'Darling, Darling, Darling;
I fall to pieces when I'm with you.
I fall to pieces;
My cherries and wine,
Rosemary and Thyme.'

-

For days now, the Mayor's home had been a fit of panic and bustling. Every other day, something was being delivered – whether it be flowers, food or the most expensive wine from France. You witnessed the chaos from the window of your room.

Not only this, but now you had a growing anxiety each day, collecting in the base of your stomach. Mayor Lemieux had informed you that Bronte had requested specifically you be in attendance at this party – which unnerved you incredibly. You had heard stories about how Bronte liked to get at parties – very drunk, a lot of expensive cigars and a group of his rather rowdy friends who liked nothing more than a bit of debauchery at the end of the night... with a group of girls. The thought repulsed you, and so you were naturally very upset about the prospect of having to make an appearance at the party.

Dress shopping for the event had been a dreary affair. Like some kind of money drip – Bronte had sent across some cash specifically for you, so that you could buy the nicest dress possible. The trip out into Saint Denis on the Thursday morning had you feeling like you'd rather buy the blackest dress and hang about miserably instead.

But as appealing as that seemed – you rather wanted to keep your head on your shoulders a while longer – whilst you finalised a plan to get out of this city once and for all. The thought often occupied you whilst you did the berating tasks you really did not wish to do – like seeing to your clients and buying this goddamned dress for the party.

Although you were highly averse to being in attendance at this party, the girlish part of you wanted to find the nicest dress so that for once, you could feel pretty, elegant and everything you hadn't felt in this life before. Surely this dress could maintain the façade for a few hours.

Eventually – after spending what felt like hours in the sweet boutique in the centre of the city, you settled on a beautiful petal pink dress with gold threading on it – which rather resembled wheat. It was your own little private ode to the life you were forced to leave behind out in the country, the wilderness. An ode to a man you were now convinced would hold your heart forever.

With rather a lot of money left over, you headed up to the jewellers to buy yourself some nice earrings and a necklace, perhaps a ring too. You had counted the money before you left, and there was a few hundred dollars in your purse. Bronte must've valued you slightly beyond just being a whore to fund you like he was.

In the jewellers, you acquired some drop silver earrings, with a few accents of gold to match the threading in your dress – and of course, some statement pinks diamonds. The smartly dressed man behind the country looked as if he were about to have a fit when he saw you pick out a pink diamond ring too – and a necklace. He didn't question you verbally, but he questioned you with his gaze, as you happily handed over the cash.

You did not have a problem spending any of Bronte's money – if he was foolish enough to lavish you with it, the you would not turn your nose up at it.

Your afternoon of shopping had been a rather therapeutic break considering you had been dreading it when you had started this morning. With your pretty dress, new shoes and jewellery – you were hoping you could pretend to smile and feel pretty for a few hours on the Saturday night before being forced back into the ways that were expected of you.

It would be nice to imagine for a short while that you were some rich man's wife, like most of the women at that party – but instead you were no more than a rich man's whore. A mistress on the side, the lowest of the low – a harlot.

--

Saturday night fell fast, the rest of the week left behind in a torrid of dust.

The Van Der Linde gang members, a select few – found themselves heading back into Saint Denis, bundled up in the back of an acquired carriage driven by Mr Summers. But this time – the men had scrubbed up and dressed in luxurious fancy clothing to fit in with the rest of the guests. Dutch had insisted they try to make this work, having not seen any flaw at all in Angelo Bronte.

"He is a very hospitable man from what I could gather." Dutch responded to Hosea's question about Bronte, as he poured another glass of whatever alcoholic substance had been sat in the carriage with them.

"Hospitable ain't really the word I would use." Arthur interjected with a playful smirk, as he took a generous sip from the glass in his hand.

"Oh come on, Arthur." Dutch scorned, "I'll make you eat those words when I'm raking in all the money from this city." He jested, shooting across a challenging glance to Arthur.

It was dark outside now, and the lamps glowed lightly at the edges of the street – the carriage making it's way up to the Mayor's residence. Suddenly there was a muffled sound of orchestrated music, laughter – and when inspecting out of the window, the boys could see the line of guests making their way through the gate into the party.

"This is it!" Dutch hollered excitedly, swinging the carriage door open once the thing had barely stopped, and strode out towards the security area was. A rather stiff-faced man stood there, sharply dressed and an attentive look in his eye.

"Weapons to be left here please, gentlemen." The man instructed. Bill particularly had a frightened look on his face, wasn't very often that man walked around unarmed.

Still, they had to comply – Arthur just hoped nothing kicked off at this event to merit him having to use a gun. So, regretfully, he handed it over into the gloved hand of the staff member acting as security.

"Lovely – right this way, please." The hoity man instructed, allowing the four men past him and into the party.

From the darkened and low light front garden area, the guests ambled through the open front door of the house into the gloriously lit hallway, gleaming like a palace – lit by the sparkling chandelier. Directly opposite, was another set of doors, pinned back open wide – that spread out into the expanse of the garden.

Following Dutch, the men wandered out onto a stone balcony that overlooked the glorious garden. Below them, were the mass of wealthy guests – sipping their champagne and nibbling their canapes – laughing and tittering away like there was no tomorrow.

The garden looked like something from a fairy story, sweet tea lights strung between the man lampposts in the garden, a large fountain glittering in the moonlight and a large bandstand filled with people also – not to mention the thick of trees that surrounded it and seemed to lead to other area of this deceptively large garden.

Leaning on the stone balustrade, Dutch looked either side of himself at Hosea, Bill and Arthur.

"Arthur, Bill – you do some talking down here, see if you can find out anything for me." Dutch started, and then looked to Hosea. "Hosea – you're with me, we're going up to see Mr Bronte."

That was the final instruction, as Dutch led the way back inside the house with Hosea following. It was rather amusing to see Dutch really playing the part, he had gone to every expense to make sure he looked the height of society in his dark top hat and sleek black suit.

"You heard the man, Morgan." Bill sighed, his voice sounded nervous beneath that harsh nasally mumble he usually carried. "Best we get on with it."

"Sure..." Arthur sighed, taking the stone steps down from the right of the balcony and Bill taking the left – the pair were instantly thrown in at the deep end. Clearing his throat, Arthur tried to shake the feelings of doubt in his mind. He knew very well this wasn't his place at all, but he had to at least pretend to try and find out some valuable information.

He looked a lot different to the other men at the party, and women were noticing. He wasn't typically slicked back and shaven, with the features of prepubescent boy like most of the entitled men here seemed to be sporting. Sure, he had gone to the effort and putting some pomade in his hair but that was about as far as it was going to go. It appeared the rugged, stubbled look had caught the attention of a few women who looked on in curious intrigue at this man wandering through the crowd.

"Right..." Arthur sighed deeply to himself, grabbing a flute of champagne off the nearest tray and throwing some back for some alcoholic courage. He felt a fool in this suit also, it felt tight, confining and restrictive. He had some idea of the way it probably clung to him more tightly than he would've liked. But these were all ideations he had to sit at the back of his mind, as he approached some men by the fountain who appeared to be having a very heavy debate.

Before he knew it he was engaged in some political conversation with two men he thought were two egotistical idiots – but knew he had to encourage them lest they spilt some interesting information.

Twenty minutes these men had been barking at one another with their hoity opinions, just as some fireworks had began to set off in the sky.

Arthur had never seen such a wonderful display before, and ended up focusing more on the sky above himself than the two politicians rowing and ranting. The fireworks exploded with an echoing bang against the onyx canvas, spraying sparks of red, gold, green and various other colours. They all seemed to disperse different, others exploded outwards, some shot up like stars racing through the night. It was mesmerizing to watch.

One of the fireworks didn't quite make it high enough in the sky before it exploded, and so sent an illumination of light through the structure of the bandstand which was just beyond the fountain.

It was the first the gunslinger had properly even bothered to take a look at the wooden structure, and when his blue eyes set onto it – with the light framing the silhouettes of the bodies gathered in there, he felt a painful, panicked pang of certain deception.

There was a side profile in there that had cohered itself into Arthur's mind. The sight of it drew back images, memories – all those drawings and every glance he had had taken upon it. It seemed like a different life now...

You.

But it could not be you.... Surely?

Arthur was aware now his legs felt slightly weak beneath him, he felt out of breath. He wanted to move but couldn't. If he approached that bandstand only to have it affirmed this was some poisonous mistake – he was worried he would break down and cry.

Another flash of light from the fireworks offered a slant opportunity for the outlaw to take another look. In those minimal seconds, he noted a slim neck curving down into slight shoulders – and further anticipated panic riddled him. If this woman was not you – then she was surely some arduous vision sent from God himself to cause Arthur great torment.

Before he could even properly recount what he was doing – his legs were carrying him over in the direction of the band stand, fireworks still going off above, casting beautiful lights in soft colours across his handsome face. The look on his expression was that of a frightened child – someone who was terrified of having their world shattered to pieces right before their eyes.

His black shoes ground into the gravel path right before the steps of the band stand. For a few agonizing seconds – the fireworks had all but stilled. Those moments felt like the worst, Arthur had such a pain in his chest and a weight in his stomach that he felt he was being dangled off the edge of a very high cliff.

BANG

The first firework of the fresh round exploded into golden glitters across the pitch black night sky, and illuminated your sweet face as you witnessed the show, clutching a small glass of cherry wine in your hand.

"(name)?"

--

For hours now you had been trying to ignore the gabble of loud wanton men around you, trying to grab you even though their wives were just metres away. This party had been everything you were expecting it to be, filled with pompous idiots using wealth as a mask for their childish and selfish ways.

It had been a long evening, and your mind was already dreading what was to happen at the closure of the night. You wished you could run up the garden, out of the house and disappear into nothingness.

Instead, you stood by the wooden balustrade and peeked out at the firework display above you, sipping your cherry wine softly with dreamy eyes at the pretty show above you. How you wished you were in a position to enjoy this night carefree. You felt that would never be the case.

Saddened by your thoughts once again, you witnessed the temporary darkness between the fireworks, your distant mind orientating to the sounds of crunching footsteps on the gravel that led to the bandstand.

Another loud bang made you look back up, and an extravagant golden firework burst into a million fragments of starry pieces in the sky above you. The sight was dreamy enough for it to put a small smile on your lips.

"(name)?" You heard among the low chatter, your brain clocking along slowly. At first, you automatically assumed it to be one of the Mayor's associates – looking for some relief. Then when you further processed it, the tones of that voice struck somewhere very sensitive in your brain and heart alike – a voice you had only so far been dreaming of for weeks on end, a voice you had been longing to hear in your loneliest of hours.

That was Arthur's voice.

You couldn't bare to turn in the direction of where he had apparently called your name, fearful for the fact you may've imagined it in your quiet moment of retreat. There was no fathomable way this could be real.

Expecting to be hurt, you cautiously glanced to your left – looking down the steps to see the figure of a man dressed in a suit. Crashing in the skies above, another firework clattered loudly and threw its glimmers into the night. The light was bright enough to offer you your first proper look at him.

That's when you were sure your heart had launched itself into the back of your throat. It was him. He was there, materialised right in front of you.

Those first few seconds upon seeing each other, neither of you could do anything but stare in awe – how this was actually happening, didn't seem real at all. Gathering your skirt in one hand, rich red wine wobbling in the glass in your other hand as you made those first shaky steps out of the bandstand. He too, had taken steps to meet you, an urgent look on his face.

Stood face to face, the pair of you looked breathlessly like one another – unsure of what would be the right thing to say. One thing was certain, and that was the ever present look of unmatchable love that blossomed in both of your glances.

Watching on, chest rising and falling like a hunted deer – your (eye colour) eyes watched his lips opening and closing aimlessly. He was clearly trying to find something to say, but couldn't. It was like a bubble of stun just permanently floated around the pair of you.

When it fully sunk in that he was right there in front of you – close enough to hold, to feel once again – you broke into the most foolish smile you think had ever been on your expression. Your eyes were already filling with tears, you had convinced yourself you would never see him ever again.

Your first instinct was to throw your arms around him, burying your face into his neck. That was him alright – he had obviously gone to the expense of putting on some cologne for this event, and the scent of it snared you in further.

You felt his arms around your waist, holding you the tightest you had ever been held. There was real emotion in the way his arms hugged you, soon to be followed by a littering of kisses on your neck.

"I'm.... I'm so glad to see you." Arthur murmured in your ear, his breath hot against your neck and raising gooseflesh on your skin. You shuddered in utter shock and delight of this instance, it felt like a dream you were sure to wake from any second.

Pulling back, your eyes searched his with a hazed look of adoration.

"I... I didn't think I'd see you again." You whispered somewhat hoarsely, eyes glassy now. He cupped your face, tenderly and reminded you once again of every single reason why you loved him.

"That makes two of us, darlin'." He murmured, his eyes gracing slowly from your own – down to your pink painted lips. He drew you in, the first you felt of his lips on yours were soft – gentle, relishing almost. He grew hotter, hungrier – melting every ounce of doubt you had in your body.

You were falling to pieces in his arms, the taste of your cherry wine prevalent on his tongue whilst he possessed your mouth more with each fevered kiss. How you never wanted this to ever end.

Retreating solely to draw breath, your eyes remained closed, dark lashes fluttering open dreamily to take in the sight of his face again – a work of art that you were terrified was going to disappear if you looked away for barely a second.

"Arthur..." you whispered, holding onto him tightly. "... Please... I just want to come home." Was all you said. You had been none the wiser to all that had happened in the gang since you were gone, for all you knew – Micah was still there, and you were stilled assumed to be a spy.

You had set your wine glass down on the edge of the balustrade, and Arthur took the opportunity to hold your hands tightly. There was a promising look in his gaze.

"O-of course you can come home." He whispered to you with the most elated smile, "I told you I would sort it out, and it's done. Dutch knows – everybody knows what Micah did." He assured you, "We all have missed you, so so much."

You had never heard so much collective emotion or pain in Arthur's voice before, and the fact it was over you just made your heart expand in your chest. There was nothing that felt more right in that moment than to run off and make your great escape.

"Come on... we need to go." He said, and held your hand tightly as he led the way back up the garden. You were incredibly delighted, but also extremely anxious. A lot had changed since he had last seen you, and you still had to inform him yet of what you had been doing to stay alive.

Weaving through the thick of the crowd, past the orchestrated band and the waiters' serving drinks – your eyes had met with Bill Williamson. The way he was gawping at you was as if he had seen a ghost. Still, you remembered the last words he had said to you... How he had followed Micah's story. You felt angered by his face.

"Christ- (name)!" Bill cried, running over to yourself and Arthur. "What the hell is she doin' here?" he addressed Arthur, to which you rolled your eyes. He couldn't even just ask you to your face.

"A story for another time." You replied shortly, laying your hand on Arthur's arm. He immediately noted the large pink diamond on your finger, and stared at it with a furrowed brow. You noticed him looking, and quickly snatched your hand away.

"I... I need to go and collect a few of my things." You whispered, stammering a little out of nervousness – what would Arthur be thinking? He probably assumed you had married someone rich. The growing confusion and cross expression on is face were disconcerting to you – but you knew you just had to get your stuff, get out of there – and then you could explain everything.

The two men were rather surprised to see you take off upstairs, that also just confirmed that you had been living there.

"You see that fat rock on her finger?" Bill asked, and Arthur frowned out into the distance, arms folding across his chest.

"Yes, I did." He replied blandly. He was completely perplexed on what had happened – and he didn't want to jump to conclusions so was trying hard to fend off any heated feelings before he got back and had a chance to properly talk to you about things.

Up in your room, you rammed all your belongings into the two cases – remembering to grab your journal most importantly. Your movements were as frantic as a hunted creature, breathy as you stuffed everything into the bags and then rushed to the bedroom door – already planning your quick escape out of there.

You were stumped right in your tracks when there was a face you did not wish to see waiting on the landing outside of your door.

"Hello, my little flower..." Bronte chimed, a sickening tone to his voice. His eyes wandered over you slowly, drawing you in – but his gaze was dripping with rage hidden under a sheet of false niceties.

"Going somewhere?" that voice taunted, leaving your heart beating in a frantic frightened mess. Your eyes flickered quickly to try and muse your escape – seeing Hosea and Dutch stood somewhat behind Bronte, the pair of them boxed in by a few guards.

This felt like facing a firing squad, anyone could spring to life at any moment. Danger lingered thick in the air around you, and settled as dense and choking as black smoke.

"Yes, actually." Your challenging voice responded, shattering the silence.

-To Be Continued-