CHAPTER 10

SHELBY'S CURSE

❝ Well-behaved women seldom make history. ❞

Entering the gilded office at La Vie en Rose to find the Bardin brothers standing by the large window and looking down at the grim streets and the hurried people as if they owned every single one of them, as if they owned their worlds, or at least London, was not a rare occurrence, but still one exquisite enough to make anyone stop by the threshold to relish on the sight; unless they were Rose, of course, who didn't have time to admire the beauty of power as she was too busy harvesting it to her hands and making sure it stayed there. Even if her hands were currently tied, and even if Thomas Shelby owned every inch of the rope.

Ever since he had made it clear he wanted to find out everything he could about the French Kissers, her life had turned into one giant chessboard where she tiptoed around the pieces before he could move them. But it was becoming increasingly harder to prevent him from making a move, to protect her walls from his will of iron and his relentless drive to uncover every buried secret she had so carefully been building and keeping over the years.

Her empire, which had once stood as tall as a walled fortress no one dare to break through, now resembled more of a house of cards waiting for that final blow from Thomas to make it fall apart. Rose had enough skeletons in her closet to fill an entire graveyard, and the last thing she wanted was for Thomas to help dig the graves.

"Here already?" She asked after closing the door, virescent glance soaring over Nicolas' on the freshly cleaned window. But he glanced away. And he never glanced away. Not with her. "Is Churchill that much of a bore?"

"You have no idea," Jules complained, turning around with drowsy eyes and a furrowed brow before sinking down onto Rose's desk chair. There was a portrait of the Salvages, polished and delicate, on the wall behind him, and a table with a telephone and a vase of roses beneath it. "I'd rather play on a broken piano than do business again with that man. Or with anyone, really. I fucking hate business. Luckily for us, Nicolas excels at it."

"So I take it as he accepted?" Rose stopped beside Nicolas to try and catch his eyes on the glass, but to no use. Rose had never met Churchill and often wondered what he was like; she supposed he preferred to make business with men, and found it was better if he wasn't aware of her identity.

"To help us expand our business and gain the monopoly on the trade of absinthe to France in exchange for the war plans we retrieved from the Germans? Yes. He was very pleased with all the intel we provided him with. Guess the murder of the Boches wasn't so useless after all; we managed to blackmail Churchill, and be blackmailed by a Shelby in return."

"We're not being blackmailed by him," Rose retorted, steel filling the holes where another voice would have cracked.

"Are you sure of that?" Nicolas replied, but he still didn't turn around or look at her. He was like Thomas in that regard. He used his stare as a weapon. Rose just never thought he'd use it against her. "He had your purse, which is incriminating enough."

"And he gave it back to me."

"In the condition that you'd help him in his quest to dig up all our dirt. Who knows what other incriminating stuff he can have about us by now? He might know the truth already and is just playing you. Playing us. And you're letting him."

"I'm letting him?" Rose clenched her fists and took a step forward, placing herself between Nicolas and the window. His stare slipped down to hers for just a second, but it was enough to her, even if it tasted bitter in her lips. "You do not get to say that, when all I've been doing these past weeks is trying to wear him down by giving him clues that lead nowhere. It's not my fucking fault he's so damn persistent."

Nicolas shook his head, his tone not one decibel above or below normal. He would not shout at her. Not even in an argument would he raise his voice to her. "That's not going to work for much longer. He's not one to give up."

"I know." Rose turned her back on him and focused her gaze on Jules, who had shrunken into the chair as if he wanted to be swallowed. Jules didn't like anything that had to do with conflict; it was hard to picture him as the soldier with a rifle in his hands that every French wanted to have by his side and no German wanted to come across with. All the triggers he had deftly pulled, that's where the keys of the piano should have been instead. "Jules..."

"Ah, non, do not drag me into your fights," the Bardin shook his head, refusing to pick a side. If only Angeline was there, and Jules wouldn't even hesitate. "You look like two schoolboys fighting over a fucking sandwich. Honestly, out of the two of you, I don't know which one is more interested in Thomas Shelby."

Rose and Nicolas huffed at the same time, the first thing they agreed on ever since the atmosphere between them had turned as sour as vinegar.

"He wants you, Rose," Nicolas cut the sharp silence, head still facing ahead, as if the city had answers to questions he hadn't even made. "But more than that, he wants your crown. And I can't stand seeing you give it away."

"I'm not giving it away." Rose's jaw was tense when she spoke, her voice as taut as an arrow about to be shot. "What do you think I've been doing while you two were off licking Churchill's arse? I was searching for something we can bargain with in case Thomas discovers the truth. Something that will make him quiet about it and that will assure me our legacy stays intact."

"Well, have you found it yet?"

The answer came in the form of a knock on the door; it was Arwen, who only allowed her mouth to speak after her eyes had taken a long, deliberate sip of Nicolas' figure, dark contours outlined against the pale window.

"Please tell me it's good news," Jules plead, head resting on his arms in preparation.

"No need to worry your pretty head, sweetie, it's excellent news!" Arwen said nothing more until she walked up to Nicolas to steal a cigarette from his pocket square and lit it. For her life was just a stage; everything was suspense and theatrics. "I went to the brothel. And it appears some of the Peaky Blinders have indeed been down there lately. Are you sure you don't have any Romani blood in you, Rose, with all your accurate predictions?"

"It's just men being men, there's nothing else to it. What did you find out?"

"That any man will tell us what we want after a good drink and a quick fuck," Arwen said over the flame of the lighter while both Nicolas and Jules rolled their eyes. "Especially a certain Johnny Dogs, I think his name is. So, according to my girls, Thomas has a plan to take his family out of prison. It involves Winston Churchill... and his Majesty himself."

"How?" Rose and Nicolas asked in unison, and even Jules raised his head to what would've otherwise been a very good time for him to sleep.

"Apparently, during the robbery Thomas did at the Russians' house, you know, the one to steal their jewelry—"

"Yes, Alfie told me about that."

"Well, he also found a box of correspondence from King George to the White Russians that shows he was collaborating against the Soviets, thus proving his involvement in the murder and sedition allegations the Blinders are being accused of. And it further cements Thomas' argument that his family was caught up in a conspiracy bigger than them. So his plan is to blackmail the British government with the letters, something about burning them if his family walks free."

"Always with an ace up his sleeve," Rose murmured. She didn't know what she found harder to believe and easier to admire, if Thomas' luck, if his cunning. "If he has this much leverage in his hands, he's not going to be satisfied just with the release of his family. He'll want something more out of it. He always wants something more."

Rose looked over to Nicolas, who was already staring at her. This changed everything. It proved to him that Rose was still moving the pieces.

"What could that man possibly want more, doesn't he have everything already?" Jules inquired.

"A seat in the Parliament, an OBE, a ticket to the moon, who knows." Rose shrugged. "But if I can get my hands on those letters, I'll have something against him. He will not want to lose the only thing that's preventing his loved ones from meeting the end of a rope. I have access to his house now, I'm sure he's keeping the papers there."

"How are you going to get them, though?" Arwen intervened. "It's not like he's going to let you wander around his house to open safes here and there."

"I'll find a way," Rose said simply, taking a step towards her friend and placing a long kiss on her cheek. "You're brilliant, Arwen. Brilliant."

"Don't thank me, thank my girls and Johnny Dog's greedy cock."

"What's stopping Thomas from demanding his family's release right away?" Nicolas put the conversation back on track, fingers tapping his chin as his thoughts filled the holes in Rose's.

"He's waiting for some Lord to intervene at the appeal in favor of the Shelbys, but that's only some months from now. We have time," Arwen stated, but as soon as that last word left her mouth, someone knocked on the door.

"Rose?" Evelyn called, words hushed in hurry. "You'll want to come downstairs. Thomas Shelby's here. And he doesn't seem very pleased."

***

There was a man waiting at the bottom of the stairs. It wasn't the first, it wouldn't be the last, but none other had been like this. The way his back straightened naturally, as if it knew its owner was in charge of the world and needed to show it, the way the cobalt in his eyes stole the light from every corner, even the darkest ones, the way he pulled the gold watch from his pocket as if he owned every minute and every second, as if there was nothing he couldn't bend or buy, not even time.

Thomas Shelby was ahead of his time by miles. Which meant he was behind death by mere seconds. He had a timelessness to him, as if he had lived a thousand lives already, and died thousands more. He walked around like every person and every moment needed to catch up to him; time didn't wait for anyone, and neither did he. And risking a peek at him, Rose wondered if in a century his name would be printed in history books.

"Thomas." Rose climbed down the stairs, a sardonic smile resting on her lips as a man who was used to looking down at people was now forced to look up at her. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Is Charlie alright?"

Weeks had passed since their first lesson, and Rose found herself caring for the small boy more and more. He'd probably never be a Mozart, but he seemed to enjoy playing the violin, which was the most important thing. And for most days Thomas left them alone, which was a blessing.

But now he was here, in front of her, and that could only be a curse. One that lured her more than any blessing.

"Yeah, he's alright. I suspect he likes you more than he likes horses, and he likes horses a lot." Thomas brought a hand to his pocket, taking a cigarette out and hanging it between his lips. "On the other hand, I believe his other teachers hate you, since your lessons are now his favorite part of the week."

"Ah, the Shelby's curse," Rose said, drumming her nails on the railing before stepping down the last step and stopping in front of Thomas. His eyes slid down her figure for a moment only, but it wasn't enough to her. For some reason, she liked having his stare on her. Perhaps because it felt like a weapon, and Rose was used to those. "Being respected by many, hated by more and feared by all. Seems like I've fallen victim to it."

"A price you're willing to pay, eh?"

"For Charles, yes. Did you come to have lunch?"

"I came to talk to you."

"Well, I was about to have lunch."

Thomas shook his head, the cigarette dancing across his lips in the same denial. "I can't wait."

"I'm not asking you to wait." Rose went around him and grabbed the chair of the nearest empty table, and his eyes followed her, tracing every move she made, every curve she had. Thomas could be ahead of his time, but he was still behind Rose. And no amount of seconds he had in his pockets would be enough to keep up with her. "Have lunch with me."

His eyebrows rose; mentally, so did hers. She had spoken without thinking, which was perhaps an improvement from all the other times she spoke without feeling.

"I don't have time for lunch."

"You will if it's with me," Rose countered, dragging the chair backwards and gesturing towards it. Thomas scoffed under his breath, staring at her for what it felt like hours, until he let out a displeased sigh and sat on the chair.

"I assume you have something for me, then?" He questioned, the foreign buzz and the clinking of glasses fading in the background as she took the seat across from his.

"Yes, real food instead of the poor sample you Rosbifs call English cuisine. You look like a man who barely eats, and I blame this hideous English food of yours for it."

"I'm glad Pol's not 'ere to hear ya, she might have shot you for that one."

"Sounds like a scary woman," Rose beamed, opening a bottle of whiskey and pouring the caramel colored liquid into two glasses.

"I'm surrounded by them," Thomas said, accepting the drink but not taking a sip. "I don't have time for these games, Rose."

"If you don't have time to eat, you don't have time for anything. Non non, Thomas, you're not getting out of here until you taste the subtlety of the French cuisine and the refinement of our pastries. I promise once you've tasted it you will never want anything else."

"Yes," he said, eyes not moving from hers, glass meeting his lips, whiskey finally lacing his tongue and burning his throat. "I can tell."

"So what should we have—"

"You're stalling me, Rose." Thomas placed the glass down in such a way that some droplets jumped from it and landed on her hand. "Not just now, but in making me go on all these meetings and negotiations with Frenchmen and businessmen that can tell me little to nothing about the gang or its leader."

"It's all I know, Thomas, I can't help you more than this."

"Hmm," he muttered, taking a long drag from the cigarette before removing it from his mouth and pointing to her with it. "Do you know who I saw last night, leaving some fancy restaurant in Kensington? Kaya Yende. I believe she's your friend, yes? I've seen her 'ere a couple of times."

"And?"

"And she seems like a beguiling woman, given as how she was slapping Alfie Solomons in the middle of the street," his tone was casual and unpretentious, as if he was dropping news and not bombs. "You choose your friends well, I'll give you that. I heard the fuckin' whack from the other side of the road."

Fuck. With everything that had been going on, Rose had completely forgotten about the date she had gotten Kaya into. "I suppose you don't know if he hurt her?"

"Oh, I'm sure he didn't. She told him there wasn't going to be a second time and then strolled off and left him standing there. Still a fuckin' Brummie, she is. I guess no matter how fuckin' elitist the city you go to is, no matter how fuckin' posh your accent becomes, they can't wash that away from ya."

"You know her," Rose said, and it wasn't a question. Rose knew Kaya had been born and raised in Birmingham, and that she had taken the train to London at the first chance she had. But she didn't know why.

"Aye, she was close friends with... someone I once cared very much about. Anyway, I went over to him. Alfie's said to have business with the Kissers, but the fucker refused to tell me anything. Can you imagine that big mouth staying fuckin' quiet for once? Alfie's loyalty is usually to whoever pays higher. But last night, his loyalty was to his cock. And I bet Kaya's loyalty," the cigarette was still directed at her, in an accusation. The ashes at the end of it fell, and Rose tried not to see her empire in it, "that one lies with you. Now the only loyalty I'm having a hard time figuring out is yours. But if I had to bet... I'd say it lies with him."

Thomas raised his cigarette, and Rose looked over her shoulder, to the brown-haired man at the top of the stairs whose dark eyes soared over them like a hawk. Thomas already thought Nicolas was the leader, and in the ways that mattered to him, Nicolas was behaving exactly as if he was.

She turned her head back to him, the lump in her throat already feeling the weight of his words.

"And I think it's time he and I get acquainted."

***

There was a familiar voice calling her in the chilly streets of London, but Rose's thoughts were still so stuck at the café and the conversation that was unfolding there that she completely missed it. She trusted Nicolas and his ability to deceive and mislead people, even Thomas; that's not what she was worried about. She was worried that the house might burn down because of the fondness both men had for ashes. For having them at their feet while the flames still danced between their fingertips.

"Rose!" A hand grabbed her arm, and Rose's mind snapped back to reality to find gentle brown eyes set against resolute edges and obstinate lines. Jessie Eden was one of a kind; one of the few who did not conform to history, rather she preferred to make history conform to her. "Are you alright?"

"Jessie! Yes, I... I didn't expect to find you in London. I heard you're organizing a strike amongst factory workers in Birmingham?"

"Yes, I came here to work out the final details."

"You know Thomas Shelby is not going to like that."

"Who cares what that man likes?" Jessie pulled Rose aside so a woman in a camel coat could pass by them. "If he can build a monopoly in Birmingham, he damn sure can ensure his female workers receive equal pay."

"Have you met him?" Rose asked, accepting the cigarette Jessie offered her and bringing it to her lighter as if the smoke could somehow ease the hand she had around her lungs.

"No, not yet. You?"

"Yes. Life-changing experience."

"Well then, next time you see him, see if you can convince him to follow your example," Jessie tugged at her arm, a warm smile spreading on her lips. Rose wasn't used to it, given as how Jessie was usually in rallies shouting and inciting revolutions; one of the reasons they had bonded. "I'm proud of you, Rose. Your factories were one of the first, and still are one of the few, to secure equal payment between genders and the same conditions for women overall. There's still so much to do, but we're changing the century, I can feel it. And soon enough, men like Thomas Shelby won't be able to stop us."

"They've never been," Rose replied, placing her hands on her friend's shoulders. "I admire what you're doing, Jessie. Truly."

"Likewise. You know I would be honored if you joined our cause, Rose. Red roses are a symbol of socialism and social democracy, after all."

Rose chuckled. "I'm afraid I'm not a woman of faith, whether it comes to religion or politics. Besides, the Communists have their rose already."

Jessie smiled, pulling Rose into a quick hug. "I have to go now, but we'll catch up over a cup of tea soon, alright?"

"Or a drink or two," Rose agreed, bidding her farewell and walking away. Not far away a group of kids played with a torn ball. One of them kicked it too hard and the ball crossed the street, getting entangled with Rose's feet and making her stumble. Her shoe hit the ball clumsily, and it rolled down the pavement only to end up at the feet of the man who seemed to have taken a permanent seat at the table of her thoughts.

"Careful boys, you won't want to mess with this lady," Thomas said, kicking the ball back to the group in a perfectly smooth movement. Rose marched to him, words dissolving on her tongue when she saw him smiling. "We used to do the same back in the day, y'know, whenever a pretty woman passed by. Trying to get their attention. Me and me brothers hardly had any luck."

A soft laugh escaped past her lips. "A time when Thomas Shelby was ignored. Hard to imagine. But I guess no one is the person they were in their childhood. How did it go? Did you get your answers?"

"Not all." A sudden gust of wind swept between them, making the grey cap fly from his head at the same time Rose's hair flogged her cheeks. She caught the cap with her fingers; he brushed the golden curls away from her face. "Nicolas told me he was the leader."

Rose flipped the peak of the cap in her hands, the razor blade sharp against the softness of her fingers, sharper against the roughness of her heart. She and Nicolas had planned this as a last resource, but apparently for him a last resource came first. Because he would do anything to see Thomas away from her. Even if it meant seeing her away from him.

"Told me you had nothing to do with the gang. And that I should stop bothering ya if I didn't want me brain all over his walls."

"Why are you telling me this?" The whiff of smoke he blew into the cold air reached her nose and Rose couldn't help but breathe it in. "Wouldn't he have warned you not to say anything?"

"I didn't believe him," Thomas replied. "I've had too many guns placed against me head for his to make any difference."

"Gosh, you two..." Her fists curled into solid rock. Inside her mind the picture of two men standing face to face with their fingers on the triggers crumbled into a different one. Like two schoolboys over the same sandwich. "Tell me that he's alive."

"He's alive," his voice came out low and hoarse, and not discernible enough for Rose to pick the truth in it. Then his calloused fingers returned to her skin, only this time they grasped the side of her face and Rose felt some resemblance of warmth for the first time that day. "Who's the leader, Rose?"

She looked up at him, dove into his eyes, then came back on the other side, put her hand above his wrist and pushed it away.

"It's not the guns others point at your head that you should be afraid of, Thomas. It's the rope that you're tightening around your neck."

Another blast of wind gushed over them, and she shoved his cap into his chest and turned away, only taking a few steps before his voice glued her feet to the ground.

"See that house over there?" She turned her head to the left, to the majestic Victorian building on the other side of the road. "I'm stayin' there while I'm in London. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Rose left him with no answer and strolled away, thoughts clashing against one another as they tried to make space for any little sense she could make of that day. There was a violin being played somewhere, and that offered some comfort to the frost in her bones.

But then she crossed a dark alley and caught the glimpse of a camel coat on the ground and her eyes narrowed. She had seen it that day. She walked over to pick it up, and that's when her heart froze and her blood boiled.

"Help! Please... someone..." It was the voice of a woman, and then it was ragged breaths and a muffled scream until the deafening sound of a jab falling upon her head rendered her speechless.

"Shut up, bitch," it was the voice of a man, and Rose kept quiet as well, even if in her mind she was screaming, even if in her mind they both were, and then her feet were moving at the pace of her heart, her fingers already grasping the Colt inside her purse as she got herself deeper into the dark.

"Let her go," Rose commanded, barrel aimed at the skull of the man as her eyes scanned her surroundings. Garbage around four men, garbage inside them, and a young woman against a wall, the white in her eyes the only clarity in the alley. Rose's lip quivered but her finger kept stiff on the trigger.

"Drop that thing, darling, the hands of a woman weren't made for a gun," he spat out. "Why don't ya come 'ere and play with my cock instead?"

"I said Let. Her. Go," Rose repeated, releasing the safety of the revolver while the guys threw sneers around.

"Come on, sweetheart, we all know you're not really going to—"

The bang that echoed in the alley answered for Rose; the blood that dripped from the hole above his eyes fell to the floor just seconds before he did. She moved the gun between the others. No one was laughing anymore.

"Who's next?"

"You bitch!" One of them shouted, throwing his giant body over Rose's just to have his yell vanished when the knife in her hand pierced through his throat, droplets of crimson red splattering all over her face. She could run from it as much as she wanted, but blood would always come back to her. It was the first thing she had ever tasted, and she was sure it would be the last.

With the gun in one hand and the knife in the other, Rose locked eyes with the girl and whispered 'run'. The girl stood still for a second, but then raced past them and disappeared and Rose allowed herself a sigh of relief, just before one of the men landed a powerful punch to her ribs and stole the little air she still had on her lungs.

Rose gasped and the man hit her again, the palm of his hand striking her on the temple and pulling the stars straight from the sky and into her vision. She coughed, blood all over his shirt as she brought her fist upwards and punched his chin, his head sent backwards as she heard more steps rushing in. She reached forward in a haste, grabbed his collar and curled her finger against the trigger; for a moment the whole world was boiled down into one color, red and the metallic taste of it, until every single one of her thoughts was saturated by it and spilling it too.

Then someone clutched her arm, twisting it painfully behind her back to make her drop the revolver, and she struggled in his grip, feeling the blade run across her skin until she could grab it properly and stab the arms that had her. Curses left mouths at the same flow as blood, and when another jumped at her, Rose picked the gun from the ground and shot at his chest.

When the stabbed man came from behind her, she felt the fabric of her clothes tear, the sting that came with cuts on the skin, the early stages of bruises as he beat her. Then the sound of the violin reached her ears and her teeth gritted; she turned around and placed a kick to his stomach before placing a bullet to his heart.

Black powder sat on her eyelids as the blood solidified around her mouth and then the bang happened, and the faraway violin went quiet, as if the last note had died inside her.

Rose didn't feel the pain, only the adrenaline behind it, the rush in her veins. But the warm blood gushing from her arm didn't leave room for mistakes, and her world spun in front of her, the floor suddenly closer than it should be. She looked around aimlessly, to the last man standing, to how he was about to fire again, but the Colt in her hands was faster than him.

Her strength failed her, and the first bullet hit his knee before the final one went to his brain and the only sound left in the alley was the pounding inside her head. There wasn't a single inch at her feet that wasn't covered in blood; these were her ashes, her flames, and her hands were shaking, but her eyes were dry.

The Shelby's curse indeed, she thought as her eyes fluttered and rolled and closed and the blood kept leaving her as if the world was finally claiming back all the blood she had stolen from it, all the red she had taken from people and hid on her hands.

She was only vaguely aware of the space around her as her knees faltered and she crashed against a wall. She could have gone to her sisters, to Nicolas. She should have gone to Nicolas. La Vie en Rose was close.

But the Victorian house was closer.

And Rose was already limping her way towards it.

author's note.

Pff this was intense, and it only gets more intense from now on... get ready ;)

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Feel free to drop your thoughts on it, I love hearing from you guys <3