directly. "I need to examine you now. This might be uncomfortable."

As she proceeded with the examination, Flora maintained her clinical detachment, though internally she fought against the images Lizzie's words had conjured—Tommy at Lizzie's door, Tommy in Lizzie's bed. It wasn't jealousy exactly, Flora told herself. More like disappointment in her own naivety. She'd known what Tommy Shelby was, had seen how women looked at him, how he moved through Small Heath like he owned not just the streets but the people on them.

"You're clear of any obvious disease," Flora announced when she'd finished. "But you should be cautious. The police doctor—"

"Won't be a problem for me," Lizzie interrupted, straightening her clothing. "I've got protection."

"Even Tommy Shelby can't stop a police raid," Flora said mildly.

Lizzie's laugh was genuine this time. "Shows what you know. Tommy Shelby can stop anything he sets his mind to." She paused, studying Flora with renewed interest. "Except maybe you."

Flora busied herself with cleaning her instruments. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do." Lizzie retrieved her coat. "He looks at you different. Not like he looks at me."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Flora felt exposed, as if Lizzie had glimpsed something she herself was trying to deny.

"He pays for my time," Lizzie continued, lighting another cigarette. "But he'd give you his time for free. That's the difference."

"Miss Stark—"

"It's just an observation," Lizzie said, shrugging. "For what it's worth, I like you, Nurse Green. You treat us working girls like people. Most don't."

Before Flora could respond, Lizzie continued, "But fair warning—Tommy Shelby burns through people. Uses them up and moves on when they've served their purpose."

"I'm well aware of Mr. Shelby's reputation," Flora replied stiffly.

Lizzie's smile was almost sympathetic. "Knowing and feeling are different things, aren't they?" She moved toward the door, then paused. "Thanks for the examination. Better from you than some police doctor with cold hands and a badge."

After Lizzie left, Flora sank into her chair, suddenly exhausted. Seven women down, three to go. The encounter with Lizzie had left her unsettled, forcing her to confront feelings she'd been carefully avoiding.

The problem wasn't that Lizzie had been with Tommy. The problem was that Flora cared. Despite her best intentions, despite knowing better, she'd allowed Thomas Shelby to slip past her defenses. His casual touches, the rare smiles that transformed his face, the moments when his carefully maintained control faltered enough to reveal the man beneath the legend—all of it had affected her more deeply than she wanted to admit.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. The next woman was early.

Flora straightened her back, put on her professional smile, and opened the door. The night was far from over, and she had people depending on her. Whatever complicated feelings she harbored for Tommy Shelby would have to wait.

In that moment, she made a decision. Once this business with the police raid was concluded, she would clarify things with Tommy. Set boundaries that protected her heart while allowing her to continue the work that had become unexpectedly meaningful. The women of Small Heath needed her. Tommy needed her skills.

And Flora needed to remember why she'd returned to Birmingham in the first place—not to forge new connections, but to earn enough to leave it all behind.

Chapter Text

The Inspector's Visit - March 1919

Two days after the midnight examinations brought a bitter cold that seeped through Flora's windows despite her efforts to seal the cracks with newspaper. She had slept fitfully, her dreams populated by the women she'd recently examined and the constant, lurking presence of Thomas Shelby.

She was preparing her surgery for the day's appointments when a sharp knock rattled her front door. Through the frosted glass, she could make out the silhouette of a man in a bowler hat.

Flora opened the door to find a stern-faced man with a meticulously trimmed mustache, his eyes cold as March morning. Behind him stood two uniformed officers.

"Miss Flora Green?" the man asked, his Irish accent pronounced.

"Yes," she replied, keeping her hand on the door. "And you are?"

"Inspector Chester Campbell, Belfast Police." He didn't offer his hand. "May I come in?"

It wasn't really a question. Flora stepped aside, maintaining her composure despite the sudden hammering of her heart. "What can I do for you, Inspector?"

Campbell entered, surveying her small surgery with barely concealed disdain. "Quite the establishment you have here, Miss Green. Newly opened, I understand?"

"That's right." Flora folded her arms. "I have patients arriving soon, so if you could state your business?"

Campbell turned to face her, measuring her with his gaze. "My business, Miss Green, is the moral corruption of Birmingham. Disease of the body often indicates disease of the soul, wouldn't you agree?"

"I treat physical ailments, Inspector. Souls are outside my jurisdiction."

A tight smile crossed Campbell's face. "Clever. But I wonder—how does a nurse afford such premises in these difficult times?"

"Hard work," Flora replied evenly. "And careful saving."

"Indeed." Campbell began to pace slowly around the room, examining her instruments and supplies. "I conducted a series of examinations yesterday. On the women of Garrison Lane."

Flora kept her face carefully neutral. "I'm not sure how that concerns me."

"It concerns me greatly that several women who should have been present were inexplicably absent." Campbell stopped directly in front of her. "And those who did appear had clearly been... prepared for examination. Unusually clean. Unusually confident."

"Perhaps they value personal hygiene," Flora suggested.

Campbell's eyes hardened. "Do not play games with me, Miss Green. I know what happens in Small Heath. Nothing occurs without Thomas Shelby's knowledge or involvement."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"No?" Campbell reached into his coat and withdrew a small notebook. "Flora Lavinia Green. Born 1894 to Mirela Boswell and Edward Green. Trained as a nurse before the war. Served in France from 1915 to 1918." He snapped the notebook shut. "And now, mysteriously, the beneficiary of Shelby family patronage."

Flora felt cold dread spreading through her stomach, but kept her voice steady. "I treat anyone who needs medical care, Inspector. I don't ask about their affiliations."

"A convenient arrangement." Campbell moved closer, his voice dropping. "Let me be clear, Miss Green. I know you warned those women. I know you're in Thomas Shelby's pocket. What I don't yet know is how deep the connection runs."

"If you're accusing me of something, say it plainly," Flora challenged, lifting her chin.

Campbell's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not accusing... yet." Then his expression darkened. "Though I find it interesting how a gypsy daughter has managed to secure such a... respectable position."

Flora stiffened at the deliberate slur. "My mother was Romani, Inspector. And a better healer than most doctors I've met with proper papers."

"I'm sure," Campbell replied with barely disguised contempt. "Your kind have always had... unusual methods."

"Is there anything else, Inspector?" Flora asked coldly, her patience wearing thin.

Campbell's eyes narrowed. "I'm merely informing you that I'll be watching. Every patient who walks through that door, every house call you make, every visit to The Garrison."

One of the officers cleared his throat. "Sir, we're expected at the station."

Campbell nodded but didn't break eye contact with Flora. "A word of advice, Miss Green. The Shelbys are not what they appear. Thomas Shelby in particular has... appetites. For power. For control. He uses people until they're no longer useful."

"Thank you for your concern," Flora said icily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have patients to prepare for."

Campbell stepped back but continued to hold her gaze. "There are rumors about stolen guns, Miss Green. Military weapons that disappeared around the time Thomas Shelby returned from France. If you hear anything about such matters, it would be in your interest to inform me immediately."

"I'm a nurse, Inspector. Not a spy."

"Everyone in Birmingham will help me, Miss Green. One way or another." Campbell turned to leave, then paused at the door. "The women you helped evade examination—I will find them. And when I do, the consequences will extend to those who aided them."

After the door closed behind Campbell and his officers, Flora sank into her chair, her hands finally betraying a slight tremor. Campbell's visit had confirmed her worst fears—her association with the Shelbys had placed her directly in the crosshairs of the law.

She knew she should be frightened, should perhaps even consider ending her arrangement with Tommy. Yet what troubled her most was Campbell's insinuation about stolen guns. Was that the real reason for his arrival in Birmingham? And if so, how deeply was Tommy involved?

The bell above her door jingled as her first patient of the day arrived—Mrs. Cooper with her chronic cough. Flora pushed aside her troubled thoughts and stood to greet her, professional smile in place. The questions about Tommy and Campbell would have to wait.

What couldn't wait, however, was her growing realization that she was becoming entangled in something far more dangerous than she had initially believed. The Shelby family's ambitions went beyond Small Heath, beyond even Birmingham perhaps. And Flora, whether she liked it or not, was now part of whatever game Tommy was playing.

For the first time since agreeing to Tommy's arrangement, Flora felt a flicker of genuine fear—not of Campbell or his threats, but of how effortlessly she had been drawn into Tommy Shelby's orbit. Like a moth to a dangerous, beautiful flame.

Watery Lane - Late Afternoon

Dusk fell early in March, painting Small Heath in deepening shadows as Flora made her way toward Watery Lane. She had finished with her last patient an hour ago, but had delayed this visit as long as possible, weighing her options as she sorted supplies and cleaned instruments with mechanical precision.

Campbell's visit had changed things. The stakes were higher now—not just her reputation but potentially her freedom hung in the balance. The sensible choice would be to distance herself from the Shelbys, to return to the anonymous existence she'd led before Tommy had appeared at The Garrison that night.

Yet here she was, walking purposefully through the gathering darkness toward the very heart of the danger.

Flora paused at the corner to light a cigarette, her hands steady once more as she struck the match. The first drag centered her, the familiar ritual calming her racing thoughts. She needed to tell Tommy about Campbell's visit—that much was certain. What came after... she would decide when the moment arrived.

Number six Watery Lane stood like all the others on the street, indistinguishable to outsiders but unmistakable to those who knew Small Heath. No sign marked it as the headquarters of the Peaky Blinders, but everyone knew this was where Thomas Shelby conducted his business.

Flora knocked firmly, the cigarette still between her lips. A moment later, the door opened to reveal Polly Gray, her dark eyes taking in Flora's presence with a knowing look.

"Nurse Green," Polly said, her tone carrying a hint of curiosity. "Looking for Tommy, I expect?"

"Is he here?" Flora asked directly, dropping her cigarette and crushing it beneath her boot.

Polly studied her face for a moment before stepping aside. "Not yet. But he will be." She gestured for Flora to enter. "You can wait."

The Shelby home was warmer than Flora's small flat above the surgery, a fire crackling in the grate. The front room served as both living space and occasional meeting place, with a table large enough to accommodate the family's discussions of both legitimate and illegitimate business.

"Tea?" Polly offered, moving toward the kitchen.

"Something stronger, if you have it," Flora replied.

A hint of approval flashed across Polly's face as she reached for a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "Trouble?" she asked simply, pouring generous measures for both of them.

"You could say that." Flora accepted the glass Polly offered, taking a substantial swallow. The whiskey burned pleasantly down her throat.

Polly settled into a chair nearby, nursing her own drink. "I heard there was a police raid on Garrison Lane yesterday. Belfast man leading it."

Flora nodded but offered nothing more. Despite their shared heritage and Polly's apparent approval of her, she wasn't about to reveal Campbell's threats without speaking to Tommy first. Trust was a precious commodity in Small Heath, and Flora had learned early not to distribute it liberally.

"That salve you gave Arthur worked well," Polly remarked, changing subjects with deliberate casualness. "His hand's healing clean. No infection."

"Good," Flora said. "The yarrow and comfrey usually works, but some people's bodies reject it."

"Not Shelby bodies," Polly replied with a knowing smile. "We've got the old blood too, even if it's diluted now."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Flora had met Polly only briefly before, but that encounter had established an understanding between them—a recognition of shared knowledge and history that transcended their different positions in Tommy's world.

The front door opened abruptly, and Tommy himself entered, removing his cap as he crossed the threshold. He stopped when he saw Flora, surprise briefly visible in his blue eyes before his usual mask of control fell back into place.

"Flora," he said, her name soft in his mouth. "I didn't expect you."

"I need to speak with you," she said firmly. "In private, if possible."

Tommy's gaze flickered to Polly, who raised an eyebrow but rose from her chair without protest. "I've things to attend to anyway," she said, taking her glass with her. At the doorway she paused, looking back at Flora. "Remember what I told you about the tea. Helps with more than just nightmares."

After Polly had gone, Tommy moved to pour himself a drink. "What's happened?" he asked, his voice quiet but alert.

"Inspector Campbell paid me a visit this morning," Flora said without preamble.

Tommy stilled, the whiskey bottle frozen mid-pour. "Tell me," he said simply, finishing his drink and turning to face her.

Flora recounted the visit in detail—Campbell's threats, his knowledge of her background, the missing women, and most importantly, his mention of the guns. As she spoke, Tommy's expression remained unreadable, though a muscle in his jaw tightened at the mention of Campbell's slur against her Romani heritage.

"He knows too much about me," Flora concluded. "And about my arrangement with you."

"He's a thorough man," Tommy acknowledged. "Dangerous because of it."

"He threatened to close my surgery," Flora said, meeting Tommy's gaze steadily. "Said he'd be watching everyone who comes and goes."

Tommy was silent for a moment, contemplating her words. "Do you want out?" he finally asked, his voice carefully neutral.

The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Flora found herself at the crossroads she'd been avoiding since Campbell's visit—step away from the Shelby family and the danger they represented, or step closer and accept whatever consequences might follow.

"I want to know what I'm involved in," she replied. "The truth, Thomas. About the guns."

Tommy studied her face, weighing his response. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across his sharp features.

"During the war," he began slowly, "a shipment of Lewis guns went missing from the BSA factory. Military weapons, destined for the front."

"And you have them."

It wasn't a question, but Tommy nodded once, confirming what she had already suspected.

"That's what Campbell is really here for," Tommy continued. "The women, the gambling—that's just his excuse. He wants those guns."

"Why keep them?" Flora asked. "Why not sell them and be done with it?"

"Because they're leverage," Tommy replied. "For something bigger than Small Heath. Something that will change everything for my family."

Flora looked down at her empty glass, processing his words. "And where do I fit in this grand plan of yours, Thomas? Am I leverage too?"

Tommy leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers. "You've never been a part of this particular business, Flora. I've kept you separate deliberately."

"But Campbell doesn't know that," she said bitterly. "To him, I'm just another piece on your chessboard."

"You're much more than that," Tommy said quietly.

Flora met his gaze, searching for truth in those blue eyes that revealed so little. "Am I? Or am I just useful, like Lizzie Stark? Available when needed, forgotten when not?"

Something flickered across Tommy's face—surprise, perhaps even hurt, quickly masked. "Is that what you think? That you and Lizzie serve the same purpose?"

"Don't we? Different services, same arrangement."

Tommy stood abruptly, moving to the window that overlooked the darkened street. His back was to her as he spoke. "You could leave Birmingham. Tonight. I have connections in London, Manchester. You could start fresh, away from Campbell's reach."

The offer caught her off guard. "You'd let me go? Just like that?"

Tommy turned to face her. "It's not about letting you go, Flora. It's about keeping you safe."

"And if I don't want your protection? If I want to stay?"

"Then stay," Tommy said simply. "But understand what you're choosing."

Flora rose from her chair, moving toward him until barely a foot separated them. "And what exactly am I choosing, Thomas? Tell me plainly."

Tommy set down his untouched whiskey. "Danger," he said softly. "Uncertainty. Campbell won't stop until he gets what he wants."

"And you? What do you want?"

The question hung between them, charged with all the unspoken tension of the past months. Tommy's eyes dropped briefly to her lips, then back to her eyes.

"Many things," he murmured. "Some I can have. Some I can't."

"And which am I?" Flora challenged, her heart racing despite her outward calm.

Instead of answering, Tommy reached out slowly, giving her time to step away if she chose. When she remained still, his hand came to rest against her cheek, his touch gentle in a way few in Small Heath would believe possible from Thomas Shelby.

"You're a complication I didn't expect," he admitted, his voice low.

Flora felt herself leaning into his touch before she could stop herself. "I should go," she whispered, making no move to leave.

"Yes," Tommy agreed, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "You should."

For a moment, they stood frozen in that perfect tension, both aware of all the reasons they should step apart, and all the reasons they couldn't seem to.

Then the sound of the back door opening shattered the moment. Tommy dropped his hand as voices approached—Arthur and John returning from whatever business had occupied them that day.

Flora stepped back, gathering her composure. "I need to think," she said quietly. "About Campbell. About all of this."

Tommy nodded once. "I'll have someone watch your surgery. In case Campbell returns."

"Thank you," she replied, reaching for her coat. "Good night, Thomas."

As she made her way to the door, Tommy's voice stopped her. "Flora."

She turned to look at him.

"You're nothing like Lizzie Stark," he said simply. "Never have been."

Flora held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned to leave. Before she could open the door, Tommy spoke again.

"John," he called out to his brother, who had just entered the room. "Walk Miss Green home."

John looked between them, curiosity evident in his expression, but he nodded. "Course, Tom."

"That's not necessary," Flora protested. "It's not far."

"It's dark," Tommy said firmly. "And Campbell's men are watching. You don't walk alone tonight."

There was no room for argument in his tone. Flora recognized the logic in his words, even as she bristled slightly at the command.

"Fine," she conceded. "Thank you, John."

As they stepped into the cold night air, John lit a cigarette and offered one to Flora. They walked in silence for several moments, the glow of their cigarettes twin beacons in the darkness of Small Heath.

"Tommy doesn't usually worry about people walking home," John remarked finally, his voice casual but his eyes watchful.

Flora took a long drag of her cigarette. "Special circumstances."

"Must be," John agreed with a knowing look.

The rest of the short journey passed in companionable silence. At her door, Flora thanked John, who tipped his cap and waited until she was safely inside before disappearing back into the night.

As she locked her door and removed her coat, Flora knew that whatever danger Campbell represented, it might be less perilous than the feelings growing between her and Thomas Shelby. One threatened her freedom. The other threatened her heart.

And she wasn't sure which scared her more.

Chapter Text

Flashback: Late Spring 1914 - Dance Hall on Birmingham's Edge

The newly established dance hall gleamed like a mirage at the canal's edge, its windows spilling golden light across the dark water. Paper lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, casting kaleidoscope patterns across the wooden floor where couples whirled to lively melodies. The air hung heavy with perfume, cigarette smoke, and the bittersweet knowledge that many of these young men would be departing for France with tomorrow's dawn.

Flora Green stood at the edge of the dance floor, one hand smoothing the navy blue fabric of her best dress, its lace collar just touching her collarbone. She'd spent nearly an hour pinning her light brown hair into an elegant arrangement, though one rebellious curl had already escaped to brush against her cheek. Her hazel eyes sparkled with excitement as she laughed at something her friend Mary had whispered in her ear.

"Care for a dance, Miss Green?"

She turned at the familiar voice, finding Thomas Shelby standing closer than she'd expected. His eyes were bright and alert, carrying that distinctive Shelby intensity but without the hardness that would come later. He'd forgone his flat cap tonight, his dark hair neatly combed, wearing his best suit that spoke of the family's rising fortunes.

"Thomas Shelby asking for a dance? The world must be ending tomorrow," Flora teased, her voice light and playful, none of the wariness she'd later learn to carry.

Tommy's lips quirked upward at one corner. "Well, it might be. Ship out at first light, don't I?"

A shadow flickered briefly across Flora's face before her smile returned. "Then I suppose I should give you something to remember Small Heath by." She placed her hand in his outstretched palm. "Though I warn you, I've been told I'm quite light on my feet."

"You think I can't keep up?" Tommy challenged, leading her onto the floor with unexpected grace.

As his hand settled at the small of her back, Flora felt a small thrill run through her. Thomas Shelby was exactly as the neighborhood girls whispered—dangerous in all the right ways.

"Where did you learn to dance like this?" she asked as they moved together, surprised by his skill.

"My mother," Tommy answered simply. "Said no son of hers would stomp around like a carthorse at a dance." A genuine smile transformed his face momentarily. "You should have seen Arthur trying to learn. Like watching a bear try to waltz."

Flora laughed, the sound bright and uninhibited. "I'd have paid good money to see that."

They moved together through three songs, their conversation flowing easily between teasing remarks and genuine questions. This Flora laughed freely, eyes bright with the confidence of youth, not yet knowing the weight of grief or the horrors of war.

"So it's true then? The whole garrison leaves tomorrow?" Flora asked as they finally stepped away from the dance floor.

Tommy nodded, procuring two glasses of something stronger than the punch being served. "First light."

"To England," he said, raising his glass. "And to a war that'll be over by Christmas."

Flora clinked her glass against his, her expression doubtful. "My brother says the same. I think you're all mad. Nothing is ever that simple."

"And how would Flora Green know about war?" Tommy asked, not unkindly.

"I read the papers, Thomas Shelby. More than you do, I'd wager." Her chin lifted slightly in challenge, eyes flashing with that spark that had first caught his attention years ago in the schoolyard.

"Smart and beautiful. Dangerous combination," he replied, his gaze holding hers a moment longer than propriety allowed.

When the final song ended and people began gathering their coats, Flora found herself unwilling to say goodbye. Outside, the cool night air carried the familiar scents of canal water and factory smoke.

"I should get home," she said finally, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Tommy nodded. "I'll walk you."

"To the corner is fine," Flora insisted. "My father doesn't need to see me with a Shelby. He still hasn't forgiven you lot for that business with my brother last year."

"Your brother cheated at cards," Tommy said matter-of-factly, but without heat.

"And lived to tell about it, which is why I'm allowing this walk at all," Flora replied with a mischievous smile.

They walked in comfortable silence until they reached the agreed-upon corner. Flora turned to him, suddenly aware that after tonight, everything would change.

"Come back in one piece, Thomas Shelby," she said softly, rising on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek, the boldness of the gesture surprising even herself.

His hand caught hers as she began to step away, holding it for a moment longer than necessary. Something passed between them then—a current of possibility, of things unsaid.

"Nothing kills a Shelby but a Shelby, Flora Green," he replied with cocky assurance. "I'll see you at Christmas."

She watched him walk away, his stride confident and easy, before turning toward home with a small smile playing on her lips and the memory of his hand on hers.

The Green family home sat nestled between two larger buildings on Watery Lane, its modest facade belying the warmth within. Flora slipped through the front door, closing it quietly behind her, though the effort proved unnecessary.

"Did you have a nice evening, chavi?" Her mother's voice drifted from the kitchen, using the Romani endearment she reserved for moments of affection.

Flora followed the sound, finding Mirela Green standing over the stove, her dark hair streaked with silver and tied back with a colorful scarf. The small kitchen was filled with the mingled scents of English tea and the distinctive herbs her mother always added—rosehip and mint tonight.

"It was just a dance, Mama," Flora answered, though she couldn't hide the lingering smile on her face.

Mirela studied her daughter, her own eyes—the same shifting hazel that Flora had inherited—missing nothing. "Your smile tells a different story. Was it that Shelby boy Michael mentioned? The serious one?"

"Thomas," Flora confirmed, accepting the steaming cup her mother handed her. "He ships out tomorrow with the rest."

"The Shelby men burn too bright for simple happiness, chavi." Mirela's voice carried the weight of old knowledge. "They're like comets—beautiful to watch, dangerous to touch."

"For heaven's sake, Mirela, let the girl enjoy her evening without your prophecies," Edward Green said as he entered, his tall frame stooping slightly under the low doorway. Despite his English background, he'd long ago grown comfortable with his wife's Romani ways, even adopting some of her expressions and beliefs.

He pressed a kiss to Flora's forehead. "Though I did hear you were dancing with that Shelby boy. The one with the eyes that make everybody nervous."

"Papa!" Flora protested, though she couldn't help laughing. "His eyes don't make me nervous."

"That's precisely what worries me," he replied with a knowing smile, settling into his chair by the small fireplace. "Just remember, love, there's a war brewing. Young men make promises now they won't be able to keep later."

Mirela placed a hand on her husband's shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of his wisdom, before turning back to Flora. "What about your plans? Still dreaming of becoming a nurse?"

Flora nodded eagerly, curling up in her usual chair. "The hospital has a training program. I've been saving from my work at the textile factory. If I combine what you've taught me with proper nursing, I could help so many people."

"My daughter, the healer," Mirela said proudly. "You have the gift, Flora. I've seen how the herbs respond to your touch."

"And the stubborn streak to see it through," her father added with affection. "Though I'd prefer you somewhere safer than a hospital with all those illnesses."

The conversation drifted then to her brother Michael's latest letter from his army training, her father's work at the metal factory, the news from cousins in London. Flora listened, laughing at her father's jokes and her mother's gentle teasing, treasuring the simple comfort of family.

Later, as Flora helped clear the cups, her mother took hers and peered into the remaining liquid, where the tea leaves had settled into patterns. Mirela's face darkened momentarily.

"What is it?" Flora asked, her earlier happiness dimming at her mother's expression.

Mirela hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing, chavi. Just an old woman seeing shadows where there are none." She pressed a kiss to Flora's forehead. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow comes early."

As Flora climbed the narrow stairs to her small bedroom, her thoughts returned to Tommy Shelby—to the unexpected grace of his dancing, to the intensity of his gaze. She touched her lips briefly, remembering the boldness that had overtaken her when she kissed his cheek.

Perhaps her mother was right about the Shelbys burning too bright. But tonight, Flora didn't care. Tonight, she would dream of blue eyes and the promise of Christmas.

Summer 1915

Rain fell in thin, persistent sheets across Small Heath Cemetery, drumming against the few black umbrellas assembled around the freshly dug graves. The cemetery worker leaned on his shovel, respectfully distant but clearly waiting for the small gathering to disperse so he could complete his work—adding two more mounds to the growing number claimed by influenza and the war's indirect casualties.

Flora Green stood between the twin wooden caskets, her black dress sodden at the hem from the wet grass. At twenty-one, she found herself entirely alone in the world—her brother Michael killed at Neuve Chapelle four months earlier, her mother taken by the influenza that had swept through Birmingham like a scythe, and her father, weakened by grief and long years at the factory, succumbing to heart failure just days after his wife's passing.

The priest's words barely penetrated her consciousness. Around her, the small cluster of mourners shifted uncomfortably in the rain—a few neighbors, her father's foreman, her mother's closest friend from the market. The influenza had thinned their community; many who might have attended were either ill themselves or afraid of gathering.

"...ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

Flora's gaze remained fixed on the caskets, her eyes dry. She had exhausted her tears during the long nights of nursing first her mother, then her father, watching helplessly as they slipped away despite all her mother's remedies and her own fledgling medical knowledge.

When the final prayers concluded, the mourners approached one by one, murmuring condolences that blurred together in Flora's ears. Mrs. Changretta from three doors down pressed a covered dish into her hands. Someone else mentioned looking in on her tomorrow. Flora nodded mechanically to each, aware of their kindness but feeling separated from it by a veil of grief.

Finally, they dispersed, hurrying back to their homes through the steady rain. Only Flora remained, standing motionless as the cemetery worker began his task, the dull thud of earth on wood marking time like a morbid metronome.

From her coat pocket, she withdrew two items—a worn deck of fortune-telling cards that had been her mother's, passed down through generations of Romani women, and a letter from Michael, the paper creased from countless readings.

She opened the letter one final time, her eyes finding the passage she'd memorized months ago:

"...whatever happens, Flo, don't let Small Heath be the end of your story. You were meant for more than these narrow streets and factory walls. If the worst happens to me over here, promise you'll still find your way to something better..."

"Nothing left in Birmingham," she whispered to the fresh graves, her voice nearly lost in the patter of rain. "I promise you all—I'll find my way."

Kneeling between the graves, Flora placed her mother's card deck in the small space where the caskets nearly touched—a symbolic burial of her old life alongside her parents.

As she walked away from the cemetery, the wind plastered her wet hair against her face. On the wall opposite the cemetery gates, a recruitment poster flapped in the breeze, its colors running slightly in the rain: NURSING SISTERS NEEDED FOR THE FRONT. SERVE YOUR COUNTRY IN ITS HOUR OF NEED.

Flora paused before it, something resolving in her expression. With nothing to hold her here and everywhere in Birmingham haunted by absence, the path ahead suddenly seemed clear. France couldn't be worse than the emptiness of home, and perhaps in saving others, she might save herself from drowning in grief.

Tomorrow, she would volunteer. Small Heath had claimed everything she loved—it would not claim her future as well.

Chapter Text

The Garrison - Late March 1919

The low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses filled The Garrison as Flora nursed her third whiskey of the evening. Three weeks had passed since Tommy's offer to help her leave Birmingham, and she'd spent every day since turning the proposition over in her mind like a worry stone.

Freedom beckoned, but at what price? And why did the thought of leaving Birmingham—leaving Tommy—suddenly feel like abandoning something unfinished?

She was halfway through her drink when Harry brought her another without asking. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar," he explained with a nod.

Flora glanced down to see a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache raising his glass. She acknowledged him with a subtle nod but made no move to join him. These offerings had become more frequent since she'd begun treating people across Small Heath. The neighborhood's gratitude manifested in bought drinks and occasional baskets of food left at her surgery door.

Two men at a nearby table hadn't noticed her attention shift their way.

"Heard Tommy Shelby's not been up to Garrison Lane for weeks now," one said, lowering his voice but not enough. "Right peculiar for him."

"Aye, Marie was complaining about it. Said he's not seen any of the girls since—"

The second man's eyes suddenly widened as he registered Flora's presence. He elbowed his companion sharply. "Shut your fucking mouth, that's the Shelby's nurse there."

The first man's face reddened as he turned his gaze deliberately away from Flora.

She pretended not to have heard, taking another sip of whiskey while the information settled in her mind. Tommy hadn't visited the prostitutes in weeks. Since when, exactly? Since the girls midnight surgery visit? Since he'd told her she wasn't like Lizzie Stark?

Don't read into it, she warned herself. Men like Thomas Shelby don't change their habits for a woman. And what does it matter anyway?

But it did matter, in a way she wasn't ready to examine too closely.

The pub door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and a woman Flora had never seen before. Tall and slender with blonde hair and delicate features, she carried herself with a quiet confidence that immediately caught Flora's attention. Something about her seemed out of place—her posture too straight, her clothes too fine for Small Heath.

The woman approached Harry at the bar and began speaking quietly. Flora couldn't hear the exchange, but the way the woman's eyes darted around the room—observant, calculating—triggered the instincts Flora had developed during the war. This woman was assessing her surroundings, memorizing faces and exits.

Curious.

The pub door opened again, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Conversations hushed as Tommy Shelby walked in, flanked by John. Tommy's gaze swept the room, landing briefly on Flora before moving to the blonde woman speaking with Harry.

Flora watched the subtle changes in Tommy's expression—the flicker of interest, the evaluating look. He approached the bar, standing just close enough to the woman to signal his intention to speak.

"Harry," Tommy called, but his eyes were on the stranger. "Who's this?"

"Grace Burgess," the woman answered for herself, turning to face Tommy directly. "I'm looking for work."

Something in her lilting Irish accent made Flora's suspicion deepen. The timing was too convenient—a beautiful Irish woman appearing just as Inspector Campbell was hunting for the stolen guns. Flora knew enough about Tommy's IRA connections to wonder if this was a setup.

Tommy's eyes flicked toward Flora, then back to Grace. "Experience?"

"I've worked in pubs in Dublin."

"Why Birmingham?"

"A fresh start," Grace answered simply.

Tommy seemed to consider this, his face revealing nothing. Then he turned toward Flora. "A word, Miss Green."

Flora gathered her coat and followed Tommy to the back room, feeling Grace's eyes tracking their movement.

Once the door closed behind them, Tommy lit a cigarette. "What do you think?"

"About your new barmaid?" Flora asked, leaning against the wall.

"Is that what she is?"

Flora smiled wryly. "You tell me, Thomas."

Tommy exhaled smoke, watching her through it. "You don't trust her."

"She's too polished for Small Heath. And an Irish woman appearing just as Inspector Campbell is hunting you down?" Flora shook her head. "Seems convenient."

"Mm." Tommy nodded slightly. "Could be."

"Yet you're still going to hire her."

"Harry needs the help."

Flora laughed softly. "Is that the only reason?"

Something flickered in Tommy's eyes—amusement, perhaps. "What's your assessment, Nurse Green? Professional opinion."

"She's beautiful," Flora acknowledged, keeping her voice neutral. "Observant. Calculating. And very interested in you."

"And that bothers you?"

The directness of his question caught her off guard. There it was—the thing they'd been circling for weeks, suddenly laid bare.

"Should it?" she countered.

Tommy stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the smoke on his breath. "Three weeks, Flora. I offered you a way out three weeks ago."

"I'm aware of the passage of time, Thomas."

"And yet you're still here."

Flora met his gaze evenly. "I haven't decided."

"What's holding you back?" His voice was softer now, almost gentle.

The real answer—you are—sat heavy on her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Instead, she said, "I've run before. I'm not sure I want to run again."

Tommy studied her face. "Inspector Campbell won't stop. The longer you stay, the more danger you're in."

"Because of my association with you."

"Yes."

"Then perhaps I should end that association."

Tommy's jaw tightened slightly. "Is that what you want?"

Flora pushed away from the wall, suddenly needing space. "What I want doesn't seem particularly relevant, does it? You have business to attend to, Thomas. And apparently a new barmaid to hire."

She moved toward the door, but Tommy caught her arm. The touch was light, barely there, but it froze her in place.

"Flora."

Just her name, nothing more. But the way he said it made her chest ache.

"I need to go," she said quietly. "It's late."

Tommy released her arm but remained standing close. "You haven't answered my question."

"And you haven't been to Garrison Lane in weeks," she replied, the words escaping before she could stop them. "We all have our mysteries, Thomas."

Something like satisfaction flickered across his face. "Been asking about me, have you?"

"People talk," she said, feeling her cheeks warm. "Especially when they think the Shelby nurse isn't listening."

Tommy's lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "Perhaps I've had other things on my mind."

Flora knew she should walk away, end this dangerous conversation before it led somewhere she couldn't return from. Instead, she heard herself ask, "Such as?"

"Such as," Tommy said, his voice dropping lower, "a nurse with Romani remedies and war-weary eyes who won't give me a straight answer about whether she's staying or going."

The air between them seemed to thicken. Flora forced herself to break his gaze.

"Goodnight, Thomas," she said, reaching for the door handle. "I believe your new barmaid is waiting."

This time, Tommy let her go.

Flora walked through the pub, nodding briefly to John but avoiding looking at Grace. Outside, the cold air cleared her head somewhat, but couldn't erase the memory of Tommy's words or the intensity in his eyes.

She walked quickly back to her surgery, annoyed at herself for letting Tommy Shelby get under her skin, and even more annoyed that the thought of him hiring Grace Burgess bothered her at all.

Chapter Text

Day 1: First Suspicions

The morning was bitterly cold as Flora made her way back from Mrs. Parker's house, her medical bag heavy in her hand. She'd been there since before dawn, helping bring little Joseph Parker into the world—a healthy boy with a strong set of lungs and all ten fingers and toes.

She turned onto Watery Lane, the cobblestones slick with morning frost, when something caught her attention. A man stood at the corner, watching her with unconcealed interest. Not someone from the neighborhood—his wool coat was too fine, his derby hat too new. He stood with military rigidity, hands clasped behind his back.

When their eyes met, Flora expected him to look away, as most men did when caught staring. Instead, he held her gaze steadily, then deliberately removed his hat and tipped it toward her with exaggerated courtesy. The gesture wasn't respectful but calculating—a message being sent.

Flora quickened her pace, clutching her medical bag closer. As she passed the man, the scent of expensive cologne and pipe tobacco drifted toward her. She resisted the urge to look back until she'd turned the corner. When she did glance over her shoulder, the man was walking unhurriedly in the opposite direction, as though he'd accomplished what he'd come for.

At her surgery, Flora unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the familiar medicinal smell welcoming her home. After setting down her medical bag in the examination room, she headed upstairs to change and prepare for the day's appointments.

The morning passed strangely—two patients never arrived. By lunchtime, she'd checked her appointment book three times, wondering if she'd somehow noted the wrong day.

At half-past one, a small boy no older than eight appeared at her door, clutching a folded piece of paper.

"From Mrs. Collins, miss," he said, thrusting the note forward. "She said to wait for an answer."

Flora unfolded the note, recognizing Mrs. Collins' careful script:

Miss Green,

We've had to leave for Coventry unexpectedly—my husband's sister has taken ill. Please forgive the short notice. I'll bring Danny in for his stitches when we return.

Regards,
E. Collins

Flora frowned. Mrs. Collins had seemed eager to have the stitches removed yesterday, concerned about her son's comfort. An unexpected trip to Coventry seemed odd timing.

"Tell Mrs. Collins I understand, and I hope her sister-in-law recovers quickly," Flora told the boy, pressing a penny into his palm.

By four o'clock, with the O'Malley girl also failing to appear for her appointment, Flora found herself with an unexpectedly empty afternoon. She took the opportunity to organize her records and prepare medicines, but an uneasiness had settled over her.

As dusk fell, she locked up the surgery portion of her building, pulling her coat tight against the evening chill. Across the street, partially hidden by the shadow of a doorway, stood another man—different from this morning's watcher. He held a newspaper high, though the light was far too dim for reading. When Flora deliberately stopped and stared at him, he slowly lowered the paper, folded it with precision, and walked away without hurry or concern.

"Just nerves," Flora muttered to herself, fingers fumbling with her keys as she prepared to walk around to the separate entrance of her flat. But three years in field hospitals in France had honed her instincts for danger. Something was happening—something deliberate and orchestrated.

Flora climbed the stairs to her flat, lit the lamps, and moved to the window overlooking the street. The man with the newspaper was gone, but she couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. She drew the curtains tightly closed and spent the evening restless, checking the locks twice before finally retiring to bed.

Day 2: Growing Concern

Flora's morning tea was interrupted by three rapid knocks at her surgery door downstairs. Setting down her cup with a sigh, she descended from her flat to find a young girl standing shivering on the doorstep, another message in hand.

"From Mrs. Winters, the baker's wife," the child said.

Flora opened the note, her unease growing:

Miss Green,

I regret to inform you I will no longer require your services for my heart condition. I've arranged to see Dr. Harrison instead. Thank you for your past attention.

Mrs. E. Winters

Flora stared at the note in disbelief. Mrs. Winters had been coming faithfully every Wednesday for months. Just last week, she'd commented on how much better she felt under Flora's care compared to Dr. Harrison's.

Two more cancellations arrived before she'd finished preparing the surgery for the day. No explanations offered. Just abrupt terminations of her services.

The morning dragged with empty hours until Mr. Wilson arrived for his appointment. The elderly former dockworker suffered terrible arthritis in his hands—the result of decades of hard labor. As Flora worked the medicinal salve into his gnarled joints, she noticed his eyes repeatedly darting toward the window.

"Something troubling you, Mr. Wilson?" she asked gently, continuing her methodical massage.

"No, miss. It's nothing." But his eyes flicked to the window again, unmistakable anxiety in his expression.

Flora casually moved to adjust the curtains, as though blocking a draft. As she did, she spotted a police constable across the street. Unlike yesterday's watchers, he made no effort to conceal his purpose. He stood directly opposite her surgery, arms folded across his chest, staring at her front door.

"Been there all morning," Mr. Wilson muttered. "People are talking, miss. Saying you're being watched on account of your... associations."

Flora returned to her chair, keeping her expression neutral despite her racing heart. "My associations?"

"With the Shelbys, miss." Mr. Wilson's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Word is that new inspector's been asking questions about who comes to see you. What ailments they have. Whether you keep records." He shook his head. "Word spreads in Small Heath. People are frightened of police attention."

Flora applied more salve to his hands, buying time to compose her thoughts. "I'm a nurse, Mr. Wilson. I treat whoever needs medical attention. There's nothing illegal in that."

"Aye, but these aren't normal times, are they?" The old man looked up at her, concern in his eyes. "Not with all these new police about. Not with that inspector asking his questions."

When their session finished, Mr. Wilson refused to leave through the front door. Instead, he peered cautiously out the back entrance, checking both directions before slipping away like a man evading creditors.

After he'd gone, Flora sat alone in her suddenly quiet surgery, the implications sinking in. Campbell wasn't just investigating her—he was isolating her. Cutting off her livelihood. Making her presence in Small Heath untenable.

That afternoon, while making a house call to the Taylor family, Flora returned to find the lock on her surgery door slightly damaged, as though someone had forced entry. Inside, nothing appeared missing, but her neatly organized medical cabinet had been disturbed. Items rearranged, bottles moved from their precise positions. Someone had searched her supplies, and they hadn't cared if she knew it.

Flora ran her fingers across the disturbed shelves, a chill settling over her that had nothing to do with the February weather. This wasn't just surveillance anymore. This was intimidation.

She climbed the stairs to her flat, suddenly worried that they might have searched there too. A quick inspection revealed nothing obviously disturbed, but the feeling of violation lingered. Her private spaces, both professional and personal, were no longer secure.

Day 3: Direct Evidence

The folded paper slid under her surgery door sometime in the night. Flora found it when she came downstairs at dawn, the crisp white rectangle stark against the worn floorboards. She stared at it for a long moment before picking it up, dread pooling in her stomach.

Inside, written in precise, elegant script, was a message that required no signature:

"The Inspector advises caution in your choice of patients. Some ailments are best left untreated."

Flora read it three times, her hand remaining steady despite the implicit threat. They weren't even bothering with subtlety anymore. Campbell wanted her to know exactly who was responsible for her dwindling practice and intimidated patients.

She was contemplating her next move, the note still in her hand, when a soft knock sounded at her back door. Flora approached cautiously, peering through the small window to see Beth Jenkins huddled in the alley, glancing nervously over her shoulder.

Flora quickly let her in. Beth was one of the prostitutes she'd examined at Tommy's request, a young woman with strawberry blonde hair and a perpetually worried expression.

"Can't stay," Beth said immediately, nervously glancing toward the window that faced the street. "Just came to warn you - none of us can come see you anymore." Her fingers twisted the frayed edge of her shawl. "Campbell's men are watching who enters your surgery. Lizzie says they've been questioning girls about what we talked about with you."

Flora led Beth further inside, away from the windows. "Are you in trouble, Beth? Did they threaten you?"

"Not me, not yet." Beth shook her head. "But Jenny and Kate were taken in yesterday. Questioned for hours about you and the Shelbys. Campbell's using the morality laws as an excuse, but Lizzie says it's really about Tommy."

"What about Tommy?" Flora asked sharply.

Beth's eyes widened. "I don't know nothing. Just repeating what Lizzie said." She glanced toward the door. "I should go. If they see me here..."

"Wait," Flora said, moving quickly to her medicine cabinet. She pulled out several small packets. "Take these. For the girls. Just basic remedies—for headaches, monthly pains. Since you can't come to me anymore."

Beth took the packets gratefully, tucking them into her bodice. "You're a good woman, Miss Green. We all say so." With another nervous glance toward the street, she slipped out the back door and disappeared down the alley.

After Beth left, Flora pulled out her appointment ledger and counted the names. In three days, her patient load had decreased by nearly half. Small Heath was full of whispers, and the community's fear of police attention was proving stronger than their need for medical care.

That evening, Flora needed bread for her supper. She debated going without, but stubbornness won out—she refused to be imprisoned in her own home by Campbell's intimidation. As she walked the darkening streets, she became acutely aware of footsteps behind her. Too regular, too measured to be casual. When she abruptly turned down an alley as a test, the footsteps followed.

Flora spun around, heart pounding, and caught sight of a man in police uniform quickly stepping into a doorway. The message couldn't be clearer—she was being followed, and they wanted her to know it.

By the time she returned to her flat above the surgery, anger had replaced fear. She stood at her window, watching two plainclothes officers taking turns observing her building from across the street. As she stared back at them, one tipped his hat in the same mocking gesture as the first watcher.

Flora drew her curtains with a sharp tug, mind racing. Campbell was tightening a noose around her, cutting off her patients, her supplies, her freedom of movement. Soon she would have no choice but to leave Small Heath—or seek protection from the very man whose association had made her a target in the first place.

Day 4: The Breaking Point

Flora awoke to the sound of rain battering against her windows. The gray morning light barely penetrated the gloom of her bedroom as she dressed for the day, preparing for what she suspected would be another largely empty schedule.

She descended the narrow staircase to her surgery, pausing at the door that connected her personal living space to her professional domain. The sound of crying—a baby's distressed wail—came from outside her front door.

When she opened it, she found Mrs. Thatcher standing there, soaked from the rain, cradling her infant son against her chest. The woman's eyes were red with exhaustion, and the baby's face was flushed with fever.

"I know I shouldn't come," Mrs. Thatcher whispered, glancing fearfully at the street as Flora ushered her inside. "My husband says associating with you is dangerous now. But the baby's fever won't break, and Dr. Harrison charges more than we can afford."

Flora guided the woman to her examination table, helping her lay the whimpering infant down. "You did the right thing," she said firmly, placing her hand on the baby's forehead. The skin was hot and dry—a dangerously high fever.

As she examined the child, checking his breathing and looking for signs of infection, Mrs. Thatcher continued nervously, "There was a man asking questions about you at the market yesterday. Not in uniform, but everyone knew he was police. Wanted to know if you give special treatment to the Shelby men. If you keep records of who comes to you."

Flora maintained her professional demeanor, though her stomach tightened at the news. "And what did people tell him?"

"Not much. Small Heath doesn't talk to coppers if they can help it. But people are scared, Miss Green. The Inspector's got a reputation." Mrs. Thatcher lowered her voice further. "They say he had men beaten in Belfast. Women too, sometimes."

Flora focused on preparing a fever reduction tonic, combining elder flower and willow bark with a touch of honey to make it palatable for the infant. "Your son has a chest infection," she explained, deliberately changing the subject. "Nothing too serious yet, but that fever needs to come down. Give him this tonic every four hours. Keep him warm but not too bundled. And this salve—" she handed over a small jar of her own creation, "—rub it on his chest to help with the congestion."

Mrs. Thatcher clutched the medicines gratefully. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing," Flora said firmly. "Just bring him back in two days if the fever hasn't broken."

The woman's eyes filled with tears. "You're too good, Miss Green. Too good for what they're doing to you." She leaned closer, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "My George heard at the pub that they're going to find a reason to shut you down. Health code violations, they're saying. Or something about your medicines not being proper registered."

After Mrs. Thatcher left—through the back door, at her own insistence—Flora found herself alone in the surgery, staring at the near-empty appointment book. In four days, Campbell had managed to isolate her from much of her practice without a single direct confrontation. His tactics were insidious and effective: spread fear, isolate the target, then find a bureaucratic reason to deliver the final blow.

Later that afternoon, she tried visiting the chemist for supplies, only to be told by the nervous shopkeeper that he was "unexpectedly out of stock" of several basic items she regularly purchased.

"When do you expect more laudanum and iodine?" Flora pressed, knowing both had been plentiful earlier in the week.

The chemist wouldn't meet her eyes, rearranging bottles that didn't need arranging. "Hard to say, Miss Green. Supply problems since the war, you understand."

When she pushed further, he finally broke. "Please, Miss," he whispered urgently, glancing toward the back of his shop. "I've got five children. I can't afford trouble with the police."

Flora left empty-handed, another piece of her professional life stripped away.

As evening fell, she sat by her window upstairs in her flat, a glass of whiskey in her hand—a habit picked up in France that had never quite left her. From her vantage point, she could see two plainclothes officers taking turns observing her building from across the street.

One of them lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his face in the growing darkness. He looked up directly at her window and raised his hand in a mocking salute.

Flora drew back from the window, anger burning alongside fear. Campbell was using the full weight of his authority to drive her out—or worse, to provoke her into some act that would give him cause for arrest. She'd heard stories of what happened to women in police custody, especially those with Romani blood.

She paced her small flat, weighing her dwindling options. She could leave Small Heath—abandon her patients and the life she'd built here. Or she could seek help from the very source of her troubles: Thomas Shelby.

Neither option appealed to her. Both represented a form of surrender.

Chapter Text

The sharp rap at her door came early, just after Flora had finished dressing for the day. After four days of dwindling patients and obvious surveillance, the sound made her flinch before she composed herself. When she opened it, she found a young boy—not more than twelve—standing on her doorstep.

"Miss Green?" he asked, tugging nervously at his cap.

"Yes?" Flora glanced past him to the street, checking for watching eyes.

"Car for you, miss. Says you're to come right away."

Flora frowned. "I don't have any appointments this morning." Though in truth, her book was almost empty now, thanks to Campbell's intimidation tactics.

"It's Mr. Shelby's orders, miss. Car's waiting at the corner."

Thomas, she thought with a mixture of irritation, relief, and curiosity.

"Wait here," she told the boy, closing the door to grab her coat and medical bag—she never went anywhere without it these days. After a moment's hesitation, she also packed a small valise with essential clothing and her mother's herb pouch. If this was Tommy executing his promise to help her escape Campbell's web, she wouldn't leave unprepared.

When she reopened the door, the boy was bouncing on his heels impatiently. "This way, miss."

He led her to a black motorcar idling at the corner. The driver, one of the Shelby men whose name she couldn't recall, nodded to her and opened the rear door. As she approached, she noticed a police constable watching from across the street, making no effort to hide his interest.

"Where are we going?" she asked as she slid onto the leather seat, placing both her medical bag and valise beside her.

"Mr. Shelby said not to tell you, miss. Just to bring you."

Flora sighed, settling back against the seat. This was exactly like Tommy—mysterious, high-handed, expecting everyone to simply fall in with his plans. She should refuse, demand to be taken back to her surgery. But after days of Campbell's increasing pressure, even Tommy's presumptuous ways felt like a welcome alternative.

As they pulled away, Flora caught sight of the constable making a note in a small book. Another mark against her in Campbell's ledger.

They drove for nearly an hour, leaving Birmingham's smoky silhouette behind. With each mile that passed, Flora felt the weight of surveillance lifting from her shoulders. The city gave way to rolling countryside, still brown with winter but showing the first hints of spring. Eventually, they turned down a narrow lane that ended at a small stone cottage nestled among ancient oak trees.

"What is this place?" Flora asked as the driver opened her door.

"Mr. Shelby's waiting inside, miss."

The cottage door opened before she reached it, revealing Tommy in his usual suit but without his cap—a rare sight. Something about seeing him without that final piece of armor made him seem almost vulnerable.

"You kidnapped me," Flora said by way of greeting, the strain of the last four days evident in her voice despite her attempt at lightness.

"I sent a car," Tommy corrected, stepping aside to let her enter. His eyes noted the valise in her hand. "Though I see you came prepared for more than a visit."

Flora set down her bag. "When a mysterious car arrives after days of police intimidation, one prepares for possibilities."

"Smart woman."

The cottage interior was simple but beautiful. A fire burned in the stone hearth, warming the main room. A table by the window was set for two, with fresh bread, cheese, and what looked like rabbit stew simmering in a pot over the fire.

"What is this place?" she asked, turning to take it all in.

"It belonged to my mother's cousin," Tommy said, closing the door. "It's where she would bring us sometimes, when things in Small Heath were... difficult."

Flora moved to warm her hands by the fire. "And is that why I'm here? Because things in Small Heath have become difficult?"

Tommy nodded. "Your surgery's been empty for days. Campbell's men watching your door. Your patients scared away."

"You've noticed."

"I've had people keeping an eye."

Flora gave a humorless laugh. "So I've had Campbell's men watching from the front and your men watching from the shadows. How comforting."

Tommy moved beside her at the fire. "Would you rather I'd left you to handle Campbell alone?"

"No," she admitted after a moment. "But I'd rather have known your plan before being whisked away from Birmingham."

"There wasn't time for discussion." Tommy's voice was matter-of-fact. "Campbell's closing in. Another day or two and he might have found an excuse to arrest you."

Flora turned to face him. "For what? I've broken no laws."

"He doesn't need a real reason. Just an excuse."

She couldn't argue with that logic. "So this is... what? A hiding place?"

"A sanctuary," Tommy corrected. "Temporary or permanent. Your choice."

Flora moved toward the window, looking out at the rolling countryside.

"You've thought this through," she observed.

"I have."

Flora turned back to him. "And what do you get from this arrangement, Thomas?"

A hint of something—almost vulnerability—crossed his face. "Does there need to be something in it for me?"

"With you? Always."

Tommy approached her slowly. "Maybe I don't like seeing Campbell target someone because of their connection to me."

"Is that all?" she challenged quietly.

His eyes held hers. "No."

"Then tell me what you want, Tommy. Plainly."

"I want you to stay in Birmingham," he said simply. "Not to run. Not because of Campbell, not because of fear. Because you choose to."

Flora studied him for a long moment. "And this cottage?"

"Is yours to use whenever you need space from Small Heath. From me. From anyone."

"That's a generous offer for someone who's just your nurse."

Tommy's hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. "You've never been just a nurse, Flora."

The touch, the words, the quiet understanding in his voice made something shift inside her.

"I'm not a woman who belongs to anyone," she said carefully.

"I'm not asking you to belong to me," Tommy replied. "I'm asking you to belong to yourself, here, instead of running."

The distinction was important, and the fact that he understood it touched her deeply.

"Why?" she asked simply. "After everything with Campbell, the guns, the risk—why offer me this?"

Tommy's eyes remained fixed on hers. "Because the war changes people, Flora Green. Makes them see what matters. What's real."

"And what's real to you, Thomas Shelby?"

Instead of answering, he leaned forward slowly and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle at first, a question more than a demand. When she responded, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, it deepened into something hungry and honest.

When they broke apart, both slightly breathless, Flora knew her decision had already been made—perhaps weeks ago. She wasn't running. Not from Birmingham, not from Campbell.

And certainly not from Thomas Shelby.

"Show me the rest of the cottage," she said softly.

Tommy's eyes darkened with understanding. He took her hand and led Flora up the narrow staircase, each wooden step creaking beneath their feet. The upper floor of the cottage held just two rooms - a small second bedroom and the main chamber that occupied most of the space. Tommy opened the door to the latter, revealing a simple but comfortable room with whitewashed walls and exposed wooden beams.

A large bed with an iron frame dominated the space, covered with a patchwork quilt that Flora immediately recognized as Romani handiwork. The patterns and colors - deep reds, blues, and golds - reminded her of textiles her mother had treasured. A fire had been lit in the small hearth opposite the bed, casting dancing shadows across the room.

Tommy closed the door behind them, and suddenly the air felt charged with anticipation. Standing there in the firelight, he looked different from the hard man who commanded respect on the streets of Small Heath - more human, more vulnerable.

"This quilt," Flora said, running her fingers over the intricate stitching. "It's Romani work."

"My mother's," Tommy confirmed, coming to stand behind her. "One of the few things we kept after she died."

Flora turned to face him. "You've planned this."

"I've considered possibilities," he corrected, his voice low. "Nothing more."

His hands found her waist, gentle but sure. Flora reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw before sliding up to remove the pin from her hair. The brown waves fell past her shoulders, and Tommy's eyes darkened as he watched.

"You're beautiful," he said simply.

"So people tell me," she replied with a small smile.

Tommy's hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head. "I'm not people, Flora."

"No," she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're not."

When his lips met hers this time, there was nothing tentative about it. The kiss was deep and demanding, and Flora answered in kind, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. The war had taught her not to waste time with hesitation - life was too fragile, too easily extinguished.

She began working at his collar, fingers deftly undoing his tie and the buttons of his shirt. Tommy let her, his own hands busy with the buttons at the back of her dress. There was an urgency to their movements, but not hurried - more like the deliberate efficiency of two people who understood the value of each moment.

When his shirt fell open, Flora's fingers traced the scars that mapped his torso - some old, some newer. Evidence of the life he'd led, the battles he'd fought. She pressed her lips to a particularly vicious scar near his collarbone.

"France?" she asked.

"Somme," he confirmed, his voice rougher now.

Flora nodded, understanding without words. She'd treated enough men with similar wounds to recognize shrapnel damage. Her hands continued their exploration, feeling the lean muscle beneath his skin, the strength in his shoulders.

Tommy turned her gently, working the remaining buttons of her dress until it slipped down over her shoulders. His lips followed the path of the fabric, kissing the newly exposed skin of her neck and back. Flora closed her eyes, her breath catching as his mouth found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.

"I've thought about this for months," he murmured against her skin.

Flora turned in his arms. "Only since then?"

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Since before. But when I saw you at the Garrison in December, I knew."

"Knew what?" she asked, helping him slide her dress down past her hips until it pooled at her feet.

Tommy's eyes traveled over her - the simple cotton chemise, the practical undergarments of a woman who'd learned efficiency during wartime. "That you were different. That I wanted more than just this."

Flora raised an eyebrow, a challenge in her expression. "But you do want this."

In answer, Tommy lifted her, his hands strong under her thighs as he carried her to the bed. He laid her down on the colorful quilt, then stood to remove his shirt completely and unfasten his trousers. Flora watched unabashedly, appreciating the lean strength of his body, the controlled power evident in every movement.

When he joined her on the bed, she welcomed him with open arms, pulling him down to her. Their kisses grew more heated, hands exploring with increasing boldness. Tommy's fingers found the hem of her chemise, sliding underneath to trace patterns on her bare skin.

"May I?" he asked, tugging gently at the fabric.

Flora nodded, sitting up slightly to help him remove it. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, but Tommy's hands were warm as they cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing across her nipples in a way that made her gasp.

"You're not what I expected," Tommy said, his voice husky.

"What did you expect?" Flora asked, her own hands busy with the fastenings of his trousers.

"Someone more cautious." He kissed her neck, working his way down to her collarbone. "Less willing to take what she wants."

Flora smiled, a wicked edge to it. "The war taught me not to wait. Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone."

"No," Tommy agreed, his breath hot against her skin. "It isn't."

His mouth found her breast, and Flora arched into the sensation, one hand tangling in his hair. There was something almost reverent in the way he touched her - deliberate and thorough, as if memorizing every inch of her body. It was so at odds with his usual efficiency, this slow exploration that seemed designed to drive her to the edge of sanity.

"Thomas," she breathed, growing impatient with his measured pace.

He looked up, a gleam in his blue eyes that she'd never seen before. "Something you want, Nurse Green?"

The formality combined with their current state of undress sent a shiver through her. "Don't tease."

"Not teasing," he murmured, moving lower, his lips trailing across her stomach. "Savoring."

His hands slid her drawers down her legs, leaving her completely bare before him. There was no shame in her as she lay exposed - the war had stripped away such conventional modesty. Bodies were bodies, and pleasure was too rare a commodity to waste on embarrassment.

Tommy kissed the inside of her thigh, and Flora's breathing quickened. "You don't need to—"

"I want to," he said simply, looking up at her with such intensity that her protest died on her lips.

When his mouth found her center, Flora's head fell back, a soft moan escaping her. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he worked her with his tongue and lips. Most men she'd known had been focused only on their own pleasure, but Tommy seemed determined to bring her to the edge first.

Flora's fingers tightened in his hair, her body tensing as the pleasure built. "Thomas," she gasped, the only warning she could manage before wave after wave of sensation crashed over her.

He stayed with her through it, only pulling away when her body relaxed back into the mattress. The self-satisfied look on his face as he moved back up her body should have annoyed her, but she found she couldn't muster the emotion.

"Now who's looking pleased with themselves?" she murmured, reaching down to help him remove the last of his clothing.

Tommy said nothing, but his eyes never left hers as he positioned himself between her thighs. Flora wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer.

"Impatient," he observed, his voice tight with restraint.

Flora reached between them, guiding him to her entrance. "Practical," she corrected.

When he finally pushed into her, they both gasped at the sensation. Tommy remained still for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, breath mingling. Then he began to move, setting a rhythm that Flora matched, her hips rising to meet each thrust.

There was a wildness building between them that neither had fully anticipated. Flora's nails scraped down his back, leaving marks that made Tommy hiss in a mixture of pain and pleasure. In response, his hand tangled in her hair, pulling just hard enough to expose her throat to his mouth.

"Yes," she breathed, encouraging him. The slight edge of pain only heightened the pleasure, reminding her that she was alive, here, now.

Tommy's pace increased, his control slipping as they drove each other higher. Flora could feel herself building toward another peak, her body tightening around him. She reached between them, touching herself where they were joined.

Tommy watched her with hooded eyes, the sight of her taking her pleasure clearly pushing him closer to the edge. "Flora," he warned, his voice strained.

"It's all right," she assured him, understanding his concern. "I know how to take care of myself."

The trust implicit in her words seemed to release the last of his restraint. Tommy's movements became more urgent, more primal. Flora felt herself tipping over the edge again, her body clenching around him as pleasure radiated outward from her core.

Tommy followed moments later, pulling out just in time, his release spilling onto her stomach as he groaned her name. He collapsed beside her, both of them breathing heavily as the firelight played across their sweat-dampened skin.

After a moment, Tommy reached for his discarded shirt, using it to gently clean her stomach. The tenderness of the gesture, so at odds with his usual controlled demeanor, made something twist in Flora's chest.

When he lay back down, she curled against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. His arm came around her, holding her close as their breathing returned to normal.

"Well," Flora said after a long, comfortable silence. "That was worth the wait."

Tommy's chest rumbled with quiet laughter, a sound so rare it made Flora smile. "Is that your professional assessment, Nurse Green?"

She traced idle patterns on his chest. "Very professional. I might need to conduct further examinations to be certain, though."

He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss her palm. "I think that can be arranged."

They lay together as the fire burned low, the afternoon stretching out before them with no demands, no expectations beyond this room, this moment. Outside, the world waited with all its dangers and complications - Inspector Campbell, Grace Burgess, the business of the Peaky Blinders.

But here in this cottage, with the Romani quilt beneath them and nothing but time ahead, Flora found herself contemplating a future she hadn't dared imagine before - one where she didn't have to run, didn't have to leave everything behind. One where she could belong to herself, but choose to share parts of that self with the complex, dangerous man beside her.

"What are you thinking?" Tommy asked, his fingers running through her hair.

Flora smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest. "That perhaps Birmingham isn't the worst place to stay, after all."

Tommy's arm tightened around her, and though he said nothing, Flora understood. In the language of Thomas Shelby, it was as good as a declaration.

Chapter Text

Hi! I will have two chapters posted by this weekend!

Thanks for all the kudos!
Sarah

Chapter Text

Morning Light

Flora woke to sunlight streaming through the cottage windows and the unfamiliar weight of Tommy's arm draped across her waist. For a moment, she simply studied him in sleep—how the hard lines of his face softened, how young he looked without the weight of Small Heath on his shoulders.

When his eyes opened, that brief vulnerability vanished, replaced by his usual watchfulness. But something remained different as his gaze met hers—a warmth she'd never seen before.

"Morning," she said softly.

"Morning." His voice was rough with sleep.

Flora stretched, wincing slightly at the pleasant soreness in her muscles. "What time do we need to leave?"

Tommy's fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder. "Missing your patients already?"

"Wondering how long this reprieve lasts before reality returns," she corrected.

Tommy sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. "We can stay until noon. Then business calls."

Flora nodded, appreciating his honesty. No false promises of endless escapes—just the truth of their situation. She watched as he rose and moved to the window, his lean frame silhouetted against the morning light.

"Business," she repeated. "Anything I should know about?"

Tommy glanced back at her, calculation flickering briefly in his eyes. "Not yet."

"That sounds ominous."

He came back to the bed, sitting on the edge. "Decisions need to be made. About the future of the family business."

"And these decisions might affect me," Flora surmised.

"They might affect everyone in Small Heath." Tommy brushed her hair back from her face with surprising gentleness. "But I'll see you're protected."

Flora caught his hand, her expression suddenly serious. "I don't need protection, Thomas. I need honesty."

Something like respect flickered across his face. "Fair enough. When the time comes, you'll know what you need to know."

It wasn't everything, but it was something. Flora nodded, accepting this partial victory.

Tommy leaned down to kiss her, and whatever questions remained were temporarily forgotten as they took advantage of their final hours away from Birmingham's prying eyes.

Return to Reality

The motorcar rumbled over Birmingham's cobblestones, the smoke-filled industrial skyline a stark contrast to the countryside they'd left behind. Flora watched through the window as familiar streets came into view, reality settling around her like a well-worn coat.

"Stop here," Tommy said to the driver as they approached the corner near Flora's surgery.

She raised an eyebrow. "Protecting my reputation?"

"Protecting your independence," Tommy corrected. "People talk in Small Heath. No need to give them more reason."

Flora appreciated the sentiment, though she suspected maintaining complete secrecy would prove impossible in a neighborhood where walls had ears and shadows had eyes.

As the car stopped, Tommy turned to her. "I'll be busy the next few days. Business matters."

"Of course," Flora said, gathering her bag. "I have patients to see anyway."

Tommy nodded, but caught her hand before she could reach for the door. "Friday. Come to the Garrison. Nine o'clock."

It wasn't a question, but Flora didn't mind. She understood enough of Tommy to recognize this wasn't him giving orders—it was him making space for her in his carefully ordered world.

"Nine o'clock," she confirmed. She squeezed his hand once before slipping out of the car.

The driver waited until she'd reached her door before pulling away. As Flora unlocked her surgery, she felt the weight of Birmingham settling back onto her shoulders—but it felt lighter somehow, as if sharing it with Tommy had redistributed the burden.

Family Business

The Shelby kitchen was tense as Tommy outlined his plans. Polly watched him with narrowed eyes while Arthur paced, occasionally taking swigs from his flask. John sat at the table, cleaning his revolver with more attention than necessary.

"Chinese betting shops," Tommy explained, spreading a map across the table. "They've been making inroads into our territory. But they have access to something we don't—information about races far beyond Birmingham."

"So what?" Arthur growled. "We've managed fine with local races."

"'Fine' isn't enough anymore," Tommy countered. "Not if we want to expand. Not after what we lost in France."

The unspoken weight of lost time hung heavy in the room. Four years in the mud while others built empires—it was a debt Tommy intended to collect.

"There's a Chinese woman, Mrs. Zhang. She has connections from London to Liverpool. Racing information, betting patterns."

"And why would she help us?" Polly asked, skeptical as always.

Tommy's face remained impassive. "Because I've offered her protection from Billy Kimber's men, who've been squeezing her shops dry."

"Bloody hell, Tommy," Arthur exploded. "Kimber? Are you fucking mad? You're going to start a war we can't win!"

"Not a war," Tommy corrected calmly. "A negotiation from strength. We use Mrs. Zhang's information to place strategic bets. When we win big, Kimber will notice. When he notices, he'll want to talk."

"Or shoot," John muttered.

"We've got the guns for that," Tommy replied, referencing their hidden cache of army weapons.

Polly stepped forward, her face tight with concern. "This is too much attention, Tommy. Campbell is already watching our every move. Now you want to add Kimber to the mix?"

"Campbell is looking for guns, not betting slips," Tommy said dismissively. "And Kimber needs to understand there's a new player in Birmingham."

Arthur slammed his flask down. "When did this become your decision alone? Since when do you make plans without consulting the rest of us?"

The room fell silent as the brothers stared at each other. The power shift that had been gradually occurring since their return from France was suddenly laid bare—Tommy's intelligence and ambition against Arthur's traditional claim as eldest son.

"I'm consulting you now," Tommy said quietly, but the authority in his voice was unmistakable.

"Feels more like you're informing us," Arthur shot back.

Tommy straightened, eyes cold. "Your hands shake too much to hold a pen, Arthur. Your head's too full of noise to think clearly. That's why I'm making the plans."

Arthur lunged forward, but John quickly stepped between them. Polly watched with tired eyes, as if she'd been expecting this confrontation for months.

"Enough," she said sharply. "We're family, not enemies. Tommy, explain exactly how this will work without getting us all killed or arrested."

Tommy glanced at his brother, a silent acknowledgment of the wound he'd just inflicted, before returning to business.

"The first race is at Cheltenham next week. Mrs. Zhang will spread rumors about a horse—Monaghan Boy. She'll say it's cursed, that her spirits have spoken. The odds will lengthen."

"And we bet on it," John said, understanding dawning.

"Heavily," Tommy confirmed. "Then Mrs. Zhang ensures it wins."

Arthur sneered. "You're talking about fixing races now? Like we're common criminals?"

"There's nothing common about what I'm planning," Tommy replied. "This is just the beginning. First races, then we move into legitimate businesses. Property. Import-export. Politics, eventually."

Polly shook her head. "You're reaching too far, too fast."

"The world's changing, Pol. I'm making sure we change with it."

"And what about this nurse of yours?" Arthur challenged, clearly looking to wound in return. "Does she know she's getting involved with a man about to start a war on two fronts?"

Tommy's expression hardened. "Flora's not part of this conversation."

"But she is part of this family's business now, isn't she?" Polly interjected. "People talk, Tommy."

"My personal matters are my own," Tommy said with dangerous quietness.

"Not when they affect the family," Arthur countered. "Not when a woman could be leverage against you."

Tommy's hand moved almost imperceptibly toward the razor sewn into his cap before he controlled himself. "Be very careful what you say next, Arthur."

The tension crackled between them until Polly stepped forward.

"Tommy's right about one thing—we need to adapt," she said diplomatically. "But Arthur's concerns aren't without merit. Every connection is a vulnerability. Every plan has its risks."

Tommy nodded once, acknowledging her intervention. "The plan moves forward. Mrs. Zhang comes here tomorrow to finalize arrangements. John, I need you to visit our bookmakers, prepare them for increased action next week. Arthur—"

"What?" Arthur challenged.

Tommy met his brother's gaze steadily. "I need you with me when I meet with Mrs. Zhang. Your reputation still carries weight."

It was an olive branch of sorts, acknowledging Arthur's standing while still maintaining control. After a moment of tense silence, Arthur nodded grudgingly.

"This better work, Tommy," he warned. "For all our sakes."

As the meeting broke up, Polly caught Tommy's arm. "Be careful with that girl," she said quietly. "I've seen her watching you. She's not like the others."

"No," Tommy agreed. "She's not."

"That makes her either very dangerous or very precious. Maybe both."

Tommy didn't respond, but Polly saw something in his eyes she hadn't seen since before France—something almost like hope. It worried her more than all his dangerous plans combined.

A Quiet Afternoon

Flora stared at the empty waiting room of her surgery, the silence hanging heavy as a winter fog. Not a single patient had appeared that morning—not the O'Malley boy with his chronic cough, nor old Mrs. Winters who came religiously every Tuesday for her rheumatism. The message was clear: Inspector Campbell's threats had taken root.

She moved restlessly through the small rooms, straightening items already in perfect order. The instruments gleamed from their morning cleaning, beds made with hospital corners, floors swept twice. There was nothing left to occupy her hands or distract her mind from the sobering reality: Campbell had effectively cut off her livelihood.

A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts. Through the glass door, Flora recognized Ada Shelby's distinctive profile. She hurried to open it, surprised to find any Shelby at her door after the events with Tommy.

"Ada," she said, standing aside to let the younger woman enter. "Is something wrong?"

Ada swept in, bringing with her the scent of coal smoke and expensive perfume. Flora had always found Tommy's sister fascinating—a study in contradictions with her fine clothes and Small Heath mannerisms, her Shelby features softened into true beauty.

"Nothing's wrong," Ada replied, unwinding a silk scarf from her neck. "Well, nothing more than usual in this miserable place." Her sharp eyes took in the empty waiting room. "No patients today?"

Flora closed the door with a soft click. "Not a soul. Your friend Inspector Campbell has seen to that."

"He's no friend of mine," Ada said with characteristic directness. "That man's a viper."

"A viper with power," Flora noted, gesturing Ada toward her small office rather than the examination room. "What brings you by? Are you unwell?"

Ada laughed, the sound incongruously bright in the silent surgery. "Do I need to be dying to visit? I thought we might have lunch. I'm famished, and you look like you could use the company."

Flora blinked in surprise. While she'd treated various Shelby family members and associated gang members, social calls were uncharted territory. She wondered if this was Tommy's doing—sending his sister to check on her.

"That's... unexpected," Flora admitted. "We hardly know each other."

"All the more reason," Ada said with the particular brand of Shelby confidence that brooked no argument. "Besides, you've been treating our boys for months. And you've gone and caught my brother's eye, which makes you interesting."

So there it was. Ada's curiosity, not Tommy's concern, had prompted this visit. Flora felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment.

"I'm not sure your brother would appreciate being discussed," she said carefully.

Ada rolled her eyes. "Tommy disapproves of most things I do. Why start worrying about that now?" She glanced around the spotless office. "You've got nothing keeping you here. Let's go to the Tea Room on Coventry Street. My treat."

Flora hesitated. Associating publicly with the Shelbys would hardly help her situation with Campbell. But the prospect of another silent hour in her empty surgery was equally unappealing.

"Let me get my coat," she decided.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a corner of Marsh & Baxter's Tea Room, a modest establishment that catered to Birmingham's working women looking for a brief respite from factory work or domestic service. The place smelled of weak tea and yesterday's baking, but it was clean and—most importantly—neutral territory where neither Shelby nor Romani connections would draw undue attention.

Ada ordered tea and sandwiches for them both with the casual authority of someone unaccustomed to being refused. When the waitress departed, she fixed Flora with an appraising look.

"So," she said, removing her gloves one finger at a time, "you and Tommy."

Flora added milk to her tea with steady hands, buying time. "That's rather direct."

"Shelbys aren't known for beating around the bush," Ada replied with a shrug. "Especially not me."

"I've noticed."

Ada leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Look, I'm not here to warn you off or threaten you or whatever else you might be thinking. I'm curious, that's all. Tommy doesn't exactly confide in me about his... personal matters."

"Nor does he confide in me about family business," Flora countered smoothly. "So I'm afraid we both might leave this lunch disappointed."

A smile spread across Ada's face—a genuine one that transformed her features. "Oh, I like you. No wonder Tommy's interested."

Their sandwiches arrived, plain affairs of thin bread and sparse fillings that reflected the ongoing food shortages. Flora was suddenly aware of her hunger; with no patients to attend to, she'd forgotten to eat breakfast.

"What exactly do you want to know, Ada?" she asked after taking a bite.

Ada considered this while delicately picking a piece of crust from her sandwich. "I suppose I want to know if you understand what you're getting into. Tommy isn't... well, he's Tommy. Since France, he's been different. Harder. More focused on whatever schemes he's cooking up."

"I'm aware of the change war brings to people," Flora said quietly. "I served as a nurse in field hospitals. I've seen what men like your brothers carried back from the trenches."

Ada's expression softened. "Of course. Tommy mentioned you were in France." She paused. "It's odd, isn't it? All of us picking up the pieces, pretending things can go back to normal when nothing's normal anymore."

The observation surprised Flora. Ada Shelby had a reputation for wildness and strong opinions, but not necessarily for insight. "That's precisely it," she agreed. "Everyone expects us to simply return to our proper places, as if we haven't seen the world torn apart."

"Men came back different," Ada said, stirring her tea thoughtfully. "But so did women. My brothers don't see that part."

Flora felt a sudden kinship with the younger woman. "We were useful during the war. Essential, even. Now we're meant to fade quietly back into kitchens and nurseries."

"Not me," Ada declared with a flash of defiance. "And not you either, I'd wager. Tommy wouldn't look twice at a woman content to fade away."

The comment struck closer to truth than Flora liked to admit. "Your brother and I... it's complicated."

Ada laughed. "Everything about Tommy is complicated. But he's been different these past weeks. Polly's noticed it too." She leaned forward again. "He disappeared yesterday. So did you, I hear."

Flora kept her expression neutral as she sipped her tea. "Small Heath has too many eyes and too many mouths."

"That it does," Ada agreed. "Which is why I thought you should know—people will talk. Campbell will hear. You may have more than empty waiting rooms to worry about."

The warning was delivered casually, but Flora recognized genuine concern beneath it. "Are you worried for me or for your brother?"

"Both," Ada admitted. "Tommy can handle himself, but Campbell... he's not like the police we're used to dealing with. There's something wrong about that man."

Flora thought of Campbell's cold eyes as he'd threatened her patients, his thinly veiled references to her Romani blood. "On that, we agree completely."

They finished their modest meal in companionable silence. As Ada paid the bill—waving away Flora's attempt to contribute—she seemed to come to a decision.

"Look, I don't know what's between you and Tommy, and it's not my business. But my brother..." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "He's planning something big. Something dangerous. Just... be careful."

"Is that a warning or advice?" Flora asked quietly.

Ada gathered her purse and gloves. "Let's call it sisterly concern—for both of you."

As they walked back toward Small Heath, the industrial smoke hanging low in the afternoon air, Flora considered Ada's words. The Shelby family might present a united front to the world, but clearly not everyone was comfortable with Tommy's plans.

"Will I see you at the Garrison Friday?" Ada asked as they approached Flora's surgery.

Flora raised an eyebrow. "How did you know about that?"

"Small Heath," Ada reminded her with a knowing smile. "Too many eyes, too many mouths."

"Apparently," Flora murmured. She unlocked her surgery door, then turned back to Ada. "Thank you for lunch. It was... unexpected but welcome."

Ada nodded. "Sometimes the unexpected connections are the most valuable. Remember that, especially where my brother is concerned."

With that cryptic remark, she turned and walked away, her stylish coat and confident stride drawing looks from passersby. Flora watched her go, wondering if she'd just made an ally or if Ada Shelby was simply gathering intelligence for family purposes.

Either way, the lunch had served one important function—it had broken the isolation Campbell had intended to impose. If the Inspector thought he could cut her off from Small Heath so easily, he had underestimated both her and the community's complex web of loyalties.

Flora entered her empty surgery with renewed determination. She might have no patients today, but she had information—about Campbell's reach, about Tommy's plans raising concerns even within his family, about the growing network of connections that linked her to Small Heath's future.

Knowledge was its own form of power. And in the dangerous game unfolding around her, Flora intended to gather as much as she could.

Chapter Text

Meeting with Mrs. Zhang

The amber glow of gaslights cast long shadows across the private room of The Garrison as Arthur paced like a caged animal, his footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. Tommy sat motionless at the table, watching the door, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils, joining the haze that perpetually hung beneath the ceiling.

"She's late," Arthur muttered, checking his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes.

Tommy took a long drag from his cigarette. "The Chinese understand the power of making people wait, Arthur. Shows who holds the advantage."

Arthur scowled. "No bloody Chinaman holds advantage over a Shelby."

"Woman," Tommy corrected mildly. "And Mrs. Zhang isn't just any woman. She's survived in a man's business for fifteen years. Outlasted three husbands and Kimber's attempts to drive her out."

"Still don't like it," Arthur grumbled, taking a swig from his flask. "Dealing with foreigners. It's not how Dad would've done things."

"Dad's methods put him in prison and left us with nothing," Tommy replied, his voice hardening. "We're doing things differently now."

Before Arthur could respond, the door opened. Harry, the barman, stepped aside with unusual deference to allow a small, elegant woman to enter. She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, but her presence immediately commanded the room. Clad in a black qipao embroidered with silver chrysanthemums, Mrs. Zhang moved with the fluid grace of someone half her sixty years. Behind her loomed two broad-shouldered men whose Western suits couldn't disguise their foreign origins.

Tommy rose smoothly while Arthur straightened his waistcoat, suddenly conscious of his rumpled appearance.

"Mrs. Zhang," Tommy greeted her with a slight nod. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."

The woman's face remained impassive, her dark eyes assessing them both with cool precision. "Mr. Shelby," she responded, her English accented but perfectly clear. "I am... curious about your proposition."

Tommy gestured to the empty chairs. "Please, sit. Would you like tea? Or something stronger?"

"Tea would be acceptable," she replied, seating herself with poise. One of her men remained by the door while the other positioned himself behind her chair.

Tommy glanced at Harry, who nodded and left to fetch the requested beverage. Arthur lowered himself heavily into a chair, his earlier hostility barely concealed beneath a veneer of forced politeness.

"This is my brother, Arthur," Tommy introduced them. "He oversees our bookmaking operations."

Mrs. Zhang inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment but addressed her words to Tommy. "You say you can offer protection from Kimber's men. Yet your territory is small, Mr. Shelby. Your influence limited. Why should I risk Billy Kimber's wrath for such... uncertain security?"

Arthur bristled visibly, but Tommy remained composed. "Our territory is expanding. Our methods are effective. And unlike Kimber, we understand the value of mutual benefit rather than simple extortion."

"Pretty words," Mrs. Zhang observed with the faintest smile. "But I have heard pretty words before."

Tommy leaned forward slightly. "Three of Kimber's men visited your shop on Bordesley Street last month. They broke your nephew's fingers when he couldn't produce the protection money. The police did nothing."

A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she controlled her expression. "You are well-informed."

"I make it my business to know what happens in Birmingham," Tommy replied. "Just as you make it your business to know which horses will win races across the country."

Mrs. Zhang studied him intently, as if seeing him properly for the first time. Harry returned with a porcelain teapot and cups on a tray, setting them down with unusual care before retreating.

"My sources are valuable, Mr. Shelby," she said as she poured the tea with practiced movements. "Information bought with years of careful cultivation. I do not share such advantages lightly."

"I'm not asking you to share them lightly," Tommy countered. "I'm proposing an alliance. Your information, our muscle. Your customers remain yours. But when Kimber's men come calling—and they will—they'll find themselves dealing with the Peaky Blinders instead."

Arthur leaned forward, finding his voice. "And believe me, Mrs. Zhang, they won't be coming back for seconds."

She sipped her tea delicately. "And in return?"

"Twenty percent of your booking profits," Tommy stated. "And exclusive racing information for strategic bets of our own."

Mrs. Zhang set down her cup precisely. "Fifteen percent. And information on three races of your choosing each month. No more."

"Fifteen percent and five races," Tommy countered smoothly. "With additional terms to be negotiated as our partnership proves mutually beneficial."

The woman considered this for a long moment, her face revealing nothing. Finally, she inclined her head slightly. "Acceptable. For now."

Tommy reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small package wrapped in brown paper. "A token of good faith," he said, sliding it across the table.

Mrs. Zhang unwrapped it carefully to reveal an exquisite jade hairpin carved in the shape of a dragon. Her composure slipped momentarily, genuine surprise registering in her eyes.

"This belonged to my grandmother," she said softly. "It was stolen from my shop during the riots last summer."

"I have my sources as well," Tommy replied simply.

She studied him again, this time with newfound respect. "Very well, Mr. Shelby. We have an agreement." She carefully rewrapped the hairpin and tucked it away. "The first race I would recommend is at Cheltenham. A horse called Monaghan Boy. Currently at twelve-to-one but will lengthen to twenty-to-one by race day."

"And it will win?" Arthur asked skeptically.

Mrs. Zhang smiled, a genuine expression that transformed her severe features. "Mr. Shelby, in my country, we believe fate can sometimes be... encouraged. My people will ensure it."

Tommy nodded, satisfied. "We'll place our bets carefully. Spread them out to avoid attention."

"Wise," she approved. "Kimber watches the betting patterns closely."

"That's exactly what I'm counting on," Tommy said, his blue eyes cold with calculation.

As they finalized the details of their arrangement, Arthur watched his younger brother with mixed emotions. Tommy's strategic mind impressed him, but something about the ease with which he navigated these new, complex waters unnerved Arthur. The little brother who'd followed him everywhere before the war had returned as someone Arthur barely recognized—someone who might outgrow Small Heath and leave them all behind.

When Mrs. Zhang finally rose to leave, she paused beside Tommy. "Your reputation grows, Mr. Shelby. But remember, in my country, we say that the higher the bamboo grows, the more it must bend with the wind."

Tommy stood to see her out. "In Small Heath, Mrs. Zhang, we don't bend. We make others break instead."

Her soft laughter lingered in the room after she'd departed, her bodyguards following like silent shadows.

Arthur slumped back in his chair. "You trust her?"

"As much as I trust anyone in business," Tommy replied, lighting another cigarette. "She has more to gain by working with us than against us. For now, that's enough."

"And Kimber? When he finds out we're protecting Zhang's shops and fixing races?"

Tommy's expression remained impassive. "That's the point, Arthur. I want him to find out. When he does, he'll have no choice but to deal with us as equals."

Arthur drained his flask. "Or kill us all."

"That's why we have the guns," Tommy reminded him calmly. "And why we need to be ready when he makes his move."

The brothers sat in silence for a moment, the weight of Tommy's ambition hanging heavy between them.

"There's one more thing," Tommy said finally. "We need to deal with the Italian problem in Small Heath. Changretta's men have been making noise about territory along the cut."

Arthur groaned. "Now the bloody Italians too? Jesus, Tommy, how many enemies are you planning to make in one week?"

"The Italians aren't enemies yet," Tommy corrected. "Just potential complications. I need you to pay Changretta a visit. Remind him where the boundaries lie."

"And what will you be doing while I'm handling the Italians?" Arthur demanded.

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette. "I'm meeting with Johnny Dogs about horses. The Lees have some promising stock we might acquire."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up. "The Lees? Those thieving Romani bastards?" He laughed humorlessly. "Christ, Tommy. Chinese, Italians, and now gypsies. You're casting a wide net."

"The wider the net, the bigger the catch," Tommy replied, rising from his chair. "The world's changing, Arthur. We either change with it, or we get left behind."

As they left The Garrison, neither brother noticed the nondescript man nursing a pint in the corner, his eyes following their movements with careful attention. One of Campbell's men, recording every detail to report back to his master.

The Lee Family Transaction

The fairground on the outskirts of Birmingham hummed with activity as Tommy guided his black horse through the maze of caravans and makeshift stalls. The annual horse fair drew Romani travelers from across the country, creating a temporary village of painted wagons and canvas tents that existed in defiance of the increasingly sedentary world around them.

Tommy felt the familiar mixture of belonging and alienation he always experienced among the Roma. His mother's blood called him kin, while his father's business and settled lifestyle marked him as different. He'd learned to use this dual identity to his advantage, moving between worlds in a way few others could manage.

Johnny Dogs spotted him from beside a cooking fire and raised a hand in greeting. The wiry Romani man grinned broadly as Tommy dismounted.

"Tommy Shelby! Come to grace us common folk with your presence, have you?" Johnny called, his Irish-Romani accent thick with good humor.

Tommy clasped his friend's hand. "Johnny. You're looking well."

"Can't complain," Johnny replied, slapping Tommy's shoulder. "Though I'm surprised to see you here, what with the bad blood between your lot and the Lees."

"Ancient history," Tommy said dismissively. "Business is business. The Lees have horses, I have money."

Johnny's expression turned skeptical. "The Lees have long memories, Tommy. Especially old Zilpha. She still tells stories about your grandad stealing her cousin's bride price thirty years back."

"Then it's fortunate I'm not planning to marry into the family," Tommy replied dryly. "Are they here?"

Johnny sighed, recognizing Tommy's determination. "Aye, they're here. Set up on the north side, by the old oak. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Tommy nodded his thanks and remounted his horse. As he rode through the fairground, he noted the sidelong glances and whispered comments that followed him. The Shelby name carried weight even here, though whether it inspired respect or resentment depended entirely on whom you asked.

The Lee family's encampment was easy to spot—six ornately painted vardos arranged in a semicircle, their brass fittings gleaming in the afternoon sun. Men clustered around a fighting pit where two terriers snarled and lunged at each other, while women tended to cooking fires and watched children who darted between the wagons.

Tommy approached slowly, keeping his posture relaxed but alert. These negotiations would require delicacy; the Lees were notorious for their quick tempers and quicker knives.

An older man with a silver-streaked beard noticed him first, his eyes narrowing with recognition. He spat on the ground before calling out, "Shelby! You've got some nerve showing your face here."

Several heads turned, conversation dying as attention shifted to Tommy. He dismounted unhurriedly, tying his horse to a nearby post.

"I've come to speak with Zilpha Lee about horses," Tommy announced calmly. "Business, not trouble."

A ancient woman emerged from the largest vardo, her stooped figure belying the sharp intelligence in her dark eyes. Zilpha Lee had been old when Tommy was a boy, yet somehow she endured, outlasting husbands and sons with the tenacity of a desert plant.

"Thomas Shelby," she pronounced, her voice carrying surprising strength. "Half-blood with quarter-blood manners."

Tommy removed his cap in a show of respect. "Mrs. Lee. You're looking well."

The old woman snorted. "Save your sweet talk for the bar girls, boy. What do you want with my horses?"

"I hear you've acquired some promising stock. Thoroughbred crosses with good speed and stamina."

Zilpha studied him with undisguised suspicion. "And why would I sell to a Shelby when there are plenty of honest men with money?"

Tommy's lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. "Because honest men don't pay what I'm willing to."

A calculating look entered the old woman's eyes. She gestured to a younger man hovering nearby. "Show him the bay colt, Elijah. The one with the white blaze."

The man hesitated, clearly unhappy with the order, but obeyed. He stalked off toward a temporary corral behind the vardos, jaw tight with resentment.

Zilpha lowered herself onto a stool outside her wagon. "You can look, but touching costs extra," she cackled, amusement crinkling the web of wrinkles around her eyes.

Tommy waited patiently, aware of the hostile stares from the gathering Lee men. Business between rival families always carried risk, but the potential reward—horses with both speed and Romani training—was worth the discomfort.

Elijah returned leading a magnificent bay colt. Even to Tommy's experienced eye, the animal was exceptional—powerful hindquarters, deep chest, and intelligent eyes that assessed Tommy with almost human awareness.

"Three years old," Zilpha said proudly. "Sired by Lord Blackwood's racing stallion on one of our mares. Has the speed of his father and the sense of his mother."

Tommy circled the animal slowly, noting its perfect conformation and the way it stood rock-steady, unbothered by the scrutiny. "How'd you come by Lord Blackwood's stallion?"

Zilpha's smile revealed tobacco-stained teeth. "The stallion came to us. Lords don't watch their fences as careful as they should."

Tommy nodded, understanding perfectly. "He's a fine animal. I'll give you eighty pounds for him."

A collective murmur ran through the watching Lees. The offer was generous—deliberately so—but Tommy knew better than to expect an immediate acceptance.

"One hundred and twenty," Zilpha countered, as expected.

"Ninety," Tommy replied calmly.

"One hundred, and you throw in protection for our people when we camp near Small Heath," Zilpha said, revealing her true interest.

Tommy considered this. The Lees faced increasing harassment from police enforcing new vagrancy laws—laws designed specifically to drive Romani travelers from their traditional stopping places. Shelby protection would be valuable indeed.

"Done," he agreed. "One hundred pounds, and safe passage through Small Heath twice a year."

Zilpha nodded once, the negotiation concluded. Tommy reached into his jacket for the money while Elijah reluctantly fetched a halter for the colt.

As Tommy counted out the banknotes, another Lee man shouldered his way forward—younger than Elijah, with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow and aggression in his stance.

"This isn't right," he declared loudly. "Selling to a Shelby. After what they did to my father."

Zilpha's expression hardened. "Quiet, Bojo. The business is concluded."

"His uncle broke my father's leg over a card game in '09," Bojo continued, glaring at Tommy. "Left him crippled."

Tommy kept his expression neutral. "That was my Uncle Charlie, not me. And your father was caught marking cards."

"Calling my blood a cheat?" Bojo snarled, hand moving toward his waistband.

Tommy didn't flinch. "I'm calling him unlucky. In cards and in picking opponents."

Tension crackled in the air as the two men assessed each other. Tommy was acutely aware that he was outnumbered in Lee territory, but showing weakness now would be disastrous.

Zilpha broke the standoff by striking her walking stick against Bojo's shin. "Enough! The business is done. Thomas Shelby has paid fair money and made fair promises. We keep our word."

Bojo backed down reluctantly, but the hatred in his eyes promised future trouble. Tommy completed the transaction, accepting the colt's lead rope from Elijah with a nod of thanks.

As he prepared to leave, Zilpha beckoned him closer. "Watch that one," she murmured, indicating Bojo with a subtle tilt of her head. "He has his father's temper and none of his sense."

"I'll remember," Tommy assured her.

"And one more thing, Thomas Shelby," the old woman added, her voice dropping further. "There's talk in the camps. Police looking for guns. Army guns. Asking questions of our people, offering money for information."

Tommy's face revealed nothing, though his mind raced. Campbell was casting a wider net than expected.

"Is that so?" he replied neutrally.

Zilpha's shrewd eyes studied him. "Whatever game you're playing, boy, be careful. The *gadže* police aren't like the local coppers you grease with coins. This one—the Irish one—he has hate in his heart."

"Thank you for the warning," Tommy said sincerely. "Your people pass through Small Heath safely—you have my word."

The old woman nodded, apparently satisfied. Tommy led his new acquisition back through the fairground, the bay colt following docilely despite the unfamiliar surroundings.

Johnny Dogs fell into step beside him. "Went well, did it? You've still got all your fingers and your pretty face intact."

"Well enough," Tommy replied. "Though I've made an enemy in Bojo Lee."

Johnny whistled low. "That one's trouble. Quick with a blade and quicker to take offense. You watch your back, Tommy."

"Always do."

As they reached Tommy's horse, Johnny glanced back toward the Lee encampment. "You know they'll test whatever agreement you made, don't you? The Lees never take a man at his word until they've pushed him to his limits."

Tommy's expression hardened slightly. "Let them push. They'll find out what happens when you push back against a Shelby."

The Wounded Horse

The morning mist hung heavy over Small Heath, softening the harsh industrial landscape into something almost ethereal. Flora wrapped her woolen shawl tighter as she made her way through the deserted streets toward Tommy's stable. The urgent message had arrived with a breathless stable boy just after dawn: "Mr. Shelby needs you. It's the bay colt."

The stable—a converted warehouse near the canal—was unusually active for such an early hour. Men Flora recognized as Shelby associates stood guard outside, caps pulled low over watchful eyes. They nodded to her with solemn respect, stepping aside to let her pass without question. Tommy's orders regarding her were evidently clear.

Inside, the cavernous space smelled of hay, horse, and blood—a combination Flora knew all too well from the war. Tommy stood in the center aisle beside a makeshift stall where the magnificent bay colt she'd heard about pawed restlessly at the straw. Even in distress, the animal's quality was evident, but Flora's medical eye immediately focused on the long gash running down its right flank, still seeping blood despite someone's attempt to clean the wound.

Tommy's face was a mask of cold fury, but it softened fractionally when he saw her. "Flora. Thank you for coming."

"What happened?" she asked, dropping her medical bag and approaching the nervous horse carefully.

"Lee family happened," Tommy replied, his voice dangerously quiet. "Someone got in during the night. Guard was drugged. They opened this one's stall and slashed him."

Flora winced as she examined the wound more closely. "This wasn't random. They knew what they were doing—deep enough to cause pain and damage the coat, but carefully placed to avoid tendons or arteries."

"A message," Tommy agreed grimly.

"I'll need to clean it properly and stitch it," Flora said, already rolling up her sleeves. "He'll likely have a scar, but with proper care, there shouldn't be lasting damage to his movement."

She glanced at Tommy. "I'll need hot water, clean towels, and someone to help hold him steady. He's in pain and frightened."

Tommy nodded to Curly, his trusted stable hand, who hurried to gather the requested supplies. "Do whatever's necessary. Cost isn't a concern."

As Flora prepared her instruments, boiling her needles in a small metal pan Curly provided, Tommy paced the length of the stable, coiled tension evident in every movement.

"This was Bojo Lee," he said finally. "Settling scores."

Flora threaded catgut through her largest needle. "What will you do?"

Something cold and dangerous flickered across Tommy's face. "What needs to be done."

The quiet certainty in his voice sent a chill down Flora's spine. She'd seen this side of Tommy before—the calculated violence that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing—but never quite so raw.

"Hold his head, Curly," she instructed, focusing on the task at hand. "Tommy, I need you to keep his hindquarters still. This won't be pleasant for him."

For the next hour, Flora worked methodically, first cleaning the wound thoroughly, then placing careful stitches to minimize scarring. The colt was surprisingly stoic, trembling but standing relatively still under the combined soothing of Curly's murmured endearments and Tommy's firm, confident touch.

"You're good with him," Flora observed as she tied off the final stitch. "He trusts you already."

Tommy stroked the horse's neck with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Animals know what you're thinking. Can't lie to a horse."

"Unlike people," Flora noted wryly.

The ghost of a smile touched Tommy's lips. "Unlike people," he agreed.

Flora prepared a poultice of yarrow and comfrey—one of her mother's Romani remedies—and applied it carefully along the stitched wound. "This will help with healing and keep infection at bay. It should be changed daily."

"Curly can manage that," Tommy said, watching her work with interest. "Your mother taught you that, you've used it on Arthur."

Flora nodded. "Yarrow for bleeding, comfrey for mending. Horse or human, the principles are the same."

She caught Tommy studying her with an expression she couldn't quite interpret—something between admiration and a deeper emotion she wasn't ready to name.

"The Lee woman," he said suddenly. "Zilpha. She would know these remedies too."

"Most likely," Flora confirmed. "They're old knowledge, passed down through Romani families."

Tommy seemed to be turning some thought over in his mind. "Would you come with me?" he asked finally. "To the Lee camp?"

Flora looked up in surprise, her hands stilling on the bandage she was preparing. "What?"

"Retaliation is expected," Tommy explained, his voice low and intent. "If I don't respond to this, I appear weak. But direct violence risks a blood feud that benefits no one."

Understanding dawned. "You want me there as... what? A symbol of your connection to Romani ways?"

"As a demonstration that Shelbys honor the old traditions," Tommy clarified. "Your knowledge of the remedies, your Romani blood—it speaks to a respect that my razors and guns cannot."

Flora considered this as she finished bandaging the wound. It was a clever strategy, using her heritage as a bridge rather than escalating with violence. But it also meant publicly associating herself with Shelby business in a way she hadn't before.

"Inspector Campbell—" she began.

"Won't be anywhere near the Lee camp," Tommy finished. "They hate the police more than they hate me."

Flora washed her hands in the basin Curly had provided, buying time to think. Finally, she nodded. "When?"

"This afternoon," Tommy said, relief evident in his voice. "I'll send a car for you at two."

As Flora packed her medical supplies, Tommy stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Thank you. For the horse. And for coming with me."

The simple gratitude, so rarely expressed by Thomas Shelby, warmed her despite her reservations. "Just don't make me regret it," she replied softly.

Tommy's eyes held hers. "I won't."

As she left the stable, Flora couldn't help wondering if she'd just crossed some invisible line. Treating Shelby men was one thing; accompanying Tommy to negotiate with rival families was quite another. She was moving deeper into his world with each passing day, and the path back to simple independence grew increasingly faint behind her.

The Lee Camp

The black Shelby motorcar bumped along the rutted track leading to the Lee family's current encampment, sending Flora swaying against Tommy's shoulder despite her attempts to maintain a proper distance. Tommy himself sat perfectly still, one hand resting on his thigh near the revolver she knew was concealed in his coat pocket.

They had barely spoken during the journey, each lost in private thoughts. Flora had changed into her best dress—a deep green wool that complemented her hazel eyes—and wrapped a patterned shawl that had belonged to her mother around her shoulders. If she was to represent her Romani heritage, she would do so with dignity.

"We're here," Tommy said as the first painted vardos came into view through the trees. "Stay close to me. The Lees respect strength, so show no fear."

Flora nodded, suddenly nervous despite her determination. "Will Zilpha be there?"

"She's the matriarch," Tommy confirmed. "Nothing happens in this camp without her knowledge."

As the car stopped at the edge of the encampment, Flora noticed how the atmosphere changed. Children who had been playing stopped to stare; women paused in their work; men moved subtly to place themselves between the newcomers and their families.

Tommy exited first, then held the door for Flora with formal courtesy. As they walked into the camp, she felt the weight of dozens of eyes assessing them.

Zilpha Lee already sat waiting outside her vardo, as if she'd been expecting them. The old woman's shrewd eyes took in Flora's appearance with obvious interest.

"So, Thomas Shelby," she called, "you bring a woman to fight your battles now?"

Tommy approached with measured steps, Flora beside him. "This is Flora Green. Daughter of Mirela, granddaughter of Pulika of the Kalderash."

The formal introduction, naming her female lineage in the Romani way, surprised Flora. She hadn't realized Tommy knew her mother's people so well.

Zilpha's expression changed subtly at the names. "Pulika's blood," she murmured. "I knew her. Strong *drabarni* with the sight."

Flora inclined her head respectfully. "My mother spoke of you with honor, *bibi*." The term of respect for an elder woman seemed to please Zilpha.

"Why have you come, Thomas Shelby?" the old woman asked, though her eyes remained on Flora. "Surely not just to introduce me to Mirela's daughter."

"My horse was attacked in the night," Tommy stated bluntly. "Slashed by a coward's knife."

A murmur ran through the gathering crowd. Zilpha's face hardened. "And you think it was Lee work?"

"I know it was," Tommy replied evenly. "Just as I know it wasn't ordered by you."

The old woman's eyes narrowed. "Bold claims."

"True ones," Tommy countered. "Zilpha Lee honors her word. We had an agreement. But young men sometimes act without the wisdom of their elders."

Flora noticed movement at the edge of the crowd—Bojo Lee pushing his way forward, his expression thunderous. "You calling me a coward, Shelby?"

Tommy didn't even look at him, keeping his attention fixed on Zilpha. "I'm calling the man who sneaks into another's stable at night to harm an innocent animal a coward. If that's you, then yes."

Bojo lunged forward, but two older Lee men caught his arms, restraining him. "Your uncle crippled my father!" he shouted. "A horse for a leg seems fair exchange!"

"Enough!" Zilpha's voice cracked like a whip. "Bojo, hold your tongue. Thomas Shelby comes under banner of parley." She turned her attention back to Tommy. "What do you seek? Blood money for your horse?"

Tommy shook his head. "I seek to honor our agreement despite this... misunderstanding. Flora tends to my horse with the old remedies. She comes to share this knowledge with your women, if they wish it."

The unexpected offer created a ripple of surprise through the watching crowd. Flora herself managed to hide her own surprise, now understanding why Tommy had been so interested in her Romani healing methods at the stable.

Zilpha studied Tommy thoughtfully. "Curious offer from a man I expected to come with blades and threats."

"I could have," Tommy acknowledged. "But blood calls to blood. Flora's mother was Romani, as was mine. The old ways still have value."

It was masterfully done, Flora realized. Tommy was offering reconciliation while simultaneously demonstrating restraint and power. By bringing her—a woman with respected Romani lineage—he reminded the Lees of shared connections that transcended recent grievances.

Zilpha seemed to reach the same conclusion. She gestured Flora forward. "Come then, *chavi*. Show us these remedies of yours."

As Flora moved toward the old woman, Bojo broke free of his restrainers. "This changes nothing, Shelby!" he spat. "You still owe a debt to my family."

Tommy finally turned to look at the angry young man, his blue eyes cold. "Your father cheated at cards and paid the price. Your attack on my horse evens that score. But mark me well, Bojo Lee—if you come against me or mine again, I won't be returning with healing herbs and pretty words." The quiet menace in his voice needed no elaboration.

Zilpha struck her walking stick against the ground. "It is settled. The debt is paid. Bojo, go tend the horses. Now."

For a tense moment, it seemed the young man might defy his elder. Then, with a final glare at Tommy, he stalked away.

Flora spent the next hour with the Lee women, sharing her knowledge of traditional remedies while quietly building bridges between the families. She demonstrated how to prepare the yarrow and comfrey poultice she'd used on Tommy's horse, then moved on to other treatments—fever remedies, pain relief, childbirth preparations that had been passed down through generations of Romani women.

The initial wariness gave way to genuine interest as the women recognized Flora's authentic knowledge. Several older women added their own variations to her recipes, creating an atmosphere of shared wisdom rather than instruction.

From across the camp, Flora occasionally caught glimpses of Tommy deep in conversation with Zilpha and the elder Lee men. Whatever they discussed appeared serious but not hostile, judging by their body language.

As the afternoon light began to fade, Tommy approached the circle of women. "Time to leave," he said quietly to Flora.

The women who had been so suspicious hours before now bid her farewell with considerably more warmth. One pressed a small cloth bundle into her hands. "Dried blackthorn blossoms," the woman explained. "For your remedies."

Flora thanked her sincerely, touched by the gesture. As she walked with Tommy back toward the waiting car, Zilpha Lee called out to her.

"Mirela's daughter," the old woman said, her voice carrying easily across the camp. "You chose a dangerous man to stand beside. But perhaps a worthy one."

Flora felt heat rise to her cheeks at the implication, but managed a respectful nod in response. Tommy's expression revealed nothing, though his hand came to rest briefly at the small of her back as they continued walking.

Once they were in the car and moving away from the camp, Flora finally asked, "Did you accomplish what you needed?"

Tommy lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features in the gathering dusk. "We did. Zilpha will control Bojo. Our agreement stands. And the Lees now know that attacking what's mine has consequences—even if those consequences weren't what they expected."

"What's yours," Flora repeated, the words hanging between them.

Tommy glanced at her, something unreadable in his gaze. "My horse," he clarified, though the slight pause suggested he might have meant more.

They rode in silence for several minutes before Tommy spoke again. "You did well today. The women respected you."

"They respected my mother's lineage," Flora corrected. "And my knowledge of the old ways."

"Both matter," Tommy acknowledged. "The Lee women have influence, especially with Zilpha. Having them view you—and by extension, me—favorably creates protection that razors can't."

Flora studied his profile in the fading light. "This was never just about the horse, was it? You used this incident to strengthen your position with the Lees."

The corner of Tommy's mouth quirked slightly. "Every problem is an opportunity, if viewed correctly."

"And what am I in all this?" Flora asked quietly. "An opportunity? A useful connection to the Romani world when you need it?"

Tommy turned to face her fully, his expression suddenly intense. "You know better than that."

The simple statement, delivered with such conviction, silenced any further questions Flora might have asked. She did know better—had seen it in the way he looked at her in quiet moments, felt it in his touch when they were alone. Whatever game Tommy Shelby played with the rest of the world, with her, at least, there was a semblance of truth.

Chapter Text

Friday Evening

The March dusk settled over Birmingham like a shroud, the last hints of daylight fading against the silhouettes of factory chimneys. Flora stood before the small mirror in her flat, appraising her appearance with a critical eye. The emerald green dress—the one she'd splurged on in January with her first Shelby payment—hugged her figure in a way that made her feel both powerful and vulnerable. Her hair fell in loose waves past her shoulders, and she'd dabbed a hint of rouge on her lips and cheeks.

Somewhere across Small Heath, church bells tolled seven times. Tommy had arranged to meet her at Marconi's, an Italian restaurant just beyond the boundaries of Small Heath, at half past seven. Not The Garrison as originally planned—he'd sent word earlier that day suggesting something "less conspicuous."

Flora scoffed at the notion. There was nothing inconspicuous about Thomas Shelby taking a woman to dinner. Not anymore.

She reached for her coat—a simple black wool affair that had seen better days—and her small beaded purse. Inside, she carried just enough money for a taxi home if needed, her door key, and a small vial of lavender oil, which she'd taken to carrying since her return from France. The familiar scent helped ground her when memories of artillery fire and dying men threatened to overwhelm her senses.

The streets were busy with Friday evening crowds—men heading to pubs, women shopping for last-minute weekend provisions, children playing in the gutters despite the chill in the air. Flora walked briskly, keeping her head down as she passed groups of men smoking outside The Garrison.

"Evening, Miss Green," called Harry, the barman, as she passed.

She nodded in acknowledgment but didn't slow her pace. Everyone knew who she was now—the nurse who treated the Shelbys, the woman who'd spent a night away with Thomas Shelby. In Small Heath, gossip traveled faster than influenza.

Marconi's sat on a corner, its windows glowing warmly against the encroaching night. It was modest by downtown standards but positively lavish for anyone from Small Heath. The moment she stepped inside, Flora spotted Tommy seated at a table near the back wall. As always, he'd positioned himself with a clear view of both the entrance and the rear exit.

He stood as she approached, a gesture that still surprised her. Thomas Shelby, for all his rough edges and dangerous reputation, possessed manners that belied his station.

"You look beautiful," he said simply, his blue eyes taking her in with unmistakable appreciation.

"Thank you." Flora slipped into the chair he held for her. "This is quite a change from The Garrison."

"Thought you might appreciate a proper meal for once," Tommy replied, resuming his seat. He wore his usual three-piece suit, dark and impeccably tailored, but had forgone his cap. His dark hair was neatly combed, accentuating the sharp angles of his face.

"And perhaps a bit more privacy?" she suggested, glancing around at the other patrons—mostly couples and small family groups, none paying them any particular attention.

A small smile played at Tommy's lips. "That too."

The waiter appeared, presenting menus and pouring water into their glasses. Tommy ordered wine without consulting the list, and Flora studied her menu, realizing with some embarrassment that she couldn't read half the Italian words.

"The linguine is good," Tommy offered, noting her confusion. "Pasta with clams. Or the veal, if you prefer meat."

Flora closed her menu. "The linguine, then."

When the waiter returned with their wine, Tommy ordered for both of them with the confidence of someone who dined in such establishments regularly. Flora knew better—Thomas Shelby had grown up in the same streets she had, but adaptation was second nature to him.

"How's the horse?" she asked after taking a sip of wine—a crisp white that tasted of sunshine and distant places.

"Healing well. Your poultice worked better than the veterinarian's medicine." He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed, but his eyes remained alert. "The Lee family sent word they were impressed by your knowledge."

"My mother would be pleased to hear it," Flora replied, a familiar pang of grief accompanying the thought of Mirela. "Though I doubt she'd approve of my company."

Tommy's expression shifted subtly. "And why's that?"

"You know why, Thomas. My mothe would have taken one look at you and seen nothing but trouble." Flora took another sip of wine. "She wouldn't have been wrong."

"Yet here you are," he observed.

"Yet here I am," she agreed. "Perhaps I've inherited my father's poor judgment when it comes to attractive Romani."

Tommy's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners—the closest he typically came to a full smile. "Your father was a smart man."

"Smart enough to fall in love with a woman whose people would never accept him." Flora's fingers traced the rim of her wine glass.

Their conversation paused as the waiter delivered their meals—linguine with clams for Flora, veal for Tommy. The aroma of garlic and white wine sauce made Flora's mouth water. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten something this extravagant.

"You've not asked about Campbell," Tommy remarked after they'd begun eating.

Flora twirled pasta around her fork. "Should I have?"

"He's been asking questions about you. About us."

"I assumed as much." She speared a clam with unnecessary force. "I'm not naive, Tommy. The moment I walked into the cottage with you, I accepted that I was in his crosshairs too."

Tommy studied her face. "And that doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me," she replied evenly. "But what would you have me do? Hide under my bed? I've survived a war, Tommy. I've watched men die with their insides spilling onto my hands. Inspector Campbell is just another man with a gun and an inflated sense of his own importance."

Something flickered in Tommy's eyes—approval, perhaps, or admiration. "Most women would be running for the hills by now."

"I'm not most women." Flora met his gaze steadily. "And I suspect that's precisely why I'm sitting here instead of Lizzie Stark or that new barmaid at The Garrison."

Tommy took a sip of wine, his expression unreadable. "Grace."

"Yes, Grace. The one with the Irish accent who appeared conveniently after Campbell started asking about Irish conspirators." Flora raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me you're not that blind."

"I'm not blind to anything, Flora," Tommy replied, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "I see everything, including the man who's been watching us since we sat down."

Flora resisted the urge to turn around. "Campbell's man?"

Tommy nodded almost imperceptibly. "At the bar. Grey suit. Been nursing the same whiskey for twenty minutes."

Flora casually reached for her wine glass, using the movement to glance toward the bar. The man Tommy had indicated was unremarkable in appearance—medium height, nondescript features, the kind of face that would blend into any crowd. Perfect for surveillance.

"What does he want? To intimidate us?" she asked, returning her attention to Tommy.

"Information. Leverage. Anything he can report back to Campbell." Tommy cut a piece of veal with methodical precision. "He's hoping we'll talk about business."

"And will we?"

Tommy's expression softened slightly. "Not tonight. Tonight is just dinner with a beautiful woman who deserves better than The Garrison's stew."

Flora felt warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the wine. "Careful, Mr. Shelby. People will start to think you're capable of sentiment."

"Let them think what they want." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers briefly. "What matters is what we know."

The touch was fleeting but electric, sending a current up Flora's arm that settled somewhere deep in her core. In that moment, with Tommy looking at her with those piercing blue eyes, she understood how women throughout history had followed dangerous men into uncertain futures.

They finished their meal, conversation shifting to lighter topics—a new medicine Flora had been experimenting with for Arthur's cough, the horse races Tommy was considering entering. To any observer, they might have appeared to be simply a man and woman enjoying each other's company. Only the occasional glance toward the bar betrayed Tommy's awareness of their observer.

When the bill came, Tommy paid without comment, and they rose to leave. He helped Flora with her coat, his hands lingering briefly on her shoulders. She could feel the warmth of his body behind her, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with tobacco and whiskey.

"He's following us," Tommy murmured as they stepped onto the street.

"I expected as much," Flora replied, keeping her voice steady despite the flutter of nervousness in her stomach. "What now?"

Tommy offered his arm, which she took. "Now we give him something to report back to Campbell."

He led her through the darkening streets of Birmingham, away from Small Heath and toward the canal. The air grew colder as night fell completely, and Flora found herself moving closer to Tommy's warmth. Their observer maintained a discrete distance, always visible but never close enough to overhear their conversation.

"Where are we going?" Flora asked after they'd walked for nearly fifteen minutes.

"My place," Tommy replied simply.

He lived in a modest apartment above a tailor's shop, not far from the BSA factory. It was a far cry from the family home on Watery Lane, offering a privacy that Tommy clearly valued. The building was quiet as they climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell.

Tommy unlocked the door, holding it open for Flora to enter first. The apartment was sparsely furnished but scrupulously clean—a small sitting room with two armchairs facing a fireplace, a kitchen area with a table and two chairs, and a door that presumably led to the bedroom. The walls were bare except for a single framed photograph that Flora couldn't make out in the dim light.

Tommy closed the door behind them, turning the key in the lock. "He'll wait outside for a while, then report back that you spent the night."

Flora removed her coat, draping it over the back of a chair. "And is that what I'm doing? Spending the night?"

Tommy crossed the room to the sideboard, where he poured two glasses of whiskey. "That depends on you."

He handed her a glass, and their fingers brushed again, the contact sending another jolt through Flora's system. She took a sip, feeling the liquid burn a path down her throat.

"And if Campbell's man reports back that I'm here?" she asked.

"Then Campbell knows what we already know." Tommy removed his suit jacket, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. "That there's something between us."

Flora moved toward the window, peering through a gap in the curtains. In the gaslight below, she could make out the figure of their observer, standing in a doorway across the street.

"You don't seem concerned," she noted, turning back to face Tommy.

"I'm always concerned," he replied, loosening his tie. "But I'm also tired of denying myself things I want because of men like Campbell."

Flora felt her heartbeat quicken. "And what is it that you want, Tommy?"

His eyes, so blue they seemed almost translucent in the low light, met hers. "You know what I want, Flora."

The air between them seemed to crackle with electricity, a tension that had been building since their night at the cottage. Flora took another sip of whiskey, welcoming the liquid courage.

"I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting, Tommy," she said softly. "I've made my choice. I knew what I was walking into the moment I agreed to work for you."

Tommy closed the distance between them, setting his glass on the window sill. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.

"You're the furthest thing from fragile I've ever known," he murmured.

When his lips finally met hers, it was with an intensity that took Flora's breath away. Unlike their first night together at the cottage—tentative, exploratory—this kiss held the certainty of knowing what awaited them. His mouth moved against hers with deliberate purpose, tongue tracing the seam of her lips until they parted.

Flora's free hand moved to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as she returned the kiss with equal fervor. The taste of whiskey on his tongue mingled with the lingering flavor of wine on hers, creating an intoxicating blend that made her head spin.

Tommy took the glass from her other hand, placing it beside his own without breaking the kiss. Then both his hands were on her waist, pulling her closer until she could feel the solid warmth of his body against hers. The thin material of her dress did little to shield her from the heat radiating from him, and Flora found herself pressing closer, seeking more contact.

Their kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as Tommy backed her against the wall beside the window. His hands moved from her waist to her hips, then lower, gathering the fabric of her dress until he could slip his fingers beneath the hem. Flora gasped against his mouth as his calloused fingertips traced a path up her silk-clad thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Her own hands weren't idle, working at the buttons of his waistcoat with practiced efficiency that hadn't existed during their first encounter. Tommy shrugged out of it as soon as she finished, letting it fall to the floor without a care for the expensive fabric.

His mouth left hers to trail along her jaw, then down the column of her throat. Flora's head fell back against the wall, eyes closing as he found the sensitive spot just below her ear that he'd discovered at the cottage. When his teeth grazed the tender skin there, a soft moan escaped her lips.

"I've thought about this every night since the cottage," Tommy murmured against her neck, his breath hot against her skin.

Flora's fingers fumbled with his tie, then the buttons of his shirt. "Show me," she breathed.

Tommy's eyes, darkened with desire, met hers for a brief moment before he captured her mouth again in a kiss that left no doubt about his intentions. His hands found the buttons at the back of her dress, making quick work of them with a dexterity that surprised her. The dress loosened, and Tommy pushed it from her shoulders, letting it fall in a whisper of fabric around her feet.

Standing before him in her slip, stockings, and garters, Flora felt a surge of feminine power as his gaze traveled over her body with naked appreciation. The look in his eyes—hungry, possessive—sent a thrill through her that settled low in her belly.

Flora stepped closer, pushing his shirt from his shoulders to reveal the lean, muscled torso she'd explored so thoroughly at the cottage. Her fingers traced the familiar landscape of scars—reminders of the war they'd both survived—before coming to rest on the waistband of his trousers.

Tommy caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips. His eyes never left hers as he kissed each fingertip in turn before guiding her hand back to his belt. The gesture was clear—an invitation, a challenge, a promise.

With nimble fingers, Flora unfastened his belt, then the buttons of his trousers. Tommy's breath hitched as her knuckles brushed against him through the fabric, and Flora felt a rush of satisfaction at having affected his composure, however briefly.

Tommy stepped out of his trousers, then swept Flora into his arms in one fluid motion. She wrapped her arms around his neck automatically, surprised by the ease with which he carried her through the doorway into his bedroom.

The room was sparsely furnished like the rest of the apartment—a large bed with an iron frame, a single nightstand with a lamp, a wardrobe against the far wall. Tommy laid her down on the bed with unexpected gentleness, his eyes never leaving hers as he removed his remaining clothing.

Flora's gaze traveled over him, appreciating the sight of his body in the dim light filtering through the curtains. At the cottage, they'd undressed in near darkness. Here, the gaslight from the street below provided just enough illumination to see the hard planes of muscle, the tapering from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the evidence of his desire for her.

Tommy knelt on the bed beside her, fingers tracing the thin strap of her slip. "This," he said, voice rough with want, "needs to go."

Flora sat up, allowing him to pull the garment over her head. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on her bare skin, but they were quickly replaced by the heat of Tommy's hands as they skimmed over her ribs, her breasts, her stomach. His touch was both reverent and possessive, as though he were memorizing every curve, every texture, every response.

When his mouth replaced his hands, Flora's back arched off the bed. The sensation of his lips and tongue on her sensitive skin sent waves of pleasure radiating through her body. His name fell from her lips like a prayer as his mouth traveled lower, across her stomach, to the edge of her garters.

With deliberate slowness, Tommy unfastened the garters and rolled each stocking down her legs, his fingers trailing in their wake. By the time he'd removed them, Flora was breathing heavily, her body humming with anticipation.

Tommy moved back up her body, covering her with his own. The contact of skin against skin drew a moan from both of them—a sound of pleasure, of recognition, of homecoming. Flora wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him closer, feeling the hard evidence of his desire pressing against her.

Their mouths met in another searing kiss as Tommy's hand slid between them, finding the center of her need with unerring accuracy. Flora gasped against his lips as his fingers moved with practiced skill, building the tension coiling low in her abdomen. He'd learned her body quickly during their night at the cottage, discovering what made her breath catch, what made her moan, what made her call his name.

"Tommy," she breathed, hands gripping his shoulders as the tension built. "Please."

He didn't need further invitation. With a fluid movement, he positioned himself and entered her in one smooth thrust. Flora's head fell back against the pillow, a low moan escaping her throat at the exquisite sensation of fullness, of completion.

Tommy remained still for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling. Then he began to move, setting a rhythm that Flora matched instinctively. Her hips rose to meet each thrust, hands sliding down his back to urge him deeper.

Unlike their first night together—tentative, exploratory, gentle—this coming together was passionate, urgent, almost desperate. Flora's nails dug into Tommy's shoulders as the pleasure built, her body tightening around him with each movement. Tommy's breath came in harsh pants against her neck, his usual composure slipping as he lost himself in the rhythm of their bodies.

"Flora," he groaned, the sound of her name in that rough, desire-laden voice sending another wave of pleasure through her. "Christ, Flora."

She could feel herself approaching the edge, that delicious precipice of release. Tommy seemed to sense it too, adjusting his position slightly so that each thrust hit exactly where she needed him most. Flora's world narrowed to the sensation of his body moving within hers, the pressure building with each movement, the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter.

When release finally came, it washed over her in waves of pleasure so intense she cried out, her body arching beneath his, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around him. The sensation pushed Tommy over the edge as well, his movements becoming erratic as he followed her into ecstasy, face buried in the curve of her neck as he groaned her name one final time.

For long moments afterward, they remained locked together, bodies slick with sweat, breaths gradually slowing. Tommy's weight was heavy but welcome, anchoring Flora to the present moment. When he finally shifted to lie beside her, he kept one arm draped possessively across her waist, as though afraid she might disappear if he let go completely.

Flora turned her head to study his profile in the dim light—the sharp line of his jaw, the long lashes fanned against his cheeks, the slight furrow between his brows that never fully disappeared, even in moments like this. Without thinking, she reached out to smooth that furrow with her fingertip.

Tommy caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm before tucking it against his chest, where she could feel the steady thump of his heart. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, more intimate in its way than the passion they'd just shared.

They lay in comfortable silence, bodies cooling in the night air, the distant sounds of Birmingham drifting through the window—a dog barking, the occasional motorcar, the muted conversations of late-night revelers making their way home from pubs.

Eventually, Tommy pulled the blankets over them both, drawing Flora against his side. She went willingly, settling her head on his chest, ear pressed to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder, a soothing, possessive touch that made her eyelids grow heavy.

"He's still out there," Tommy murmured after a while, voice rumbling under her ear.

Flora didn't need to ask who he meant. "Let him watch," she replied softly. "Let him tell Campbell whatever he wants."

Tommy's arm tightened around her briefly. "You're playing a dangerous game, Flora."

"We both are," she pointed out, tilting her head to meet his gaze. "But I've never been afraid of danger."

A ghost of a smile flickered across Tommy's face. "No," he agreed, "you haven't."

Flora settled back against him, feeling the pull of sleep at the edges of her consciousness. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—Campbell's surveillance, the Shelby family's business, the complicated dance they were engaged in. But tonight, wrapped in Tommy's arms, those challenges seemed distant, manageable.

Chapter Text

The Morning After

Dawn light filtered through the thin curtains of Tommy's bedroom, casting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. Flora stirred first, her body accustomed to early rising from years of nursing shifts. She remained still for a moment, savoring the unfamiliar weight of Tommy's arm draped across her waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against her neck.

When she finally moved to slip from beneath his arm, Tommy's eyes opened immediately—no gradual awakening for him, just instant alertness. A soldier's habit that hadn't faded with peacetime.

"Morning," she murmured, tucking the sheet around herself as she sat up.

Tommy propped himself on one elbow, watching her with those penetrating blue eyes. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in months," Flora admitted, reaching for her slip from where it had landed on the floor. "Though I should get back to my flat. Change before heading out."

Tommy sat up fully, the sheet pooling around his waist. The morning light accentuated the lean muscle of his torso, the scars that told stories he rarely shared. "Where are you off to?"

"Farmers market over in Bordesley Green." Flora stepped into her slip, pulling it over her head. "My surgery's been quiet since Campbell's visit. Need to keep myself occupied."

"Could always come work at the shop," Tommy suggested, reaching for his cigarettes on the bedside table. "Polly's been saying we need someone with steady hands for the books."

Flora smiled as she retrieved her stockings. "I doubt your family would appreciate that arrangement."

Tommy lit his cigarette, the match flaring briefly in the dim room. "My family doesn't dictate my business decisions."

"No, just the personal ones," Flora countered, sitting on the edge of the bed to roll her stockings up her legs.

Tommy's eyes followed the movement, his expression unreadable. "They're concerned."

"About me? Or about what I represent?" Flora fastened her garters with practiced efficiency.

"Both." Tommy exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Polly thinks you're a distraction."

"And what do you think?" Flora looked over her shoulder at him, unable to resist the question.

Tommy studied her for a long moment, smoke curling lazily around his face. "I think I'm not apologizing for last night."

The simple declaration warmed Flora more than any flowery sentiment could have. She smiled despite herself. "Nor should you."

She finished dressing in comfortable silence, Tommy watching from the bed as she transformed back into the proper nurse that Small Heath knew. When she began struggling with the buttons at the back of her dress, he rose, wrapping the sheet around his waist and crossing to her.

"Allow me," he said, his voice still rough with sleep.

His fingers were deft and sure as they worked their way up her spine, securing each button with methodical precision. When he finished, his hands came to rest on her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly against the base of her neck.

"Campbell's man is gone," he noted, glancing toward the window.

"Mission accomplished, then," Flora replied, turning to face him. "He saw what he came to see."

Tommy's expression hardened slightly. "Be careful today. Campbell might take an added interest in your movements now."

"I can handle Campbell," Flora assured him, reaching up to trace his perpetually furrowed brow with her fingertip. "His type is predictable. All bluster and king's authority."

"Don't underestimate him," Tommy warned, catching her hand and pressing a brief kiss to her palm. "He's dangerous."

"So am I," Flora reminded him with a small smile. "I survived the Somme, Thomas Shelby. One Irish inspector doesn't frighten me."

Tommy's eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "There's coffee in the kitchen if you want it before you go."

Flora recognized the offer for what it was—not just coffee, but a moment of normalcy, a brief extension of their night together before they returned to their separate lives.

"I'd like that," she said.

They moved to the kitchen, Tommy pulling on trousers and an undershirt while Flora fixed her hair into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. The domesticity of it—Tommy making coffee while she smoothed her dress—struck Flora as both strange and oddly fitting.

The coffee was strong and bitter, the way Tommy preferred it. Flora added a spoonful of sugar to hers while Tommy drank his black, both of them standing by the small window that overlooked the awakening street below.

"Will I see you tonight?" Tommy asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Flora considered the question. "The Garrison? Nine o'clock?"

Tommy nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his chin. "I'll be there."

They finished their coffee in companionable silence. When it was time to leave, Tommy insisted on walking with her to the main road.

As they walked, Flora noted the way people watched them—curious glances, knowing looks, a few disapproving stares from older women. The news of their dinner had clearly spread throughout Small Heath. Their connection was no longer a secret, if it ever had been.

As they reached the intersection that split off to Coventry road, Tommy reached out to adjust her collar, his fingers lingering against the skin of her neck.

"Be careful, Flora," he said quietly, the public display of affection subtle but unmistakable to anyone watching.

She covered his hand with hers briefly. "You too."

The Betting Shop

The Shelby betting shop hummed with the usual morning activity—chalk scratching against boards as odds were updated, coins clinking as bets were counted, the murmured calculations of men trying to turn luck into mathematics. Tommy moved through it all like a general surveying his troops, noting every detail, every potential problem.

John was at his usual post, taking bets with the rapid-fire efficiency that had become his trademark since returning from France. Arthur stood near the back, intimidating presence enough to ensure the day's transactions remained civil.

"Tommy," Arthur called, beckoning him over with a tilt of his head. "Got something you should hear."

Tommy crossed to his brother, accepting a cigarette and the accompanying match. "Go on."

Arthur glanced around, ensuring they wouldn't be overheard. "Billy Whiting saw Ada this morning. Coming out of Freddie Thorne's apartment on Garrison Lane."

Tommy's expression remained impassive as he lit his cigarette, but a muscle tightened in his jaw. "What time?"

"Early. Around six." Arthur watched Tommy carefully. "Said she looked like she'd been there all night."

Tommy exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face.

"And Freddie Thorne isn't just anyone. He's a fucking communist now, leading those strikes over at the BSA."

Tommy's eyes hardened. "I know what Freddie Thorne is."

"Then you know what it means if Ada's involved with him." Arthur leaned closer. "It's not just business, Tommy. It's family. Our Ada."

"I'll handle it," Tommy said with finality, ending the conversation.

Arthur nodded, knowing better than to push further. "Heard you spent the night with the nurse again," he said instead, changing the subject. "Campbell's man watching your place all night."

Tommy took another drag of his cigarette. "Let him watch."

"So it's like that, is it?" Arthur asked, studying his brother's face. "Not even pretending to be discreet anymore?"

"Campbell already knows," Tommy replied, his gaze drifting to the window, where people hurried past on their morning errands. "No point in pretending otherwise."

Arthur lowered his voice. "Polly's worried. Says you're getting distracted."

"Polly worries about everything," Tommy countered, flicking ash onto the floor. "I'm not distracted."

"Good," Arthur nodded. "Because with Campbell sniffing around and these guns still hidden, we can't afford mistakes."

Tommy's eyes snapped back to his brother, cold and focused. "When have I ever made a mistake that wasn't calculated, Arthur?"

Arthur held up his hands in surrender. "Just passing on the message, brother. We're all in this together."

"Then trust me to handle it," Tommy said, his tone making it clear the conversation was over. "All of it."

The Confrontation

The BSA factory loomed against the evening sky, its red brick walls blackened by decades of coal smoke. The day shift had ended, but the night workers were only just arriving, lunch pails in hand, cigarettes dangling from tired lips. Tommy leaned against his motorcar, the sleek black vehicle out of place among the workers' bicycles and worn boots.

He watched the men file in through the factory gates, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap. The Lewis guns hidden beneath the factory floor felt like a weight on his shoulders—a dangerous secret buried in clay, waiting to shift the balance of power in Birmingham. Now Freddie Thorne threatened that balance, not just with his communist rhetoric but with something far more personal.

Tommy spotted him within minutes. Freddie stood apart from the other workers, distributing leaflets from a leather satchel slung across his chest. Even from a distance, Tommy could read the bold red lettering: "WORKERS UNITE!" The irony wasn't lost on him—they'd once united in the tunnels of France, digging together while death rained down above them.

Tommy waited until Freddie had finished speaking with the last worker before approaching. His footsteps were deliberate, unhurried on the cobblestones, but the set of his shoulders betrayed his tension.

Freddie saw him coming, his expression hardening into stone. He tucked the remaining leaflets into his satchel, squaring his shoulders as Tommy drew near.

"Tommy Shelby," Freddie said, not bothering to disguise the contempt in his voice. "Slumming with the working men today?"

Tommy stopped a few paces away, close enough for private conversation but maintaining a careful distance. "We need to talk, Freddie."

"Nothing to talk about," Freddie replied, glancing around to ensure no one was within earshot. "This isn't France. We're not in the same trench anymore."

Tommy's gaze never wavered. "This is about Ada."

Something flashed across Freddie's face—concern, perhaps, or guilt—before his expression settled back into defiance. "What about her?"

"I know she's been at your place." Tommy's voice was soft, conversational, but carried an undercurrent of steel. "Billy Whiting saw her leaving yesterday morning."

"So you've got spies watching me now?" Freddie scoffed, but his fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel. "What Ada does is her business."

"Ada is family," Tommy replied, his eyes cold as the Birmingham canal in winter. "That makes it my business."

Freddie stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't own her, Tommy. The war's over. You're not giving orders anymore."

"No," Tommy agreed, his hand slipping casually into his coat pocket where his pistol rested, a habit formed in France that peacetime hadn't broken. "I'm giving you advice. As an old friend."

Freddie's laugh was bitter. "Is that what we are now? Friends?"

"We were brothers once," Tommy replied, the words hanging between them like smoke in still air. "In France. Under the ground."

"That was before you became what you are now," Freddie said, disgust evident in his tone. "A gangster. A capitalist exploiting your own people."

Tommy ignored the accusation, his focus unwavering. "Stay away from Ada."

"Or what?" Freddie challenged, taking another step closer. "You'll have me beaten? Cut? Is that how the great Thomas Shelby solves his problems now?"

"Don't make me your enemy, Freddie," Tommy warned, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "You're stirring up trouble at the factories, making speeches about revolution. The police are watching you. Campbell has a file on every communist in Birmingham."

"So now you're working with the police?" Freddie's disgust deepened. "Jesus, Tommy, how far you've fallen."

"I'm working against them," Tommy corrected him. "But they're watching you, which means they're watching anyone you spend time with. Including Ada."

Understanding dawned in Freddie's eyes. "So that's your play. Pretend this is about protecting her."

"This isn't pretend," Tommy replied, eyes flashing. "You're putting her in danger. Your communist friends might be willing to die for the cause, but Ada didn't sign up for that."

"And what about your nurse?" Freddie countered, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Word travels, Tommy. Flora Green. Does she know what she's signed up for, sleeping with the most dangerous man in Small Heath?"

Tommy moved so quickly that Freddie barely had time to react. In one fluid motion, Tommy had him backed against the factory wall, forearm pressed against his throat, the barrel of his pistol hidden but pressed firmly into Freddie's ribs.

"You keep her name out of your mouth," Tommy hissed, his face inches from Freddie's. "This is between you and me."

Freddie didn't struggle, his dark eyes locked with Tommy's. "You can't have it both ways, Tommy," he said, voice strained against the pressure on his throat. "You can't control everyone. Not Ada. Not me."

For a long moment, they remained frozen in that tableau—former friends, now on opposite sides of a divide as wide as the trenches they'd once shared. Then, slowly, Tommy released him, stepping back and returning the pistol to his pocket in one smooth motion.

"Last warning," Tommy said, adjusting his cap. "Stay away from my sister."

Freddie rubbed his throat, a defiant smile playing at his lips. "And if I don't?"

Tommy's expression was emotionless as he turned to leave. "Then you'll find out exactly how far I've fallen."

He walked away without looking back, the sound of his shoes on the cobblestones fading into the evening air. Behind him, Freddie Thorne watched his retreat, the weight of their shared history hanging between them like an unexploded shell.

Three days later

The sharp rap at her surgery door came just as Flora was finishing inventory of her dwindling medical supplies. Before she could respond, the door swung open, revealing Polly Gray's stern face, her hand firmly gripping Ada Shelby's arm.

"Inside, now," Polly ordered, practically dragging Ada into the small surgery before closing the door behind them.

Flora set aside her inventory book, taking in the scene before her—Polly, tight-lipped and determined; Ada, pale and defiant, her eyes red-rimmed as though she'd been crying.

"Polly," Flora said carefully. "I wasn't expecting—"

"This isn't a social call," Polly interrupted, steering Ada toward the examination table. "Ada has something she needs to tell you."

Ada shook off her aunt's grip. "I can speak for myself, Pol."

"Then speak," Polly challenged, crossing her arms. "Or shall I?"

Ada sighed, perching on the edge of the examination table. "My monthly's late," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Very late."

Understanding dawned immediately. Flora glanced at Polly, whose tight expression confirmed her suspicions. "How late are we talking?"

"Six weeks," Ada replied, staring at her hands. "Maybe seven."

Flora nodded, professional mask sliding into place. "And you're experiencing other symptoms? Nausea? Tenderness?"

Ada nodded miserably. "Morning sickness. Can't keep anything down before noon."

"There has to be something you can do," Polly interjected, her voice hard but her eyes betraying her concern. "Some tea, some remedy—"

"First things first," Flora interrupted gently. "Let's confirm what we're dealing with." She turned to Ada. "I'll need to examine you, if that's alright."

Ada nodded, and Flora helped her lie back on the table. The examination was brief but thorough, Flora's trained hands confirming what she already suspected.

"You're pregnant," she confirmed softly, helping Ada sit up again. "Based on the size of your uterus, I'd estimate about ten to twelve weeks along."

Ada closed her eyes, a single tear escaping down her cheek. "Fuck."

"Now the question is what to do about it," Polly said, stepping closer. "There are ways—"

"No," Flora interrupted firmly, moving to wash her hands in the small basin. "At this stage, any attempt to... terminate would be extremely dangerous. The risk of hemorrhage, infection—" She shook her head. "I won't be responsible for that."

"You don't understand," Polly insisted, lowering her voice despite the closed door. "The father—"

"Tell her, Ada," Polly commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Ada met Flora's eyes, a mix of defiance and fear in her gaze. "It's Freddie Thorne's baby."

The name hung in the air like a grenade with its pin pulled. Flora kept her expression neutral, but her mind was racing. Freddie Thorne—the communist agitator, leading strikes against the factories, directly opposing everything the Shelby family stood for. And more importantly, once Tommy's closest friend in France, now his ideological enemy.

"I see," she said carefully, moving to her cabinet of supplies. "And does Freddie know?"

Ada shook her head. "Not yet. I haven't told him."

"She won't be telling him," Polly declared firmly. "This needs to be handled quietly—"

"It's my baby," Ada interjected sharply. "My body. My choice."

Flora turned back to face them both, her expression serious. "Medically speaking, your options are limited. You're too far along for any herbal remedy to be effective. And surgical options at this stage..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "The risk would be significant."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Ada asked, vulnerability breaking through her defiant facade.

"You need to tell Thomas," Flora said gently, ignoring Polly's sharp intake of breath. "Either way."

"He'll kill Freddie," Ada whispered, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

"He might try," Polly agreed grimly. "Which is why we're discussing alternatives."

Flora crossed the room, taking Ada's hands in hers. "Listen to me. I've seen what happens when women try to end pregnancies at this stage. The bleeding, the fever, the pain—" She squeezed Ada's hands. "I won't do that to you. I can't."

Ada searched Flora's face. "Are you saying this because of Tommy? Because of what's between you two?"

"I'm saying this as a nurse," Flora replied firmly. "As someone who's held women as they died from procedures gone wrong. This isn't about Tommy. It's about you, and your safety."

Polly paced the small surgery, her rings clicking against each other as she twisted her hands. "If you keep this baby, Ada, everything changes. Everything."

"Maybe I want that," Ada said quietly. "Maybe I want something that's mine. Something clean and new, not covered in the family dirt."

Flora released Ada's hands, stepping back to give her space. "Whatever you decide, you need proper care. Regular check-ups, proper nutrition. This isn't something you can hide for much longer."

"And Tommy?" Ada asked, looking between Flora and Polly. "What do I tell him?"

"The truth," Flora advised, meeting Polly's eyes. "Sooner rather than later."

Polly's expression was inscrutable, but something like respect flickered in her gaze. "She's right about one thing. You can't hide this forever. The question is who tells him, and when."

Ada slid off the examination table, straightening her dress with trembling hands. "I need time to think. To decide."

"You don't have much of that left," Polly warned, softening slightly as she moved to adjust Ada's collar. "But a day or two won't make a difference, I suppose."

Flora went to her medicine cabinet, selecting a small bottle. "For the nausea," she explained, handing it to Ada. "Ginger tincture. Three drops in water when you wake up, before you get out of bed."

Ada took the bottle, tucking it into her purse. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For being honest at least."

"I'll see her home," Polly told Flora, guiding Ada toward the door. "Make sure she rests."

Flora nodded, watching as they prepared to leave. Just before stepping out, Polly turned back.

"Not a word to Tommy," she warned. "Not until Ada decides what she's doing."

"Doctor-patient confidentiality," Flora assured her. "Even for family matters."

Polly studied her for a long moment, then nodded once. "Good. Because family is everything to the Shelbys. Remember that."

The door closed behind them, leaving Flora alone in her surgery, the echo of Polly's words hanging in the air like a premonition. Family was everything to the Shelbys—and Flora was beginning to understand just how complicated that could be.

Chapter Text

Three Days Later

The Garrison was quiet when Flora entered, the usual evening rush not yet begun. Harry nodded in greeting as she approached the bar, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey he kept for Tommy's personal use.

"He's in the back," Harry said, pouring a measure into a glass and sliding it toward her. "Been there about twenty minutes. Told me to send you through when you arrived."

Flora took the glass with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Harry."

"Everything alright?" Harry asked, his voice lowered. "Tommy's been in a mood since he came in. Barely said two words."

"Just business, I imagine," Flora replied noncommittally, though her stomach tightened with anxiety.

She made her way toward the private room, the frosted glass door shut against the main pub. Her knock was soft, but Tommy's voice immediately called for her to enter.

He sat at the small table, papers spread before him, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The blue smoke circled his head like a halo in the dim light. He glanced up as she entered, his expression unreadable except for the slight softening around his eyes that she'd come to recognize as his version of a greeting.

"Flora," he said, straightening slightly. "Lock the door."

She complied, turning the small brass key before crossing to the table. Tommy gathered his papers into a neat stack, sliding them into an inner pocket of his coat which hung on the back of his chair.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Flora took the seat, setting her whiskey on the table between them. "You look tired."

"Business complications," Tommy replied, taking a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out. "Nothing that won't be resolved."

She studied him carefully—the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced than usual, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers drummed against the table. "Just business?"

Tommy's penetrating gaze fixed on her face. "Ada hasn't been home in three days."

Flora kept her expression neutral, though her heart rate quickened. "I see."

"Polly says she's staying with a friend," Tommy continued, watching Flora closely. "But no one seems to know which friend."

"Perhaps she needed some space," Flora suggested carefully. "Small Heath can be... suffocating at times."

Tommy reached for his whiskey, taking a measured sip before speaking again. "You saw her yesterday."

It wasn't a question. Flora's surprise must have shown on her face because Tommy's mouth twitched in a humorless smile.

"Scudboat saw you leaving her flat on Bell Barn Road," he explained. "Care to tell me why my sister is hiding out in a rented room rather than staying at home? And why you were visiting her?"

Flora took a slow breath, weighing her professional obligations against her growing concern. Three days had passed since Polly had brought Ada to her surgery, three days during which Ada had apparently been avoiding her family entirely.

"She's not ill," Flora began carefully, "at least not in the conventional sense."

Tommy's eyes never left her face. "Go on."

"I can't break her confidence, Tommy. You know that." Flora took a sip of whiskey, feeling its burn center her. "But I can tell you that she needs her family now more than ever. She needs her brother."

"And what exactly does she need from her brother?" Tommy asked, his voice low and controlled.

Flora met his gaze steadily. "Understanding. Patience. Not judgment or anger."

Tommy was silent for a long moment, studying her with the intense focus he typically reserved for business negotiations or threats. Finally, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

"Is my sister pregnant, Flora?"

The directness of the question caught her off guard, though perhaps it shouldn't have. Thomas Shelby had always been perceptive, especially when it came to his family.

"You know I can't confirm or deny that," she replied carefully.

Tommy nodded slowly, as though her non-answer was confirmation enough. "And the father?"

Flora remained silent, her expression giving nothing away.

Tommy's jaw tightened. "Freddie Thorne."

Again, not a question. Flora took another sip of whiskey, neither confirming nor denying his statement.

"Christ," Tommy muttered, running a hand over his face—a rare display of emotion. "How far along?"

"Tommy—"

"How far, Flora?" His voice was quiet but insistent.

She sighed, recognizing the futility of complete discretion at this point. "Far enough that her options are limited. Far enough that she needs proper care and support, not stress or conflict."

Tommy was silent for a long moment, processing this information. His expression remained impassive, but Flora could see the calculations happening behind his eyes, the shifting of plans, the formulation of new strategies.

"She should have come to me," he said finally.

"Would you have reacted calmly?" Flora challenged gently. "If she had walked into the betting shop and announced she was carrying Freddie Thorne's child?"

Tommy's eyes flashed. "What happens in my family is my business."

"And what happens to her body is hers," Flora countered, her voice firm but compassionate. "She's scared, Tommy. Not just of your reaction, but of everything this means for her future."

Tommy reached for his cigarettes, lighting one with methodical precision. The flame briefly illuminated the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the tension there.

"Where does she think she's going to go?" he asked after exhaling a stream of smoke. "What's her plan? Run off with Freddie to some communist commune? Raise a child in poverty while he's chased by the police for his political activities?"

"I don't know what her plan is," Flora admitted. "I'm not sure she knows either. But pushing her away won't help her figure it out."

Tommy took another drag of his cigarette, smoke curling around his face like a shield. "And what would you have me do? Give them my blessing? Welcome Freddie Thorne into the family business?"

"I'd have you be her brother first," Flora said softly. "Before you're a Peaky Blinder, before you're the head of the Shelby family, before you're Tommy fucking Shelby who runs the streets of Small Heath. Just be her brother, who loves her and wants what's best for her."

Something vulnerable flickered across Tommy's face, so briefly Flora might have missed it if she hadn't been watching closely.

"It's not that simple," he said, his voice lower now.

"It never is," Flora agreed. "But some things are more important than business, than politics, than old grudges."

Tommy studied her face, his expression softening marginally. "You care about her."

"I care about all my patients," Flora replied automatically.

"No," Tommy shook his head slightly. "It's more than that. You care about Ada, specifically."

Flora sighed, relenting. "We've had lunch a few times. She's intelligent, funny, brave. And yes, I've grown fond of her. She deserves a chance at happiness, whatever form that takes."

Tommy was quiet for a moment, considering her words. Then he reached across the table, his hand covering hers. The gesture was unexpected, intimate in its simplicity.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For looking after her."

The sincerity in his voice caught Flora off guard. She turned her hand beneath his, their fingers intertwining naturally.

"I'm not taking sides, Tommy," she clarified. "I just want what's best for her and the baby."

Tommy nodded, a barely perceptible movement. "I know."

They sat like that for a long moment, hands joined on the table between them, the weight of Ada's secret creating a different kind of intimacy. Finally, Tommy released her hand and stood, retrieving his coat from the back of his chair.

"I need to find her," he said, shrugging into the coat with fluid grace. "Talk to her properly."

Flora rose as well, concern etching her features. "Tommy, she's fragile right now. If you go in making demands—"

"I won't," he interrupted, his voice gentler than she expected. "I'll listen first."

Relief washed through Flora. "That's all she needs. To be heard."

Tommy crossed to her, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—a surprisingly tender gesture from a man known for his coldness.

"Will you wait for me?" he asked quietly. "At my place. This might take a while."

The request hung between them, layered with meaning beyond the simple words. Flora understood what he was asking—not just for her physical presence, but for her emotional support in the aftermath of what promised to be a difficult conversation with his sister.

"Yes," she agreed softly. "I'll wait."

Tommy nodded, his hand lingering briefly against her cheek before he stepped back. "I'll send a car for you in an hour. Driver will take you to my place."

"I can walk—"

"Not at night," Tommy cut her off, his tone allowing no argument. "Not with Campbell's men still watching."

Flora conceded with a nod. "An hour, then."

Tommy moved to the door, unlocking it before turning back to her one last time. His expression had shifted back to the mask of control he showed the world, but his eyes held something softer when they met hers.

"Thank you," he said simply. "For telling me."

"I didn't tell you anything," Flora reminded him with a small smile. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

A ghost of a smile touched Tommy's lips. "Of course not."

Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Flora alone with her whiskey and the knowledge that the Shelby family dynamics were about to change irrevocably. She lifted her glass in a silent toast to Ada, hoping she had made the right decision in nudging Tommy toward reconciliation rather than conflict.

Only time would tell.

---

Night had settled over Birmingham, the streets of Bell Barn Road quieter than Small Heath, though no less watchful. Tommy pulled his cap lower as he approached the address Scudboat had provided—a modest boarding house with peeling paint and curtained windows that revealed little of the lives within.

He paused outside, cigarette glowing in the darkness as he took a final drag before flicking it into the gutter. The landlady answered his knock, a stout woman with suspicious eyes that widened in recognition despite his lack of introduction.

"Third floor, end of the hall," she said quickly, stepping aside to let him pass. The Shelby name carried weight even here, beyond their usual territory.

The stairs creaked beneath his steady tread, the building's other occupants wisely keeping their doors shut as he passed. At the end of the hall, he paused, listening for a moment before knocking on the worn wooden door.

Silence, then the soft padding of feet.

"Who is it?" Ada's voice, wary and thin.

"It's me, Ada." Tommy kept his voice deliberately even. "Open the door."

Another silence, longer this time. Tommy waited, patient as always, knowing his sister was weighing her limited options.

Finally, the lock turned, and the door opened just enough for Ada's face to appear in the gap. Her complexion was pale, dark circles shadowing her eyes, but her expression remained defiant.

"How did you find me?" she demanded.

"You're my sister," Tommy replied simply. "Did you think you could hide from me in Birmingham?"

Ada's jaw tightened, but she stepped back, opening the door wider to let him enter. The room was small but clean—a narrow bed, a dresser with a chipped mirror, a single chair by the window overlooking the street.

Tommy took in the sight of her properly now—the loose dress that concealed her condition, the protective way her hand briefly rested on her stomach before she caught herself and let it fall to her side.

"So," Ada broke the silence first, chin tilted upward. "Here to drag me home?"

Tommy removed his cap, a gesture of respect that seemed to surprise her. "Just to talk, Ada."

"About what? How I've disgraced the family name?" Her voice held a bitterness that hadn't been there before the war. "How I've ruined all your plans?"

"About the baby," Tommy said quietly. "About what you need."

Ada blinked, clearly thrown by his calm approach. She'd expected rage, demands, perhaps even threats. His controlled concern was apparently more disconcerting.

"Flora told you," she accused, sinking onto the edge of the bed.

"Flora told me nothing," Tommy corrected, remaining standing by the door. "Professional ethics. But I'm not blind, Ada."

Ada looked away, her hand unconsciously returning to her stomach. "So what now? You'll lock me away until it's born? Send me to the countryside like some shameful secret?"

"Is that what you think of me?" Tommy asked, genuine hurt briefly crossing his features before his mask of control returned.

"I don't know what to think anymore, Tommy." Ada's voice faltered. "You've changed since France. We all have."

Tommy was quiet for a moment, studying his sister's face—the same determined set of jaw that their mother had possessed, the same flash of fire in her eyes.

"Does Freddie know?" he asked finally.

Ada's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "How did you—"

"Answer the question, Ada."

She shook her head slowly. "No. Not yet."

Tommy moved to the window, looking down at the darkened street. A police constable walked his beat on the opposite side, lamplight glinting off his buttons.

"You can't keep it from him," Tommy said, his back still to her. "Not something like this."

"And what happens when I tell him?" Ada demanded. "What happens when he knows?"

Tommy turned to face her again. "That depends on him. On what kind of man he truly is."

"And if he wants to be with me? To raise this child together?" Ada's voice was both challenging and vulnerable. "What then, Tommy?"

Tommy held her gaze steadily. "Then he'll face the choice between his politics and his family."

"Like you're making me choose between you and him?" Ada shot back.

"I'm not asking you to choose, Ada." Tommy's voice softened slightly. "I'm asking you to let me help you. Whatever you decide."

Confusion flickered across Ada's face. "I don't understand."

Tommy crossed to the chair, finally sitting down, bringing himself to her eye level. "You're my sister. This baby is Shelby blood, regardless of who the father is."

"But Freddie—"

"Freddie and I have history," Tommy acknowledged. "Complicated history. But this isn't about politics or business. It's about family."

Ada studied him warily. "What are you saying, Tommy?"

"I'm saying that you need to tell him. And then you both need to make decisions about your future." Tommy leaned forward slightly. "But know this—whatever happens between you and Freddie, you will always have a home with us. You and the child."

Tears welled in Ada's eyes, the first crack in her defiant facade. "You mean that?"

"The Shelbys take care of their own," Tommy said with simple finality. "Always."

Ada wiped at her eyes, emotion warring with suspicion. "And Freddie? If he chooses to stay? To be part of this child's life?"

Tommy was silent for a long moment, the question hanging between them. "There would have to be understandings," he said finally. "Boundaries."

"Political boundaries," Ada clarified, her eyes narrowing again.

"Yes," Tommy didn't bother denying it. "What he does in his political life affects our family, our business. That hasn't changed."

Ada nodded slowly, accepting this reality even as she chafed against it. "I won't give him up, Tommy."

"I'm not asking you to," Tommy replied. "I'm asking you to come home while you figure things out. Let Polly look after you properly. Let the family support you."

Ada looked around the small, sparse room—her temporary refuge that was already beginning to feel like a prison of its own making.

"And if I say no?" she asked, testing him.

Tommy's expression didn't change. "Then I'll increase your allowance so you can afford somewhere better than this. And I'll have someone check on you daily to make sure you're eating properly and have what you need."

A surprised laugh escaped Ada, though it caught on a sob halfway through. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"It's what I do," Tommy replied simply.

Ada wiped her eyes again, considering his words. "I need time, Tommy. To sort my head out. To talk to Freddie."

Tommy nodded, accepting this. "Take the time you need. But know that your room at Watery Lane remains yours, whenever you're ready."

He stood then, replacing his cap with the careful precision that characterized all his movements. From his pocket, he withdrew an envelope, placing it on the dresser.

"For now," he said. "Until you decide."

Ada glanced at the envelope, then back to her brother's face. "Flora was right about you, you know."

Tommy raised an eyebrow, the only indication of his interest. "What did she say?"

"That underneath all the Blinder business, you're still my brother." Ada's voice softened. "That you'd remember that, when it mattered."

Something flickered in Tommy's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude. "She's a perceptive woman."

"Yes," Ada agreed, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "She is."

Tommy moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "I'll have Scudboat keep watch tonight. Just as a precaution."

Ada didn't argue, recognizing the gesture for what it was—concern, not control. "Thank you, Tommy."

He nodded once, then slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. In the narrow hallway, he paused, the weight of family responsibility settling around his shoulders like a familiar coat. Flora's words echoed in his mind: Be her brother first.

For tonight at least, he had managed that. Tomorrow would bring new complications, new decisions about Freddie Thorne and what his presence in Ada's life would mean for the Shelby family business. But those were problems for tomorrow.

Tonight, he had a promise to keep—Flora, waiting for him, offering the rare comfort of someone who saw past his carefully constructed façade to the man beneath. He descended the stairs, nodding briefly to the landlady as he passed, and stepped into the night, his mind already turning toward home.

Chapter Text

The key turned with a soft click, and Tommy stepped into the dim warmth of his apartment. The weight of the conversation with Ada still pressed against his chest—her defiant chin, the protective way she'd curved her hand over her stomach, the stubborn set of her shoulders that reminded him painfully of their mother.

Flora looked up from where she sat curled in his armchair, still wearing the blue dress she'd had on at The Garrison hours earlier. A book lay open in her lap, but her hazel eyes were alert, searching his face in the lamplight.

"How did it go?" she asked quietly.

Tommy shrugged out of his coat, hanging it carefully on the hook by the door. "She's keeping it. And she's keeping him."

"You expected that."

"I did." Tommy loosened his tie, rolling his shoulders against the tension there. "Doesn't make it easier."

Flora set the book aside and rose, crossing to him with that particular grace she had—economical movements that spoke of her medical training, the way she'd learned to move efficiently through cramped field hospitals. "You were right to go to her as her brother first."

"Was I?" Tommy's voice carried that flat skepticism that came when he questioned his own motives. "Or was that just another way of controlling the situation?"

Flora's hands found the buttons of his waistcoat, working them loose with practiced fingers. "Thomas, sometimes the right thing and the calculated thing can be the same. That doesn't make it less right."

Tommy caught her wrists gently, studying her face. The lamplight caught the amber flecks in her eyes, made her skin look golden. "You defended her. Against Polly, against what she wanted."

"Polly was scared. Fear makes people want simple solutions to complicated problems." Flora's voice held the matter-of-fact tone she used when discussing medical cases, but Tommy heard something else underneath—the weight of decisions made under pressure, choices that couldn't be undone.

"And what do you want?" he asked.

The question seemed to catch her off guard. Her hands stilled against his chest. "What do you mean?"

"For yourself. What do you want, Flora?"

She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze dropping to where her palms rested against his shirt. "I used to think I wanted to leave Birmingham. Save enough money, go somewhere clean and quiet where nobody knew about the war."

"Used to."

"Things change." She looked up at him again, and there was something vulnerable in her expression that made his chest tighten. "What do you want?"

Tommy's hands moved to her waist, fingers finding the small buttons at the back of her dress. "Right now? Just this."

The dress whispered to the floor, pooling around her feet like water. Flora's breath caught as Tommy's hands mapped the curve of her spine, the delicate ridge of her shoulder blades. She was so small, so perfectly formed, and yet he'd seen her steady hands work miracles on wounded men, watched her face down Inspector Campbell without flinching.

"Thomas," she breathed against his neck, and the sound of his name in her voice undid something in his chest.

He lifted her easily, carried her to the bed while she worked at the buttons of his shirt with increasing urgency. The lamplight painted shadows across her skin as he laid her down, and for a moment he simply looked at her—hair spread across his pillow, eyes dark with want, lips parted as she reached for him.

When he joined her on the narrow bed, everything else fell away. The weight of Ada's situation, Campbell's threats, the guns hidden in the factory—all of it dissolved under the heat of Flora's mouth against his throat, the soft sounds she made as he worshipped her with hands and lips and careful teeth.

She was generous in her passion, giving herself over to sensation with an abandon that spoke of someone who'd learned not to waste opportunities for joy. Her nails scored his back as he moved within her, and when she cried out his name it was with a desperation that matched his own.

Afterward, they lay tangled together in the narrow bed, Flora's head on his chest, her breathing gradually slowing. Tommy's fingers combed through her hair, still damp with perspiration, and he felt something close to peace settle over him.

"Stay," he murmured against the top of her head.

"I'm not going anywhere," she replied, her voice already thick with approaching sleep.

Tommy pulled the blanket over them both and closed his eyes, Flora's warmth solid and real against his side. For once, sleep came easily.

---

The tunnels were endless, stretching into darkness that pressed against his lungs like earth. The sound of shovels, of men breathing hard in the close air, of timbers creaking under the weight of France above their heads. Danny Owen was beside him, young face streaked with mud, saying something Tommy couldn't quite hear over the sound of his own heartbeat.

We have to go deeper, Tommy. They'll hear us if we don't go deeper.

But the walls were closing in, dirt trickling from above, and somewhere in the distance came the whistle that meant—

The explosion threw him backward, earth and smoke and the screams of buried men filling his lungs, his eyes, his mouth—

Tommy woke with a sharp intake of breath, his body rigid with panic. His heart hammered against his ribs, sweat cold on his skin despite the warmth of the room. The lamplight seemed too bright, the walls too close, and for a moment he couldn't remember where he was.

Flora stirred beside him, her hand moving toward his chest. "Thomas?"

Without thinking, Tommy's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist—harder than he meant to, his grip tight enough to bruise. Flora gasped, more in surprise than pain, but she didn't pull away.

"Don't," he said roughly, his breathing still ragged.

Flora went very still, her medical training kicking in as she assessed the situation. His grip was firm but not crushing, his eyes wild but focused on her face. She could feel his pulse racing through the hand that held her wrist.

"You're safe," she said quietly, making no move to pull free. "You're in your apartment. It's April 1919."

Tommy blinked, some of the wildness fading from his eyes as he registered her words, her calm tone. But he didn't release her wrist, as if her solidity was the only thing anchoring him to the present.

"The tunnels," he said, his voice hoarse.

"I know." Flora's voice remained steady, professional. "Your pulse is racing, you're hyperventilating. When did you last sleep through the night?"

Tommy's laugh was harsh and broken. "When did you?"

"That's not what we're talking about." She shifted slightly, testing his grip. He loosened it fractionally but didn't let go. "Thomas, look at me."

He did, reluctantly. Her face was soft with concern, but there was steel underneath—the same steel that had gotten her through three years of war.

Tommy released her wrist and swung his legs over the side of the bed, running shaking hands through his hair. Flora watched as he stood and moved to his coat, hanging on the hook by the door.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Tommy didn't answer, pulling a small brown bottle from the coat's inner pocket. Flora's eyes widened slightly as she recognized what it was—she'd seen enough of them in the hospitals, had watched too many good men become slaves to the contents of such bottles.

"Thomas, no."

He was already uncorking it, raising it toward his lips with the practiced motion of someone who'd done this many times before. "It helps."

Flora was off the bed in an instant, crossing to him with quick, determined steps. She caught his wrist—gentler than he'd grabbed hers, but with unmistakable authority. "It doesn't help. It hides."

"Same thing." But Tommy didn't fight her grip, didn't raise the bottle higher.

"No, it's not." Flora's voice carried the tone she'd used with difficult patients, calm but implacable. "I've seen what this does, Thomas. I've watched good men start with it for the pain and end up hollow shells chasing their next dose."

Tommy's jaw tightened. "You don't understand."

"Don't I?" Something flickered in Flora's eyes—not anger, but a kind of fierce protectiveness. "You think I don't wake up fighting battles that ended months ago? You think I don't know what it's like to have your hands shake when you remember the sound of artillery fire?"

Tommy stared at her, really seeing her for the first time since he'd woken. The careful way she held herself, ready to move quickly if needed. The tension in her shoulders that never quite went away. The shadows under her eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

"I have something better," Flora said quietly. "Safer. Something that will help you sleep without making you dependent."

"I don't need—"

"Yes, you do." The sharpness in her voice surprised them both. Flora's cheeks flushed, but she didn't back down. "And so do I. The difference is, I'm trying to heal instead of just hiding from it."

Tommy looked down at the bottle in his hand, then at Flora's face. She was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read—hope and wariness mingled together.

"Your way," he said finally. "Does it work?"

Flora's smile was small and honest. "Some nights. Not all of them. But I wake up myself, not someone the drug has made me."

Tommy set the bottle on the small table by the door and looked at Flora—really looked at her. She was still naked, unselfconscious in her urgency to help him, and there was something fierce and beautiful about her determination.

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Hot water. And my bag—there's a small cloth pouch in the inner pocket."

Tommy nodded toward the kitchen. "Everything you need should be through there."

Flora retrieved her bag and disappeared into the kitchen. Tommy heard the sound of her moving around, lighting the gas ring, filling the kettle. She hummed softly as she worked—a melody he didn't recognize, something that sounded like it might have come from her mother's people.

When she returned with two steaming cups, Tommy was sitting on the edge of the bed, the brown bottle turning over and over in his hands.

"Valerian root, passionflower, and chamomile," Flora said, settling beside him and offering him one of the cups. "It won't take away the dreams, but it will help you sleep deeper. Let your body rest properly."

Tommy took the cup, inhaling the earthy, floral scent. It smelled like summer meadows and safety, like his mother's garden before the world went mad.

"It's not going to be easy," Flora said quietly. "Breaking the habit, I mean. There will be nights when my tea isn't enough, when the dreams are too strong."

"And then?"

Flora's eyes met his steadily. "Then we find another way. Together."

Tommy drank the tea slowly, letting the warmth spread through his chest. Flora curled up beside him, pulling his shirt on over her bare skin, and for the first time in months, Tommy felt something like hope.

"Stay," he said, the word a question this time rather than a command.

"Always," Flora replied, and meant it.

Chapter: Numbers and Arrangements

The morning light filtered through the grimy windows of the Shelby betting shop, casting long shadows across the rows of wooden tables where men hunched over ledgers and slips of paper. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the low murmur of voices calling out odds, the scratch of pencils on paper, the rustle of money changing hands.

Tommy guided Flora through the controlled chaos with a hand at the small of her back, his touch light but possessive. She'd dressed carefully for this—a simple grey skirt and white blouse that would blend in, her hair pinned back in a practical style that made her look like she belonged in an office rather than a surgery.

"The numbers are simple enough," Tommy said, stopping at a table near the back where the light was better. "Horses, odds, amounts wagered. Everything gets recorded twice—once in the daily ledger, once in the master book."

Flora picked up one of the betting slips, studying the cramped handwriting with the same attention she gave medical charts. "And if the numbers don't match?"

"Then someone's skimming, and we have a problem." Tommy pulled out a chair for her, his voice carrying the matter-of-fact tone he used when discussing business. "Won't happen with you watching, though. People know better than to cheat when a Shelby's looking over their shoulder."

"I'm not a Shelby, Thomas."

The correction was mild, but Tommy caught the way her fingers tightened slightly on the betting slip. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. "You're with me. That's enough."

Flora's cheeks flushed pink, but she kept her eyes on the ledger. Around them, the other men had noticed her presence—Tommy could feel their curious glances, the way conversations quieted as they passed. Flora Lavinia Green, the half-Romani nurse who'd caught Tommy Shelby's attention. By evening, everyone in Small Heath would know she was working the books.

"It's temporary," Tommy said, settling into the chair beside her. "Just until things settle at the surgery. Campbell's spooked your regular patients, but they'll come back."

"Will they?" Flora's voice held doubt. "Or will they decide it's safer to take their ailments elsewhere?"

Tommy was about to answer when the shop's front door swung open with more force than necessary. John burst in, his face flushed with excitement and something that might have been defiance. Behind him trailed Arthur, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Tommy!" John called out, his voice carrying across the room. "Need to have a word."

Tommy glanced at Flora, who was already reaching for another ledger. "Can it wait? I'm showing Flora the books."

"No, it can't bloody wait." John approached their table with the slightly unsteady gait of a man who'd been drinking, though it wasn't yet noon. "Got something to tell you. Something important."

Arthur hung back, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Tried to talk him out of it," he muttered to Tommy. "Wouldn't listen."

Flora looked up from the ledger, her hazel eyes moving between the three brothers with growing wariness. Tommy could see her reading the tension in the room, the way she'd learned to assess dangerous situations during the war.

"Well?" Tommy's voice was deceptively calm. "What's so important it can't wait until evening?"

John straightened his shoulders, tilting his chin up in the way he had since childhood when preparing to deliver news he knew wouldn't be well received. "I'm getting married."

The scratching of pencils throughout the shop seemed to slow, as if the entire room was holding its breath. Tommy felt Flora go still beside him.

"Congratulations," Tommy said carefully. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"Lizzie Stark."

The name dropped into the sudden silence like a stone into still water. Tommy heard Flora's sharp intake of breath, saw Arthur close his eyes as if in pain. Around them, the betting shop had gone completely quiet, every man straining to hear what would happen next.

Tommy was very still for a long moment, his hands flat on the table in front of him. When he finally spoke, his voice was conversational, almost pleasant. "Lizzie Stark."

"That's right." John's defiance was wavering now, but he held his ground. "Asked her yesterday, and she said yes. Wedding's next month."

"Next month." Tommy repeated the words like he was testing their flavor. "Rather sudden, isn't it?"

"When you know, you know." John's voice had taken on a defensive edge. "She's a good woman, Tommy. Deserves better than the life she's been living."

Flora cleared her throat softly. "Perhaps I should—"

"No." Tommy's hand found hers under the table, his fingers closing around her wrist. Not roughly, but firmly enough to keep her in her seat. "You're family now, Flora. Family hears the family business."

The words sent a jolt through her—*family*—but Tommy's attention was focused entirely on John.

"Tell me," Tommy said, leaning back in his chair with deceptive casualness, "what makes you think Lizzie Stark wants to marry you, John? What makes you think she's ready to give up her current... profession... for domestic bliss?"

John's face darkened. "She loves me."

"Does she?" Tommy's smile was sharp as a blade. "Or does she love the idea of security? The Shelby name? The money?"

"You're a bastard, Tommy." John's hands clenched into fists. "Just because you can't keep a woman interested doesn't mean the rest of us can't."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Flora felt the tension in Tommy's grip, saw the dangerous stillness that came over him when his temper was truly roused. Around them, the betting shop had gone completely silent.

"Careful, John." Tommy's voice was soft, almost conversational. "You're talking about things you don't understand."

"I understand plenty." John glanced at Flora, then back at Tommy. "I understand that some of us want more than just business arrangements. Some of us want real marriages, real families."

Flora squeezed Tommy's hand under the table, a silent warning. She could feel the violence coiled in him, waiting for an excuse to spring free.

"A real marriage," Tommy repeated thoughtfully. "With Lizzie Stark. The same Lizzie Stark who's been with half the men in Birmingham for the right price."

"That's enough." Arthur finally spoke up, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Tommy, leave it be. John's made his choice."

"Has he?" Tommy's attention never wavered from John's face. "Or has Lizzie Stark made hers? Quite clever, really. Catch herself a Shelby, secure her future. Can't blame a working girl for recognizing opportunity when she sees it."

John lunged forward, but Arthur caught his arm before he could reach the table. "You take that back, Tommy. Take it back right now."

Tommy stood slowly, his movements controlled and deliberate. Flora watched him with growing alarm—she'd seen this look on men's faces in France, just before they did something that couldn't be undone.

"I'll tell you what, John," Tommy said, his voice carrying clearly through the silent shop. "Give me a week. One week to make sure Lizzie Stark's intentions are as pure as you believe them to be."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Tommy's smile was cold as winter. "It means I'm going to test her. See if she's really ready to give up her old life for her new one."

"Tommy—" Flora started, but he silenced her with a look.

"One week, John. If I'm wrong about her, I'll give you my blessing and pay for the wedding myself. But if I'm right..." Tommy shrugged. "Well. Better you find out now than after you've signed the papers."

John shook off Arthur's restraining hand. "You stay away from her, Tommy. I mean it."

"Or what?" Tommy's voice was dangerously quiet. "You'll stop me? You and what army, John?"

The brothers stared at each other across the small table, years of rivalry and resentment crackling between them like electricity before a storm. Flora found herself holding her breath, waiting for someone to break the tension before it turned violent.

Finally, Arthur stepped between them. "Enough. Both of you." He looked at Tommy with tired eyes. "You want to test the girl, fine. But don't make it about more than it is. And John—" He turned to his youngest brother. "Maybe wait the week. What's seven days when you're planning the rest of your life?"

John's jaw worked furiously, but after a moment he gave a sharp nod. "One week. But when you're proven wrong, Tommy, I want an apology. In front of everyone."

"Fair enough." Tommy sat back down, his hand finding Flora's again. "Now, unless there's other family business that can't wait, I'd like to finish showing Flora the books."

John stormed out without another word, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the windows. Arthur lingered for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something more, but finally just shook his head and followed his brother out into the street.

The betting shop slowly came back to life around them, voices rising to fill the uncomfortable silence. Flora waited until the normal rhythm of business had resumed before speaking.

"That was foolish, Thomas."

Tommy glanced at her, noting the disapproval in her voice. "Which part?"

"All of it. Provoking John like that, making it about your pride instead of his happiness." Flora's hazel eyes were stern. "And this plan of yours to 'test' Lizzie Stark—what exactly does that involve?"

Tommy was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "Nothing that will hurt anyone permanently."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." Tommy's voice carried a note of finality. "There are things you don't need to know about."

Flora studied his face, seeing the shuttered expression that meant he'd made up his mind about something and wouldn't be swayed. It was the same look she'd seen on soldiers' faces when they'd decided to volunteer for dangerous missions—determined and slightly reckless.

"Just..." She squeezed his hand. "Just remember that John loves her. Whatever you think of Lizzie Stark, she matters to him. Don't destroy that unless you're certain it needs destroying."

Tommy looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his blue eyes. "You think I'm being petty."

It wasn't a question, but Flora answered anyway. "I think you're being protective. But sometimes protection and pettiness look very much the same from the outside."

Tommy brought her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "One week, Flora. Then we'll know for certain what kind of woman John wants to marry."

Flora nodded, though unease still coiled in her stomach. She'd learned to trust her instincts during the war, and right now they were telling her that Tommy's plan—whatever it was—would end badly for everyone involved.

But she also knew that look in his eyes, the set of his jaw that meant arguing would be useless. Tommy Shelby had made up his mind, and nothing she could say would change it.

She could only hope that when the week was over, the pieces would still be salvageable.

Chapter Text

The Garrison

The Garrison's familiar warmth enveloped Flora as she pushed through the heavy door, scanning the room for Tommy's distinctive silhouette. Instead, she found only the usual collection of dock workers and factory men hunched over their pints, and behind the bar, the Irish woman she'd been wondering about.

Grace looked up with a practiced smile as Flora approached. "What can I get you, love?"

"Tommy about?" Flora settled onto a barstool, pulling out her cigarette case with deliberate casualness.

"Haven't seen him today." Grace's accent was soft, carefully modulated. "I'm Grace, by the way. Grace Burgess."

"Flora." She lit her Lucky Strike, studying Grace through the flame. Pretty, well-spoken, and far too polished for Small Heath. "New to Birmingham?"

"From Ireland originally. Cork way. Needed a change of scenery after the war." Grace's hands moved efficiently as she polished glasses, but Flora caught the way her eyes kept flicking to the door. "You're the nurse, aren't you? The one everyone's talking about."

Flora's smile was sharp as her cigarette smoke. "People do love their gossip. What exactly are they saying?"

"That you've caught Tommy Shelby's attention. That's no small thing around here." Grace's tone was conversational, but Flora heard the fishing expedition underneath.

"Tommy and I have an understanding." Flora took a long drag, letting the silence stretch. Grace was trying too hard to seem friendly, asking too many careful questions. "Tell me, Grace from Cork, what brings a well-educated woman to pour drinks in Small Heath? Can't imagine the pay's much better than what you'd find elsewhere."

Grace's smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "Sometimes a woman needs to disappear for a while. Start fresh where nobody knows her business."

"Mm." Flora stubbed out her half-finished cigarette. "Funny thing about disappearing, though. The past has a way of catching up, doesn't it?"

She dropped coins on the bar and stood, noting how Grace's knuckles had gone white around the glass she was holding.

"I'll tell Tommy you were looking for him," Grace called after her.

Flora paused at the door, glancing back with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, I'll find him myself. I always do."

The Test

Tommy had been patient, methodical in his observation of Lizzie Stark. Three days of watching her routine, noting the changes—no clients, careful attention to her appearance, the way she carried herself like a woman trying to become respectable.

He found her Thursday evening outside Mrs. Patterson's bakery, looking every inch the reformed woman with her neat hair and modest dress.

"Lizzie." He fell into step beside her.

She startled, then composed herself quickly. "Tommy. Heard congratulations were in order."

"Were they? Haven't given my blessing yet."

Her grip tightened on her parcel. "John said you might need convincing."

Tommy guided her toward his car parked in the shadows near the old munitions factory. "Get in. Want to discuss terms."

Lizzie hesitated for only a moment. She knew this was coming—had probably been expecting it since John's proposal. With a resigned sigh, she climbed into the passenger seat.

Tommy settled behind the wheel, pulling out a roll of bills. "Twenty pounds. Same as always."

Lizzie stared at the money, her resolve crumbling visibly. Twenty pounds was more than she'd see in months of respectable work—if she could even find any. Her hand moved toward the bills.

"I shouldn't," she whispered, but her fingers were already closing around the money.

"Nobody's watching, Lizzie. John's not here." Tommy's voice was matter-of-fact as Lizzie tucked the bills into her coat. "Just business."

Lizzie reached for him, her hands moving with practiced efficiency toward his belt. But Tommy caught her wrists before she could go further.

"That's enough," he said quietly.

Lizzie looked confused. "But you paid—"

"I got what I came for."

It was then that John appeared at the car window, his face white with shock and betrayal. He'd seen everything—Lizzie taking the money, her hands on Tommy, the intimate familiarity of the transaction.

"Well, well," John said, his voice deadly quiet. "Look what we have here."

Lizzie went pale. "John, I can explain—"

"Can you?" John's voice cracked. "Can you explain why you're in my brother's car with his money in your pocket and your hands down his trousers?"

"It's not what you think—" Lizzie started, but John cut her off with a harsh laugh.

"Isn't it? Because it looks exactly like what I think it is. It looks like you've been playing me for a fool while carrying on with Tommy behind my back."

Tommy climbed out of the car slowly. "John—"

"Don't." John held up a hand, his eyes never leaving Lizzie's face. "Just don't. I actually thought you'd changed. I actually believed you loved me."

"I do love you!" Lizzie's voice was desperate. "John, please, it was just—"

"Just what? Just business?" John's voice was raw with pain. "Just like old times? Tell me, Lizzie, how long has this been going on? Since the day I proposed?"

Lizzie climbed out of the car, the parcel from the bakery falling forgotten to the ground. "John, please listen to me—"

But John was already walking away, his shoulders rigid with humiliation and betrayal.

"John, wait!" Lizzie called after him, but he didn't turn back.

She stood there for a moment, tears streaming down her face, before turning to Tommy with something like hatred in her eyes.

"You set this up," she said quietly. "You made sure he'd see us."

Tommy didn't deny it. "You took the money, Lizzie. That was your choice."

"You knew I would. You knew I couldn't afford to turn it down." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "You destroyed my chance at happiness just to prove you were right about me."

Tommy watched her walk away, then got back in his car. He'd gotten exactly what he wanted—proof that Lizzie Stark was what he'd always believed her to be.

The taste of victory, however, was bitter as ash in his mouth.

Aftermath

Arthur Shelby was methodically tearing apart Flora's neat columns of numbers, squinting at her careful handwriting with the concentration of a man who'd learned arithmetic from necessity rather than formal education.

"Your seven looks like a bloody one," he grumbled, holding the ledger closer to his face. "How's anyone supposed to read this chicken scratch?"

Flora glanced up from her current page, cigarette dangling from her lips. "That's an eight, Arthur. And my handwriting is perfectly legible—you just need spectacles."

"Don't need spectacles. Just need numbers that look like numbers instead of... whatever artistic nonsense this is." Arthur squinted harder at the page. "This one here, is that a three or an eight?"

"It's a five."

"Christ." Arthur rubbed his eyes. "No wonder the books never balance. Half these numbers could be anything."

Flora stubbed out her cigarette and leaned over to look at the entry Arthur was examining. "That's not my handwriting, you daft man. That's John's from last week."

"Oh." Arthur had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Well, his is worse than yours then."

The front door exploded inward with enough force to rattle the windows, cutting their banter short. John Shelby stood in the doorway like a man possessed, his face flushed with rage and something deeper—a hurt so raw it seemed to pulse with every heartbeat.

Behind him, Tommy followed with measured steps, his expression carefully controlled in the way that usually preceded violence.

Arthur straightened slowly. "What's happened?"

"Ask him," John snarled, pointing at Tommy without taking his burning gaze off his brother's face. "Ask him what he's done."

"I saw you with Lizzie," John continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "Saw her get out of your car. Saw her take your money. My own brother, paying my fiancée like she's still working the streets!"

Flora's pencil stilled against the ledger. She looked up slowly, her hazel eyes moving between the brothers as the implication sank in.

"It's not what you think—" Tommy started, but John cut him off.

"Isn't it? Because it looked like exactly what I think it was. Twenty pounds, just like old times. Tell me, Tommy, how long have you been doing this behind my back?"

Flora set down her pencil with deliberate care, her movements controlled but Arthur could see the tension in her shoulders. "Thomas," she said quietly. "What did you do?"

Tommy's eyes flicked to her, and she saw something there—guilt, maybe, or calculation. "I tested her. Like I said I would."

"By paying her for sex?" Flora's voice was still quiet, but there was steel underneath.

"I didn't sleep with her." Tommy's jaw tightened. "I offered her money to see if she'd take it. She did."

"But you didn't go through with it?" Arthur asked, trying to understand.

"No. I got what I came for—proof that she hasn't changed."

John laughed bitterly. "You set me up to see it. Made sure I'd catch you with her so I'd know what kind of woman I was planning to marry."

Flora was very still, her fingers drumming once against the table. "And where does this leave things now?"

"It leaves me without a fiancée and him—" John gestured sharply at Tommy "—proven right again. Just like he always has to be."

Tommy stepped forward. "John, she took the money. That tells you everything you need to know about her character."

"What it tells me is that you're a manipulative bastard who can't stand anyone else making their own choices." John's voice was raw. "You destroyed my chance at happiness just to prove a point."

Flora stood abruptly, reaching for her coat. The sudden movement drew both brothers' attention.

"Where are you going?" Tommy asked.

"Home." Flora's voice was clipped as she buttoned her coat. "I need to think."

"Flora—"

She held up a hand, stopping him. "Don't. Not right now." Her hazel eyes were hard when they met his. "You want to control everything, Thomas. Everyone. Sometimes that includes destroying things just to prove you can."

Tommy's face went carefully blank. "That's not what this was about."

"Wasn't it?" Flora slung her bag over her shoulder. "You couldn't stand the thought that John might be right about something, that someone might see past your judgment to make their own choice. So you made sure that couldn't happen."

She paused at the door, looking back at John with something like sympathy. "I'm sorry about Lizzie. Whatever her reasons for taking the money, she didn't deserve to be used as a pawn in your brother's chess game."

The door closed behind her with a firm click, leaving the three brothers in uncomfortable silence.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Well. That could have gone better."

Tommy stared at the closed door, his jaw working silently. John was breathing hard, his hands still clenched into fists.

"She'll come around," Tommy said finally, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

"Will she?" John's voice was bitter. "Because it seems like Flora's the only one around here with any sense left. Maybe she's right to walk away from all of us."

Tommy didn't answer, but something cold settled in his chest as he realized that for the first time since he'd known her, Flora Green had looked at him like he was exactly what he'd always feared he might be—just another Small Heath gangster who broke things because he could.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Consequences

The betting shop had become Flora's temporary refuge, though the irony wasn't lost on her—seeking sanctuary in the very place that embodied everything she was beginning to question about Tommy Shelby. The ledgers spread before her told stories in numbers: bets placed, odds calculated, money flowing through Small Heath like blood through arteries. She'd always been good with figures, a skill that served her well in rationing medical supplies during the war, and now it kept her hands busy while her mind churned.

It had been three days since Tommy's orchestrated destruction of John's engagement, and the tension in the betting shop was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. John hadn't returned since storming out, and Arthur moved through the space like a caged animal, his usual manic energy turned sharp and dangerous.

Flora looked up from the accounts as Arthur paced past her desk for the dozenth time that morning, his boots striking the floorboards with increasing aggression.

"You're going to wear a groove in those boards," she said, not looking up from her calculations.

Arthur paused, running a hand through his hair. "Can't sit still. Not with everything that's happened."

"John will come around," Flora offered, though she wasn't certain she believed it herself.

"It ain't just John," Arthur muttered. "It's everything. Tommy's got us all twisted up, making decisions that don't make sense. And now..." He trailed off, glancing toward Tommy's empty office.

Flora set down her pen. "Now what?"

Before Arthur could answer, the betting shop door burst open with such force it rattled the windows. A young boy, no more than ten, stumbled inside, his clothes torn and his face streaked with dirt and tears.

"Please," he gasped, clutching his side. "Me da... there's been a fight. Bad one. Down by the canal."

Arthur was moving before the boy finished speaking, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door. "What kind of fight?"

"Lee family," the boy sobbed. "They were saying things about the Shelbys, about stolen horses and broken promises. Me da tried to keep walking, but they wouldn't let him. Said he worked for you lot."

Flora felt her blood chill. The Lees. After the fragile peace Tommy had negotiated just weeks ago, with her playing the role of healer and bridge-builder between the communities.

"Where's Tommy?" Arthur demanded, his voice taking on that dangerous edge Flora had learned to recognize.

"Don't know," the boy whimpered. "But they've got me da down by Garrison Lane. There's blood... so much blood."

Arthur was already moving toward the door, but Flora caught his arm. "Arthur, wait. Think about this. If you go down there in this state—"

"They hurt one of ours," Arthur snarled, his eyes wild. "Blood for blood, that's how it works."

"That's not how Tommy handled it before," Flora pressed. "He found another way."

"Tommy ain't here," Arthur snapped, shaking off her grip. "And I ain't Tommy."

The betting shop door slammed behind him, leaving Flora alone with the terrified boy and the sudden, terrible certainty that everything was about to get much worse.

* * *

By evening, the news had spread through Small Heath like fire. Arthur Shelby had found the Lee men by the canal, and what followed could hardly be called a fight. It was more like a reckoning, brutal and one-sided. Three Lee men hospitalized, one barely clinging to life, and Arthur's knuckles split to the bone from the damage he'd inflicted.

Flora had closed the betting shop early and retreated to her surgery, though she knew there would be no patients coming. Word of Arthur's rampage would have reached Inspector Campbell by now, and any association with the Shelbys was becoming more dangerous by the hour.

She sat at her small kitchen table above the surgery, nursing a cup of tea that had long gone cold, when she heard footsteps on the stairs—not Tommy's measured tread, but something heavier, more agitated.

John Shelby appeared in her doorway, his face flushed and his hands shaking slightly. Unlike his usual easy demeanor, every line of his body spoke of barely contained fury.

"You heard what Arthur did?" he asked without preamble.

"Yes." Flora studied his expression, noting the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow. "How is he?"

"Polly's patching up his hands. He'll live." John stepped into the room uninvited, his movements sharp and restless. "But the Lees won't let this stand. Tommy's back from wherever the hell he was, holed up at Watery Lane with Arthur, planning their next move."

Flora felt her stomach tighten. The careful peace Tommy had brokered was crumbling, and she knew she was caught in the middle of it.

John moved to her window, peering out at the darkening street. "You know what the worst part is about all this business with Lizzie?" His voice cracked slightly. "My kids loved her. Katie especially—Lizzie was teaching her to braid her hair proper, showing her how to sit like a lady. And little John, he was starting to call her 'almost-mam.'"

Flora's heart clenched. In all her anger at Tommy's manipulation, she'd forgotten about the children who had already lost so much.

"They keep asking when Miss Lizzie's coming back, when the wedding is." John's fist clenched against the window frame. "How do I tell them their da was too much of a fool to see when someone genuinely cared? Katie cried herself to sleep last night thinking she'd done something wrong."

"John, I'm so sorry," Flora said softly. "I didn't think about the little ones."

"Course you didn't. None of us did except maybe Lizzie." His laugh was bitter. "Tommy gets to be right about her taking the money, but my children get to wonder why another person they cared about just disappeared from their lives."

John turned from the window, his eyes bright with pain and fury. "That's how it always works with Tommy, isn't it? He's willing to sacrifice anything—anyone—to prove his point. Even his own family."

Flora looked down at her hands, remembering the cold calculation in Tommy's eyes as he orchestrated his brother's heartbreak. "I don't know what to say."

"Nothing to say, is there?" John's voice was flat now. "But I'll tell you this—you'd better decide quick whether you're in this family or not. Because the Lees aren't going to make distinctions. You came to their camp with Tommy, sat with their women. They know exactly who you are."

He moved toward the door, then paused. "I've got to get back to my kids. Left them with Mrs. Patterson." His expression softened slightly. "For what it's worth, Flora, you should find somewhere else to sleep tonight. And maybe think about whether being right about Tommy is worth what it might cost you."

After John left, Flora found herself pacing the small apartment, his warnings echoing in her mind alongside the image of his children asking for Lizzie. She tried to focus on organizing her medical supplies, but every small sound from the street below made her freeze, listening.

The anger she'd carried for days felt different now, less righteous and more complicated. Yes, Tommy had been manipulative and cruel in his test of Lizzie. But John's children were crying, Arthur was spiraling into violence, and she was sitting alone in a building Tommy had given her, working a job he'd provided, protected by men he'd assigned to watch her. The Shelby family was falling apart, and her principled stand suddenly felt less like moral clarity and more like self-indulgent luxury.

She was preparing for bed when exhaustion finally overtook her. Flora had barely settled into the narrow bed in her small bedroom when she heard it—the soft scrape of a window being jimmied open downstairs.

Her blood turned to ice. The front door had three locks, but the surgery's rear window had only a simple latch, something she'd never thought to reinforce since Tommy had given her this place.

Flora slipped from her bed, pressing her ear to the floor. Voices drifted up through the thin boards—low, speaking in Romani cant. She caught enough words to understand they weren't here to rob her. They were here to send a message.

Moving as quietly as possible, she gathered the few things that mattered most: her mother's healing pouch, her medical certificates, and the small amount of money she'd been saving. Everything else—all the instruments and supplies Tommy had helped her acquire, the life he'd made possible for her—would have to be abandoned.

She could hear them moving through her surgery now, the deliberate crash of instruments being swept from tables, the tinkle of glass vials shattering. They were taking their time, making sure she would hear every bit of destruction from above.

Then came the smell—lamp oil being splashed around the room below.

Flora's heart hammered as she crept to the small window. There was a narrow ledge that led to the neighboring building's fire escape—she'd noticed it when Tommy first showed her the place but never imagined she'd need to use it.

She was halfway across the ledge when she heard the whoosh of flames catching. By the time she reached the fire escape, her surgery was fully engulfed, orange light dancing across the narrow streets of Small Heath.

Flora climbed down to street level just as the fire brigade's bells began clanging in the distance. A small crowd had already gathered, neighbors in their nightclothes pointing and whispering. Among them, she spotted familiar faces—members of the Shelby organization who had clearly been watching the area.

She was still standing in the shadows when Tommy arrived, his face grim in the firelight. His eyes swept the crowd with desperate intensity until they found her, and the relief that crossed his features was quickly replaced by cold fury.

"Are you hurt?" His hands were on her before she could answer, checking for injuries with practiced efficiency.

"I'm fine," Flora said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "I heard them breaking in and got out."

Tommy's jaw clenched as he looked at the burning building. "How many?"

"Three, I think. They were speaking cant—knew exactly what this place meant." Flora met his eyes, and suddenly her anger seemed petty compared to the reality of flames consuming everything. "They weren't trying to kill me, Tommy. They wanted me to hear them destroy it all."

Something shifted in Tommy's expression, a coldness settling over his features like frost. "They made their choice."

Flora nodded, feeling her own priorities crystallize in the heat and smoke. Whatever Tommy's faults—and they were many—he was hers. The Lees had just reminded her that neutrality was a luxury she couldn't afford, not when she'd already chosen a side the moment she'd let herself care about him.

"What happens now?" she asked.

Tommy's hand found hers, his fingers intertwining with hers as they watched the flames consume what remained of her surgery. "Now we end this."

In the firelight, Flora felt her anger at Tommy's manipulation of John and Lizzie fade into something more pragmatic. She could disapprove of his methods and still stand with him. She could care about him and still call him out when he was wrong. But she couldn't pretend anymore that she was somehow above this world, not when it had just burned down around her.

The Lees had forced her to choose, and she already knew which side she was on.

Chapter Text

After the Fire

The smoke still clung to Flora's hair hours later, a acrid reminder of how quickly everything could burn. She sat in Tommy's apartment above the tailor shop, wearing one of his shirts over her nightgown, watching him pace between the window and the door like a caged predator. He'd been silent since they'd left the smoldering remains of her surgery, his jaw set in that dangerous way that meant someone was going to pay.

"You should try to sleep," she said, though she knew he wouldn't listen.

Tommy paused by the window, his silhouette stark against the weak morning light filtering through the curtains. "They made a mistake."

"Tommy—"

"No." He turned to face her, and the cold fury in his eyes made her breath catch. "They could have come for me. Could have burned down the betting shop, the Garrison, any of our holdings. Instead, they went after you. Made it personal."

Flora pulled the shirt tighter around herself. "It was already personal. I went to their camp with you, sat with their women. They see me as yours."

"You are mine." The words came out fierce and possessive, and something hot unfurled in Flora's chest at the raw honesty in his voice. "And they just declared war on what's mine."

Before Flora could respond, footsteps echoed up the stairs. Tommy's hand moved instinctively toward his waistcoat, but relaxed when Arthur's voice called out.

"Tommy? You up there?"

"Come up," Tommy called back, not taking his eyes off Flora.

Arthur appeared in the doorway, his knuckles still bandaged from his encounter with the Lees. Behind him came Polly, her face drawn with exhaustion and worry.

"The fire's out," Arthur reported. "Nothing left to save."

Polly's eyes found Flora, taking in the borrowed shirt and the soot still streaking her arms. "You hurt, love?"

"No," Flora said softly. "Just... everything's gone."

"Everything can be replaced," Tommy said, his voice hard. "The Lees, on the other hand..."

"Tommy." Polly's voice carried a warning. "You need to think about this carefully. Arthur's rampage already has them stirred up. If you go in there with guns blazing—"

"They burned down Flora's surgery," Tommy cut her off. "They could have killed her."

"But they didn't," Polly pressed. "They made a point. Question is, what point are you going to make back?"

Tommy was quiet for a long moment, his eyes distant. Flora could almost see the calculations running through his mind, weighing options and consequences.

"I'm going to see them," he said finally. "Tomorrow."

Arthur straightened. "I'll come with you."

"No." Tommy's voice brooked no argument. "You've done enough. I'm taking Flora."

"Tommy, no," Flora started, but he was already moving toward her.

"You're Romani," he said, crouching beside her chair. "Your mother was a drabarni. They respect that, even if they hate me."

"They just burned down my surgery," Flora pointed out.

"Which is exactly why you need to be there. They need to see what they've done, need to understand that attacking you means attacking someone under my protection who shares their blood."

Polly shook her head. "It's too dangerous. They're angry, Tommy. Angry people do stupid things."

"So do I," Tommy replied, standing. "But I'm also very good at making them regret it."

The Next Day

The Garrison was unusually quiet for midday, the usual bustle of conversation replaced by an undercurrent of nervous energy. Grace Burgess moved between the tables with practiced efficiency, but her attention kept drifting to the private room where she'd seen Thomas Shelby disappear with that woman—Flora, the one who'd been watching her with suspicious eyes since the day she'd arrived.

The door to the private room opened, and Grace's pulse quickened as Tommy emerged, his face set in grim lines. He spoke quietly to the woman beside him, his hand resting protectively on her lower back, before kissing her temple and heading for the main door.

Grace had been waiting for an opportunity like this for weeks. Inspector Campbell's instructions had been clear: get close to Thomas Shelby, gain his trust, find out about the stolen guns. But Tommy had been frustratingly difficult to approach, his attention entirely focused on his dark-haired companion.

She was still watching the door when Harry Fenton, the pub's owner, approached her with a folded piece of paper.

"Message for you, Grace," he said quietly. "Gentleman dropped it off earlier, said you'd know what it was about."

Grace's heart hammered as she recognized the handwriting. Campbell's coded message was brief: Meet at the usual place. Urgent.

* * *

The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Birmingham felt colder than usual, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. Grace Burgess pulled her coat tighter as she waited, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air.

Inspector Campbell emerged from the darkness like a specter, his pale eyes reflecting what little light filtered through the grimy windows. But unlike their previous meetings, there was a tension in his posture that hadn't been there before.

"Things are escalating faster than anticipated," Campbell said without preamble. "Arthur Shelby's rampage yesterday, the fire at the gypsy woman's surgery—my men are reporting increased activity throughout Small Heath."

Grace straightened. This was her moment to prove her worth. "I may have information that could help with that, Inspector. I've been hearing rumors at the Garrison—particularly from the women who come in during the day."

Campbell's attention sharpened. "What kind of rumors?"

"About Ada Shelby. The washerwomen have been talking—she's been seen coming and going from a flat on Bell Barn Road. They say she's been sick in the mornings, but it's not the kind of sick that needs a doctor." Grace met Campbell's eyes. "I think she might be pregnant."

Campbell went very still. "Pregnant. And the father?"

"From what I can piece together, it's Freddie Thorne. The communist agitator you've been monitoring."

A slow, predatory smile spread across Campbell's face. "Miss Burgess, this changes everything. A pregnant Shelby sister, involved with a known communist sympathizer—this gives us leverage we didn't have before."

"You want me to investigate Ada further?"

"I want you to be ready to use this information when the time is right." Campbell began pacing, his mind clearly racing. "But first, we need to confirm it. And we need to find Thorne—if he's gotten a Shelby pregnant, he's more dangerous than we thought. A communist with that kind of connection to the family could be planning anything."

Grace felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warehouse's temperature. "What about Thomas Shelby? My orders were to get close to him, learn about the guns."

"Thomas Shelby has proven more... resistant than anticipated. His attachment to that gypsy woman makes him harder to reach directly." Campbell's expression darkened. "But family is everything to these people. A sister in trouble, a communist lover who needs to be dealt with—that's pressure we can apply."

"You want me to approach Ada?"

"I want you to continue working on Thomas, but be ready to exploit any weakness this pregnancy represents." Campbell stopped pacing and fixed her with his pale stare. "The fire has made the Green woman vulnerable—she's lost everything, dependent entirely on Shelby's protection now. Fear makes people desperate, Miss Burgess. And desperate people make mistakes."

Grace felt her stomach drop as she began to understand. "You want me to threaten her?"

"I want you to be ready to apply pressure where it will hurt him most. A man like Thomas Shelby can withstand direct threats—he's been doing it since he was a boy in Small Heath. But threats to the people he loves? That's different territory entirely."

The implication hung heavy in the air. Grace thought about the fierce protectiveness she'd seen in Tommy's eyes when he looked at Flora, the way the entire atmosphere of the Garrison shifted when she was around.

"Inspector, if Thomas Shelby is as dangerous as you say, and I threaten someone he cares about—"

"You'll have the full backing of the Crown behind you." Campbell's voice was implacable. "But first, we deal with Thorne. A communist who's compromised a member of the Shelby family is a threat to national security. Find him, Miss Burgess. Find him, and find out exactly what he knows about the family's operations."

Grace thought about the women and children she'd seen around Small Heath, the families who had nothing to do with the Shelbys' criminal activities but would suffer if open war broke out.

"What about the guns? Isn't that still the priority?"

"The guns are part of a larger picture. But if we can arrest Thorne, force Ada Shelby to cooperate to protect her lover, we might finally have the leverage we need to bring down the entire organization." Campbell's smile was cold. "Start with the girl. She's young, pregnant, scared. She'll break easier than her brothers."

As Campbell prepared to disappear back into the shadows, he paused. "Remember, Miss Burgess—you're not just gathering intelligence anymore. When the time comes, you'll need to be ready to act. The Crown is counting on results, whatever the cost."

After he vanished into the darkness, Grace found herself alone with the weight of his expectations. She thought about Tommy's cold blue eyes, the way he'd reacted to even the suggestion of threat to Flora, and wondered what would happen when Campbell's plans finally came to fruition.

She had a feeling she was about to discover just how far a man like Thomas Shelby would go to protect his family—and what he would do to anyone who threatened them.

* * *

The Lee encampment looked different in daylight, less mysterious and more practical. Colorful wagons formed a rough circle around a central fire pit, children playing between the wheels while women tended to cooking pots and mended clothes. It might have been a peaceful scene, if not for the men who emerged from the shadows as Tommy's car approached, their hands resting on concealed weapons.

Flora sat beside Tommy in the passenger seat, wearing a dress he'd had Polly purchase for her that morning—something simple but respectable, since everything she owned had gone up in flames.

"Remember what I told you," Tommy said quietly as he cut the engine. "Let me do the talking at first. But if they start speaking cant, I need you to translate. I know a few words, but not enough for negotiation."

"And if they decide to shoot us both?"

Tommy's smile was sharp, but there was something wild in his eyes—the barely controlled fury of a man whose territory had been violated. "Then they'll learn what happens when you burn down what belongs to me."

They climbed out of the car, and Flora was immediately struck by the silence that fell over the camp. Conversations stopped mid-sentence, children ceased their playing, and even the dogs seemed to sense the tension in the air.

Zilpha Lee emerged from the largest wagon, her gray hair braided with colored ribbons, her dark eyes sharp with intelligence and hostility. Behind her came several men, including Bojo Lee, whose face was still swollen from Arthur's attentions.

"Thomas Shelby," Zilpha said, her voice carrying across the camp. "You've got brass, showing your face here after what your brother did."

"I've come to talk," Tommy replied, his hands visible and empty, though Flora could see the coiled tension in every line of his body. "About Arthur, about the fire, about ending this before I decide to finish what my brother started."

"Ending it?" Bojo spat, stepping forward. "Your mad brother put three of our men in hospital. One of them might not walk again."

"And you burned down the surgery of a drabarni's daughter," Tommy said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "You terrorized a woman whose mother's people shared blood with yours. That makes this personal, Bojo."

"She's not our people," Bojo snarled. "She's a half-blood whore who—"

He never finished the sentence. Tommy moved faster than Flora had ever seen him move, his fist connecting with Bojo's jaw with a crack that echoed across the camp. Bojo staggered back, blood streaming from his split lip, but before he could retaliate, Zilpha's voice cut through the air like a whip.

"Enough!"

The word carried such authority that both men froze. Zilpha stepped between them, her eyes flashing with fury.

"This is my camp," she said, her voice deadly quiet. "And in my camp, we don't settle disputes like animals in the street."

She turned to Tommy, and Flora saw something shift in the older woman's expression—a grudging respect, perhaps, or simply recognition of a dangerous man barely keeping himself in check.

"You want to talk? Then we talk. But first, you make amends for what your brother did."

"What kind of amends?"

Zilpha's smile was cold. "The old way. Blood for blood, family for family. You want peace? Then you give us what we want."

Tommy was quiet for a long moment, his eyes calculating. Flora could practically see him weighing the cost of continued violence against other options. "What do you want?"

"A marriage," Zilpha said simply. "Between our families. Bind us together so that what hurts one hurts the other."

Flora felt her heart stop. A marriage between the Shelbys and the Lees? The implications were staggering.

"I'm listening," Tommy said carefully.

"Your brother John. He's unmarried, has children who need a mother. We have women of marriageable age who could benefit from the security of a Shelby name."

"And in return?"

"The feud ends. No more raids, no more burning, no more blood. Our children grow up together instead of killing each other."

Tommy glanced at Flora, and she saw the cold calculation in his eyes. John was still raw from the Lizzie situation, but he did need a wife, someone to help with the children. And the Lees were powerful allies to have—or dangerous enemies to keep. She also saw something else: Tommy was already planning how to make this happen, whether John agreed or not.

"I'd have to speak to John," Tommy said finally, though his tone suggested the decision was already made. "But it could be arranged."

"Arranged?" Bojo laughed harshly, having recovered enough to speak through his split lip. "You think we want to water down our blood with Shelby bastards?"

"Bojo," Zilpha warned, but the damage was done. Flora saw Tommy's expression harden, saw the dangerous stillness that meant violence was about to follow.

"Careful," Tommy said, his voice soft and deadly. "You're talking about my family."

"Your family," Bojo sneered. "Half-breeds and whores and—"

This time it was Flora who moved, her hand cracking across Bojo's face with a sound like a gunshot. The camp went dead silent, every eye fixed on the small woman who'd just struck one of their own.

"Zhav tut," she said, her voice ringing with authority she didn't know she possessed. Shut up.

Bojo stared at her in shock, his hand rising to his stinging cheek. "You dare—"

"I dare because I am daughter of Mirela, drabarni of the Kalderash, and I will not stand here and listen to you insult my blood or my choices." Flora's voice was steady, but her heart was hammering. "You want to talk about watering down bloodlines? Look at your own children. Look at how they suffer because you care more about old grudges than new possibilities."

She stepped closer to Bojo, her chin raised defiantly. "You burned my surgery. You destroyed medicines that could have helped your people as well as mine. You let pride and anger rob your own children of healing."

"Flora," Tommy said quietly, but she was already turning to Zilpha.

"You want to bind the families together? Then bind them. But do it with respect, not with insults thrown at people who've done nothing but try to help." She met the older woman's eyes. "My mother always said that the strongest bonds are forged in fire. Well, you've given us plenty of fire. Now let's see if we can forge something better."

Zilpha studied Flora for a long moment, then turned to Tommy. "Your woman has spirit. And she's right about the children—they need stability more than they need vengeance."

"So we have an agreement?" Tommy asked.

"We have the beginning of one," Zilpha replied. "But it will need to be sealed properly. In the old way, with both families present."

"When?"

"Three days. At the horse fair in Cheltenham. Neutral ground, with witnesses from both sides."

Tommy nodded slowly. "John will be there."

"And I'll speak to my daughters," Zilpha said. "But Shelby—if this is a trick, if you're planning some kind of betrayal..."

"It's not a trick," Tommy said firmly. "I want peace as much as you do. But it will be peace on equal terms, not surrender."

As they walked back to the car, Flora felt the weight of every eye in the camp following them. She'd just helped commit John to a marriage he knew nothing about, had spoken for the Shelby family in a way that could have consequences she couldn't predict.

"That was well done," Tommy said quietly as they drove away. "Speaking to them in cant, standing up to Bojo. They'll respect that."

"I hope John will understand," Flora replied, suddenly feeling the magnitude of what they'd just set in motion.

Tommy's hand found hers, his fingers intertwining with hers. "John needs a wife. The children need a mother. And we need the Lees as allies, not enemies. He'll see the sense in it."

Flora heard the certainty in his voice and realized that for Tommy, John's agreement wasn't really a question. It was simply another piece to be moved on the board.

"And if he refuses?"

"He won't," Tommy said simply. "Because I won't give him the choice."

As they drove back toward Birmingham, Flora found herself thinking about the look in Zilpha Lee's eyes when she'd talked about binding the families together. There had been something there beyond mere negotiation—a recognition, perhaps, that some bonds were forged through necessity rather than affection.

She just hoped John's future wife would understand that too.

Chapter Text

Quick Update for You Lovely Readers!

The next chapter is coming within the next couple of days! Life has been absolutely chaotic lately - we're in the process of buying a 150-year-old farmhouse (send help and maybe a structural engineer), my kids have fully embraced their feral era, and I've somehow decided this is the perfect time to launch social media pages about parenting and homesteading with an unhinged twist.

Thank you so much to everyone who has been commenting and leaving kudos - your support means the world to me and keeps me motivated to keep writing even when the chaos threatens to consume everything. You're all amazing!

More updates (and actual story content) coming very soon!

Chapter Text

Bonds and Betrayals

The morning sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones of Watery Lane as Tommy finished loading supplies into the back of his car. Flora watched from the doorway of the Shelby house, nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold while she observed the careful choreography of Tommy's deception.

"You sure about this?" she asked quietly as he approached.

Tommy's expression was unreadable, but she caught the flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or simply the weight of necessity. "John needs a wife. The children need a mother. The family needs this alliance."

"That's not what I asked."

He paused, his hand on the car door. "John will thank me eventually. When he sees what this marriage brings to the family, what it means for his children's future."

Flora wanted to believe him, but she couldn't shake the memory of John's pain when he'd talked about his children asking for Lizzie. Now Tommy was about to make another life-altering decision for his brother, without consultation or consent.

"And if he doesn't?" she pressed.

"Then he'll learn to live with it," Tommy said, his voice carrying the cold finality that meant the conversation was over. "Because that's what family does."

Before Flora could respond, John emerged from the house, adjusting his cap and whistling tunelessly. He looked lighter than he had in days, and Flora felt her stomach clench at his obvious ignorance of what was coming.

"Right then," John said cheerfully, climbing into the passenger seat. "Off to see about horses, are we? Been a while since I've been to a proper fair."

"Something like that," Tommy replied, not meeting Flora's eyes as he started the engine.

Flora climbed into the back seat, her unease growing as they drove through the Birmingham streets toward the countryside. John chattered easily about horses and betting odds, about how the children were doing with Mrs. Patterson, about anything except the possibility that his brother was leading him into another trap.

"Flora's been quiet," John observed after a while, twisting in his seat to look at her. "You all right back there?"

"Just tired," Flora managed, hating how easily the lie came. "It's been a difficult few days."

"Course it has," John said, his expression softening with sympathy. "Losing everything in that fire—that's rough. But you'll rebuild, won't you? Tommy'll see to that."

"Yes," Flora said quietly, meeting Tommy's eyes in the rearview mirror. "I'm sure he will."

The rest of the drive passed in relative silence, broken only by John's occasional comments about the countryside and his growing excitement as they approached the fair. Flora could hear the distant sounds of celebration—music and laughter and the neighing of horses—long before she could see the colorful wagons and striped tents.

"Christ, it's bigger than I expected," John said as Tommy parked the car at the edge of the field. "Look at all those horses. Some real beauties there, by the look of it."

Tommy cut the engine and turned to his brother. "John, before we go in—there's something you should know."

Something in his tone made John's smile fade. "What kind of something?"

"The Lees are here. We're meeting with them to settle the business with Arthur."

John's face darkened. "Tommy, if this is about revenge for what they did to Flora's surgery—"

"It's not about revenge," Tommy cut him off. "It's about ending this feud before it destroys both families. We've negotiated a peace."

"What kind of peace?"

Tommy was quiet for a moment, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. "The kind that requires sacrifice from all of us."

Before John could ask what that meant, figures approached the car. Zilpha Lee, flanked by several of her sons and daughters, walked with the measured dignity of a woman who knew her own power. Behind them came Tommy's own family—Arthur looking uncomfortable in his best clothes, Polly with her mouth set in a thin line of disapproval, and Ada, whose presence surprised Flora given her condition.

"Bloody hell," John muttered, climbing out of the car. "This looks more like a wedding than a horse fair."

"Funny you should mention that," Tommy said, but his words were lost in the noise of greetings and introductions.

Flora found herself swept into the crowd, kissing cheeks and shaking hands with Lee women who smelled of woodsmoke and lavender. But her attention kept drifting to John, who was being introduced to a young woman with dark hair and fierce eyes who couldn't have been more than eighteen.

"Esme," Zilpha was saying, her hand on the girl's shoulder. "My youngest daughter. She's been looking forward to meeting you, John Shelby."

John looked confused, glancing between Esme and Tommy with growing suspicion. "Pleased to meet you, miss. Though I'm not sure why—"

"Because you're going to marry her," Tommy said simply.

The words fell into the gathering like stones into still water, creating ripples of shocked silence that spread outward from where John stood. Flora watched her lover's brother process the statement, saw the exact moment when understanding dawned in his eyes.

"I'm going to what?" John's voice was dangerously quiet.

"Marry her," Tommy repeated, his own voice steady and implacable. "Today. Here. With both families as witnesses."

John laughed, but there was nothing humorous in the sound. "You're having a laugh, Tommy. I'm not marrying anyone, least of all some girl I just met."

"Yes, you are," Tommy said, and Flora could hear the steel beneath the silk of his tone. "Because it's what's best for the family. What's best for your children."

"My children?" John's voice rose, attracting attention from the surrounding crowd. "Don't you dare bring my children into this. They've got nothing to do with your bloody schemes."

"They've got everything to do with it," Tommy shot back. "They need a mother, John. Someone to care for them properly, not a string of temporary arrangements and borrowed nursemaids."

"That's my decision to make!"

"Not anymore." Tommy stepped closer to his brother, his voice dropping to something only John, Flora, and the nearest family members could hear. "You had your chance with Lizzie. You let emotion cloud your judgment, and look how that ended. I won't watch you make the same mistake again."

John's face went white with rage. "Lizzie—you manipulative bastard. You destroyed that deliberately, and now you want to force me into some arranged marriage to cover your own mess?"

"I want to secure our family's future," Tommy said coldly. "The Lees are powerful allies. This marriage binds us together, ends the feud, gives your children the stability they need. It's a good match, John."

"For who? For you and your grand plans, or for me and my kids?"

Before Tommy could answer, Esme Lee stepped forward. Her dark eyes were flashing with anger, and when she spoke, her voice carried the musical cadence of someone raised speaking both English and cant.

"Perhaps," she said, her tone icy, "the two of you could stop discussing me as if I'm not standing right here."

Both brothers turned to look at her, and Flora saw John's anger falter slightly at the girl's obvious spirit.

"You don't want this any more than I do," John said, his voice gentling. "This is just your family pushing you into something—"

"My family doesn't push me into anything," Esme cut him off. "I agreed to this marriage because it serves my people's interests. But I won't be talked about like a broodmare while you and your brother hash out your family drama."

John opened his mouth to respond, but Esme wasn't finished.

"You think I don't know what kind of man you are, John Shelby? You think I haven't heard about your reputation, your children, your recent heartbreak?" Her smile was sharp. "I know exactly what I'm getting into. The question is whether you're man enough to handle what you'd be getting."

The challenge hung in the air between them, and Flora could see John reassessing the young woman in front of him. This wasn't the meek, grateful bride Tommy had probably described to him. This was someone who would give as good as she got.

"And if I refuse?" John asked, though his tone had lost some of its heat.

"Then you refuse," Esme said with a shrug. "But your children will still need a mother, your family will still need allies, and you'll still be alone in a cold bed every night wondering what might have been."

Arthur, who had been uncharacteristically quiet through the entire exchange, finally spoke up. "John, maybe you should think about this. The girl's got a point about the kids—"

"Stay out of this, Arthur," John snapped. "You've done enough damage already."

"I've done damage?" Arthur's voice rose dangerously. "I was defending our family when those Lee bastards came at us. I was—"

"You were being a mad dog," John cut him off. "And now Tommy wants me to clean up your mess by marrying some stranger."

"Some stranger who could give your children the family they deserve," Polly interjected, speaking for the first time since the confrontation began. "Some stranger who comes with connections and protection and the kind of strength those babies need."

John turned on his aunt, his face flushed with anger. "Not you too, Pol. I thought at least you'd—"

"I'd what? Let you wallow in self-pity while your children suffer?" Polly's voice was sharp. "Katie's been asking for her mum every night, John. Little John barely remembers what it's like to have a woman's touch. You think your wounded pride is worth more than their happiness?"

Flora watched the argument unfold with growing understanding of Tommy's strategy. Every member of the Shelby family was aligning against John, using his love for his children as a weapon to force his compliance. It was ruthless and effective, and Flora could see why Tommy had orchestrated it this way.

John looked around the circle of family faces, seeking support that wasn't there. His eyes found Flora's, and she saw the desperate plea in them—the hope that someone would speak for him, would argue against this marriage.

But Flora remained silent. She understood why this needed to happen—the Lees were dangerous enemies who could become powerful allies, John's children did need stability, and Arthur's actions had forced their hand. Sometimes survival required sacrifices that individual desires couldn't accommodate.

"What?" John's voice was hollow. "No one? Not even you, Flora?"

Flora met his eyes steadily, feeling the weight of his disappointment. "I'm sorry, John. I truly am. But you know why this has to happen."

The acknowledgment was honest but offered no comfort. John stared at her for a moment, then laughed bitterly.

"Right. Of course. The family comes first. Always the bloody family."

"John," Tommy said quietly, but his brother cut him off.

"No. You've made your point. Everyone thinks I should marry this girl for the good of the family. Fine. But don't pretend this is about choice or what's best for me. This is about control, Tommy. Your control over every aspect of our lives."

"This is about survival," Tommy replied. "And sometimes survival requires difficult decisions."

John was quiet for a long moment, his eyes on his family's faces. Finally, he spoke. "And if I refuse? What then? You'll cut me off? Take my children away? Find some other way to force my hand?"

Tommy's silence was answer enough.

John turned to Esme, who had been watching the family drama with sharp interest. "And you? You really want to marry someone who's being forced into it?"

"I want to marry someone who understands what family loyalty means," Esme replied. "Even when it's difficult. Even when it hurts."

The words hit their mark. John's shoulders sagged slightly, and Flora could see the fight going out of him.

"All right," he said finally. "All right. If this is what the family needs, if this is what's best for my children... then yes. I'll marry you."

The cheer that went up from both families was immediate and overwhelming. Zilpha Lee smiled with satisfaction, Tommy nodded his approval, and even Arthur managed to look pleased despite his bandaged hands.

But Flora found herself watching John's face, seeing the resignation beneath his acceptance. He was doing what was necessary, but it was costing him something essential—another piece of his autonomy, another choice made for him by family obligation.

---

John and Esme stood before the assembled families as Zilpha Lee spoke the ancient words of binding, their hands joined with ribbons that would later be burned to seal their union.

The ritual was simple but profound—the joining of two bloodlines, the sealing of an alliance that would protect both families for generations to come.

Flora found herself standing beside Tommy, watching his brother pledge his life to a woman he'd known for two hours.

There was something both beautiful and terrible about the ceremony—the weight of tradition, the power of family bonds, the ruthless practicality that had brought them all to this moment.

When Zilpha declared them husband and wife according to the old laws, the cheer that went up could probably be heard in Birmingham.

"Well," Tommy said quietly in Flora's ear. "That's done."

"Yes," Flora replied, watching John accept congratulations from his new in-laws. "I just hope he forgives you for it."

"He will," Tommy said with certainty. "When he sees how well this works out for everyone."

Flora hoped he was right. But she couldn't shake the memory of the look in John's eyes when he'd realized how completely his family had conspired against him. Some betrayals, even well-intentioned ones, left scars that never fully healed.

---

The celebration continued well into the evening, transforming the horse fair into something wilder and more primal. Bonfires had been lit as the sun went down, casting dancing shadows across the gathered faces of two families who were now, officially, one.

Flora sat on a wooden crate watching the festivities, nursing a cup of something strong that one of the Lee women had pressed into her hands. The alcohol burned pleasantly in her chest, helping to ease the tension she'd carried since the morning's confrontation.

John and Esme had been dancing for the better part of an hour, and Flora was relieved to see that they moved well together. Esme was teaching him the steps to some traditional dance, laughing when he stumbled and encouraging him when he got it right. It wasn't love—not yet—but it was the foundation something real could be built on.

"They look good together," Tommy said, appearing beside her with his own drink.

"They do," Flora agreed. "She's stronger than I expected. Your brother will need that."

"John's stronger than he thinks he is. He just needs someone to remind him of it."

Flora turned to study Tommy's profile, noting the satisfaction in his expression. "You're pleased with yourself."

"I'm pleased with the outcome," he corrected. "The family's stronger now. The children will have a proper mother. The feud with the Lees is ended. Everyone benefits."

"Everyone except John's autonomy."

Tommy's jaw tightened slightly. "John's autonomy was leading him toward a series of increasingly poor decisions. Someone had to intervene."

Before Flora could respond, the music changed. The fiddles struck up a melody she recognized from her childhood—something her mother had hummed while preparing medicines, something that spoke of old roads and distant fires and the kind of freedom that came only on wheels.

Tommy stood and extended his hand to her. "Dance with me."

Flora smiled, setting down her cup. "I was wondering when you'd ask. I've been watching John step on Esme's toes for the past hour—someone needs to show him how it's done properly."

Tommy's answering smile was genuine as he led her toward the center of the clearing where other couples were swaying to the music. "Confident, are we?"

"My mother made sure I knew how to dance before she taught me anything else," Flora replied, letting him pull her close. "She said it was essential for any woman who wanted to survive in the world—knowing how to move with grace under pressure."

Tommy's arm settled around her waist, pulling her close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt. They moved together easily, finding their rhythm as the fiddle sang its ancient song.

"You do know this dance," Tommy observed, noting how naturally she followed his lead.

"My mother taught me. Before the war, before everything changed." Flora let herself relax into the movement, remembering summer evenings when her parents would dance in their small kitchen while she watched from the stairs. "She said dancing was like healing—it required trust and timing and the willingness to let someone else guide you."

"And do you? Trust me to guide you?"

Flora met his eyes, seeing her own reflection in their blue depths. "On the dance floor? Absolutely. In family politics?" She tilted her head thoughtfully. "That's more complicated."

Tommy laughed, a sound that was becoming increasingly rare these days. "Fair enough. I'll take what I can get."

As they turned, Flora caught sight of John and Esme, who had finally found their rhythm together. "Look at them," she said softly. "They're actually talking while they dance. That's promising."

"She's good for him," Tommy said, following her gaze. "Stronger than he realizes he needs."

Flora spun away from him as the music demanded, then came back into his arms. "I think it matters to the people who love you. It matters to me."

Something shifted in Tommy's expression, a vulnerability he rarely let show. "Even when those choices hurt people you care about? Like John?"

"John will adapt. He's stronger than you think, and Esme will help him discover that strength." Flora paused, then added quietly, "But that doesn't make what you did right."

"And if I'd asked him? If I'd given him the choice and he'd refused?"

"Then you'd have found another way. You always do."

Tommy was quiet for a moment, processing this. Around them, other couples swayed to the music—Arthur with one of the Lee daughters, even Polly being courted by a distinguished-looking man with silver in his hair.

"I can't promise to put individual wants above family needs," Tommy said finally. "I can't promise to let people I love destroy themselves in the name of choice."

"I know," Flora replied. "That's what makes loving you so complicated."

The admission hung between them like the smoke from the bonfires, honest and unavoidable. Tommy's hand tightened on her waist, and for a moment Flora thought he might say something in return—some acknowledgment of what they were building together, some recognition of the line they'd crossed from convenience to something deeper.

Instead, he spun her away from him, then pulled her back, the movement perfectly timed to the music's crescendo. When she was pressed against him again, his lips found her ear.

"Complicated isn't necessarily bad," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin.

Flora laughed, a sound that surprised her with its lightness. "Spoken like a man who thrives on complications."

"I thrive on challenges," Tommy corrected. "And you, Flora Green, are the most challenging woman I've ever met."

"Good," she replied, meeting his eyes as the music began to slow. "Someone needs to keep you honest."

As the song ended and the couples began to separate, Tommy kept his arm around Flora's waist. She was aware of eyes watching them—family members noting how comfortable they looked together, how easily they moved as a unit.

As they walked back toward their seats, Esme appeared beside them, her cheeks flushed from dancing and her dark eyes unreadable.

"You didn't speak against it," she said to Flora, her voice low enough that only the three of them could hear.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry it had to happen this way," Flora replied carefully.

Esme's laugh was short and bitter. "At least you're honest about it. Everyone else keeps telling me how lucky I am, how good this will be for both families." She glanced toward her new husband, who was being heartily congratulated by several Lee cousins. "As if being traded like a broodmare is something to celebrate."

"John's a good man," Flora offered. "He'll treat you well."

"I'm sure he will. He seems decent enough, and his children clearly need stability." Esme's voice was pragmatic, but there was steel beneath it. "But let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is—a business arrangement dressed up with ribbons and ceremony."

Tommy remained silent, but Flora could feel the tension in his posture. Esme's bluntness was clearly not what he'd expected from a new family member.

"The children do need a mother," Flora said quietly.

"And I'll be a good one. Better than they'd get from some of the alternatives John might have chosen on his own." Esme's smile was sharp. "But don't mistake acceptance for happiness. I know my duty to my family, just as John is learning his. That doesn't mean either of us has to like how we got here."

The words hung in the air between them, honest and uncompromising. Flora found herself respecting the young woman's refusal to pretend gratitude for a situation that had been forced upon her.

"You'll make the best of it," Flora said, and it wasn't a question.

"Of course I will. That's what we do, isn't it? Make the best of whatever hand we're dealt." Esme looked directly at Tommy then, her gaze unflinching. "But don't expect me to thank you for dealing the cards."

With that, she turned and walked back toward John, leaving Flora and Tommy to watch as she seamlessly rejoined the celebration, playing the part of the dutiful bride with convincing skill.

"She's going to be trouble," Tommy said quietly.

"She's going to be perfect for John," Flora corrected. "He needs someone who won't be cowed by the Shelby name. Someone who'll stand up for herself and his children."

As they drove back toward Birmingham in comfortable silence, Flora found herself thinking about the dance they'd shared, about the promises made and unspoken, about the complicated nature of love in a family where survival often trumped sentiment.

She was part of this now, whether she'd chosen it or not. Part of the calculations and manipulations, the fierce loyalties and pragmatic decisions that kept the Shelbys alive and powerful in a dangerous world. And while she might not always approve of Tommy's methods, she understood the necessity behind them.

The question was whether she could live with the person she was becoming in the process.

Chapter Text

Campbell's Interrogation

The basement of the Birmingham Police Station had been converted for a specific purpose—one that Inspector Campbell preferred to keep off the official records. The single electric bulb swayed slightly, casting shifting shadows across the damp brick walls as water dripped steadily from a pipe in the corner.

Freddie Thorne sat strapped to a wooden chair, his face already showing the evidence of the past three hours. Blood ran from his split lip, and his left eye was swelling shut, but his jaw remained set in stubborn defiance.

"Let's try this again, Mr. Thorne," Campbell said, adjusting his cuffs with practiced calm. "The stolen Lewis guns. Where are the Shelbys keeping them?"

"I told you," Freddie managed through swollen lips, "I don't know anything about any guns."

Campbell nodded to Sergeant Morrison, a thick-set man who'd been chosen for this particular task based on his enthusiastic interpretation of orders. Morrison's fist connected with Freddie's ribs with a sound like wood splitting.

Freddie's breath left him in a rush, but he didn't cry out.

"Communist meetings, Mr. Thorne. You organize them, don't you? Gatherings where angry men talk about overthrowing the natural order?" Campbell circled the chair slowly, his voice conversational. "Men like Thomas Shelby would find such gatherings useful. A ready supply of revolutionaries willing to die for the cause."

"Tommy Shelby's no communist," Freddie gasped. "He's a businessman. Nothing more."

"Ah, but you see, that's where you're wrong." Campbell stopped in front of the chair, leaning forward until his face was inches from Freddie's. "Thomas Shelby is a dangerous man who's stolen military weapons and plans to use them against the Crown. And you, Mr. Thorne, are going to tell me where he's hidden them."

Morrison's next blow caught Freddie across the jaw, snapping his head to the side. This time, a small sound escaped—not quite a groan, more like air being forced from his lungs.

"I don't know," Freddie repeated, spitting blood onto the concrete floor. "Even if I did, you think I'd tell you?"

Campbell's smile was thin and cold. "Oh, I think you will. Eventually. They all do, given sufficient motivation."

The beating continued with methodical precision. Morrison knew his work—how to inflict maximum pain without causing immediate unconsciousness, how to break a man's body while keeping his mind alert enough to answer questions.

But Freddie Thorne had been raised in the slums of Birmingham, had survived the trenches of France, had endured police harassment for his political beliefs since returning from the war. His body might be breaking, but his spirit remained intact.

"Tell me about your relationship with Ada Shelby," Campbell said, pulling up a chair. "Quite the scandal, isn't it? A communist and a gangster's sister."

Freddie's eyes snapped into focus, fury cutting through the haze of pain. "Leave her out of this."

"Leave her out? But she's so very much a part of this, isn't she?" Campbell's smile was predatory. "Carrying your bastard child. How does it feel, knowing that child will grow up fatherless?"

The threat was implicit but clear. Freddie's hands clenched into fists despite the leather restraints.

"You stay away from her," he growled.

"That depends entirely on your cooperation," Campbell replied smoothly. "The guns, Mr. Thorne. Where are they?"

Morrison struck him again, and Freddie felt something give way in his chest, felt his breathing become labored and wet. But he kept his mouth shut, even as his vision began to blur.

Through the agony, he thought about the child. Boy or girl? Would it have Ada's fierce spirit, her quick wit and stubborn independence? Or would it be quieter, more thoughtful, content to observe the world rather than challenge it?

He hoped for a girl. A daughter who would grow up strong and fearless, who would never let anyone tell her what she was worth. A daughter who would carry on Ada's fire long after he was gone.

"The guns," Campbell repeated, but his voice seemed to be coming from very far away. "Where are the Lewis guns?"

Freddie tried to speak, but only blood came out. His vision was darkening at the edges, and he could hear a strange rattling sound that he dimly realized was his own breathing.

Morrison struck him again, and Freddie felt his consciousness slipping away like water through his fingers. His last coherent thought was of the small ring hidden in his jacket pocket—the one he'd planned to give Ada when he found the courage to ask her to marry him despite her family's objections.

"Mr. Thorne?" Campbell's voice was sharp. "Sergeant, check his pulse."

Morrison pressed thick fingers against Freddie's neck, then shook his head. "He's gone, sir."

Campbell stared at the lifeless form slumped in the chair, his jaw tight with frustration. Three hours of interrogation, and the man had died without revealing anything useful about the stolen weapons.

"Dispose of the body," he ordered. "Make it look like a street robbery gone wrong. And Morrison—if anyone asks, Freddie Thorne was never here."

Ada's Desperation

The door to the betting shop burst open, hinges protesting as it slammed against the wall with enough force to rattle the windows. Ada Shelby stood framed in the doorway, her dark hair escaping its pins and her breathing rapid and shallow. Despite the loose coat she wore, her condition was unmistakable to anyone who looked closely.

Flora glanced up from the account books spread across her desk, immediately reading the panic in Ada's wild eyes. Around the shop, conversations died as clerks and punters turned to stare at the dramatic entrance.

"Where is he?" Ada demanded, her voice cutting through the sudden silence.

Tommy emerged from his office, cigarette between his fingers, expression shifting from mild irritation to sharp attention. "Ada. You shouldn't be here."

"Don't tell me where I should or shouldn't be," Ada snapped, advancing into the shop like a woman ready for battle. "Tell me where Freddie is."

Tommy's face became a careful mask. "Why would I know where Freddie Thorne is?"

"Because you've had him watched for months. Because you know every meeting he attends, every street he walks down." Ada's voice was rising with each word. "So when he disappears for two days without a word, you'd bloody well know about it."

Flora could see the calculation in Tommy's eyes, the way he was weighing truth against convenience. The betting shop had gone completely silent now, everyone straining to hear this family drama unfold.

"If I've been watching him, it wasn't for his protection," Tommy said finally, his voice deliberately calm. "It was to monitor a potential threat to this family."

Ada's face went white. "Threat? He's the father of your niece or nephew, Tommy."

"He's a communist agitator who holds meetings about overthrowing the government," Tommy replied coldly. "That makes him dangerous to everyone associated with him."

Flora stood up, moving closer but keeping her voice low. "Perhaps this conversation should happen upstairs—"

"No," Ada cut her off, her eyes never leaving Tommy's face. "I want an answer. His landlady said men came for him yesterday. Official-looking men."

Tommy's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "That's not my concern."

"Not your—" Ada stared at him in disbelief. "Tommy, if Campbell has him..."

"Then he's facing the consequences of his own choices," Tommy finished. "I warned you this would happen. I told you what loving a communist would cost."

Flora watched Ada's expression change, saw the exact moment when she understood that her brother had never seen Freddie as family to be protected, but as a liability to be managed.

"You knew," Ada breathed. "You knew Campbell was targeting communists, and you didn't warn him."

"Why would I warn him?" Tommy's voice was matter-of-fact, but Flora caught a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—before his mask returned. "His political activities were putting this entire family at risk."

Ada's hands moved protectively to her stomach, and Flora could see her beginning to shake—whether from rage or shock, it was hard to tell.

"So you just... let it happen?"

Tommy took a long drag of his cigarette, the pause stretching between them. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, Ada. But I let natural consequences occur."

The words hit Ada like a physical blow. She stumbled slightly, and Flora immediately stepped forward, catching her arm.

"Ada, you need to sit down," Flora said gently, genuinely concerned about the stress on both mother and baby.

"I need..." Ada's voice broke completely. "I need him to tell me that Freddie's still alive. That there's still hope."

Tommy's expression softened slightly at his sister's obvious distress, but his voice remained firm. "I can't tell you that, Ada. I don't know."

"But you could find out," Ada said desperately. "You have contacts, influence. You could—"

"Any attempt to interfere would only make things worse," Tommy interrupted. "For all of us. Including you and the baby."

Ada stared at him, tears beginning to stream down her face. "So that's it? I'm just supposed to accept that he's gone?"

Flora's heart went out to her. She understood Tommy's position—interfering with a police investigation would be dangerous for the entire family—but she also understood Ada's desperation.

"Ada," Flora said softly, "let's go upstairs. You're getting yourself worked up, and that's not good for—"

"For the baby," Ada finished bitterly. "Everything's about what's good for the baby now, isn't it? What's good for the family business."

Tommy stepped forward, his voice gentling. "Ada, you know I care about you. About both of you. But I can't risk the entire family for—"

"For the man I love," Ada finished, her voice rising again. "For the father of my child. I understand, Tommy. I understand perfectly."

She turned away from him, accepting Flora's support as she made her way toward the stairs. At the bottom, she paused, looking back at her brother with tears streaming down her face.

"I hate you for this," she said, her voice breaking with emotion. "I hate that you can stand there and calmly explain why you let him die. I hate that it makes sense to you."

Tommy's face remained impassive, but Flora caught the flicker of pain in his eyes.

"Ada—"

"But I need you," Ada continued, her voice dissolving into sobs. "God help me, I need this family. Because without Freddie, without anyone else, you're all I have left."

The admission hung in the air between them—raw emotion laid bare. Tommy seemed genuinely affected by his sister's breakdown, his usual composure cracking slightly.

"The family will take care of you," he said quietly. "Both of you. Always."

Ada nodded through her tears, then allowed Flora to help her up the stairs. As they reached the small apartment above the shop, Ada finally collapsed into a chair, her composure gone completely.

"He's dead, isn't he?" she whispered between sobs. "Freddie's dead, and I'm going to raise this baby alone."

Flora knelt beside her chair, taking her hands gently. "You don't know that. And even if... even if the worst has happened, you won't be alone. The family—"

"The family that watched him walk into a trap," Ada said bitterly, wiping her eyes. "The family that chose business over his life."

Flora was quiet for a moment, understanding both perspectives but knowing that arguing either side would only cause more pain.

"I know it hurts," she said finally. "I know it feels like betrayal. But Tommy isn't wrong about the dangers of interfering with Campbell."

Ada looked at her sharply. "You're taking his side?"

"I'm not taking sides," Flora replied carefully. "I'm trying to understand a situation where there were no good choices. Only necessary ones."

Ada was silent for a long time, her hands resting on her stomach. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet but steady.

"I can't forgive him for this, Flora. Not right now. Maybe not ever."

"You don't have to," Flora said. "But you do have to think about what's best for you and the baby now. And right now, that means staying with family, letting people take care of you."

Ada nodded slowly, exhaustion replacing the fury. "I don't have anywhere else to go, do I? No money of my own, no one else who'd take me in."

It was a harsh truth, but Flora didn't try to soften it. In 1919, a pregnant unmarried woman had few options, especially one whose lover had likely been killed by the police.

"Thomas loves you," Flora said instead. "Even when he makes choices you can't understand, that doesn't change."

Ada wiped her eyes, trying to compose herself. "Will you... will you help me? With the baby, I mean. When it comes."

"Of course," Flora replied without hesitation. "Whatever you need."

Ada nodded, seeming to draw some comfort from the promise. "I suppose I should go home then. Face Polly's questions about where I've been."

Flora helped her to her feet, noting how exhausted Ada looked. "Are you sure you're up for the walk?"

"I'll manage," Ada said, though her voice was shaky. "I'll have to manage a lot of things now."

As they made their way back down to the betting shop, Flora couldn't help but feel that something fundamental had shifted in the Shelby family dynamic. Ada would stay, would accept the family's protection and support, but the trust between her and Tommy had been damaged.

Tommy looked up as they appeared, his expression carefully neutral. "Ada."

Ada met his eyes, her own still red from crying. "I'm going home now." She paused, then added quietly, "I hate you for this, Tommy."

Tommy nodded once, accepting this reality. "I know."

Ada walked out without another word, leaving Flora and Tommy alone in the aftermath of family bonds strained to their breaking point.

"She'll come around," Tommy said finally, but he sounded less certain than usual.

Flora looked at him thoughtfully. "She'll stay because she has to. Whether she comes around... that depends on whether you can live with what your choices cost her."

Tommy didn't reply, but Flora could see the weight of that cost settling on his shoulders as he watched his sister disappear into the Birmingham streets, carrying his unborn niece or nephew and a grief that would reshape the family forever.