Chapter Text

Alice

I took a deep breath of the smoky Birmingham air and opened the doors to The Garrison and exhaled as I walked into the pub. I'd better get this job. I was told that people here don't ask questions. That is exactly what I needed. No questions. I took in the scent of alcohol and smoke as I further entered the establishment. An older man who was cleaning the tables looked up and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Are you Henry Fenton?" I inquired.

"Born and raised. Why?"

"I'm here about the job opening. I would like to apply as a barmaid." I held my head high to exude confidence.

He laughed, "Are you mad?"

"Am I mad?" You repeated back to him, insulted.

"Do you know about this place?" He took a puff out of his cigarette, picked up a broom, and began sweeping.

"I saw an advert in the papers and heard you don't ask questions," I replied.

"Job's filled." He retorted.

"It was in yesterday's and this morning's paper."

"Look, love, I'm doin' you a favor."

"I don't want a favor. I want a job." I stuck to my ground. This place could not be that bad.

"You're too… nice and too American," He stopped sweeping.

"How would you know?" I quipped back.

"And too American. You're plain enough, but they'd still have you against a wall."

"I have experience," I lied, and opened my pocketbook to fish out a paper with references, all of which were from friends in America. "And references."

I walked closer to Henry and gave him the paper. He took it and asked, "What part of America are you from?"

"Massachusetts, Boston."

"You're too American," he said and tried to hand the references back to me.

I set my pocketbook down on the cleaned table, took off my red hat, and put it there too.

"Watch. And listen." I said, thickening the slight English accent I inherited from my late mother. I took the big metal bucket from the floor in front of us and walked over to the bar, where small brass buckets sat on the floor. I took the first brass bucket and dumped the dirty liquid contents into the bigger bucket.

As I dumped, I spoke in a thicker Birmingham accent, "I like telling stories. In America, my stories captivated patrons and stopped them from causing chaos. My mother, who was from Small Heath before she was stolen away to America by my father, told me thousands of stories throughout her life. One of which is the story of the death of King Arthur."

I slowly moved onto the next brass container, "The story starts when Sirs Mordred and Agravain try to persuade three of Arthur and Lancelot's most trusted knights, Sirs Gaheris, Gareth, and Gawain, to tell Arthur of a relationship between Queen Guinevere and Lancelot. The first two refuse, while Gawain tells Arthur, but is not believed."

Then the second container, "Mordred and Agravain persuade Arthur to test their loyalty. Lancelot meets with Guinevere, and when Mordred and some of his followers catch them, Lancelot kills all but Mordred. This attack splits the Knights of the Round Table into those who support Arthur and those who support Mordred."

Then the next container, " Arthur desires to execute Guinevere for treason as she may produce a bastard heir, but Lancelot rescues her and takes her into hiding. This rescue mission costs the lives of many of Arthur's knights, including Gaheris and Gareth, tearing the kingdom apart."

And the next, "Arthur's grief is crushing, but Gawain's is worse, and he vows to avenge their deaths. War breaks out between Arthur and Lancelot and their forces. After Lancelot goes to Arthur to tell him he never had a relationship with Guinevere, the war becomes a defense of Lancelot's honor."

I moved on to the third-to-last bucket, "The war continues until the Pope forces Arthur to take Guinevere back. Lancelot is then exiled and leaves for France with one hundred knights. Gawain still has a desire for vengeance, so he goes to France with Arthur and battles Lancelot, who leaves Gawain gravely wounded."

Then, to the penultimate bucket, "While Arthur is away, Mordred takes control of the kingdom and tries to force Guinevere to marry him. When Arthur and an injured Gawain return home to fight for their kingdom, Gawain succumbs to his injuries. Before dying, he writes to Lancelot asking for his assistance in the fight with Mordred."

Finally, I come up to the last bucket, "Mordred and Arthur almost reach a reconciliation, but one last battle breaks out where Arthur kills Mordred, but is fatally wounded himself. Arthur, knowing he is dying, asks to be placed on a small boat that will make passage to Avalon. It is said that one day Arthur will return to glory."

I placed the bucket on the bar top and looked back up at Henry. He had what looked to be astonishment on his face, but it quickly subsided.

"Well, I hope you know a lot of stories." He said with a smile, "You start tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Alice

I was back there again. He had me pinned against his desk and was taking me by force from behind. It wasn't the first time. I was yelling at him to stop. He would not listen. I reached for something, anything, that would make him stop. I found it. His new letter opener. Adrenaline rushed through my body. He put his hand on the desk, and I sliced it. He whirled me around, his face filled with rage. He let go of me. In that split second, I decided to go for the throat. I slashed as hard and deep as I could.

Warm blood sprayed on my face and hands. He slowly brought his hands up to his throat, gasping for air. He tried to talk, to scream, but nothing would come out except a gurgling noise. He collapsed to his knees and then to the floor.

A scream jolted me out of my sleep. My own scream. Sticky sweat soaked the sheets and my body. I panted, trying to catch a hold of my breath. Tears wet my face as I felt bile creep up my throat. I rushed into the hall and to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before violently expelling my dinner through my mouth. Once I was sure I was done, I flushed the toilet and sat back on my feet. I rested my hot forehead on the cool porcelain, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

It was over a month ago, and it still feels like it happened last night. I still felt dirty. Every day, sometimes twice a day, I would shower until my shin turned red from all the scrubbing. I still felt Charlie's blood on my hands and face. I still felt him on top of me. I couldn't wash away the stains he left on me, for they were not on the outside.

I picked up my watch and noticed it was already six in the morning. Today was the first day of my new life. One where I didn't get raped by my fiancé. One where I didn't kill him. A life where I was a simple barmaid. I peeled myself off the floor and turned the shower onto its hottest setting. I waited impatiently as the shower heated up. Once it was a satisfactory temperature, I undressed from my nightgown and stepped into the shower.

I let the hot water trickle down my skin. I grabbed the loofah from the edge of the tub and lathered it up with soap. I scrubbed my body as hard as I could without breaking skin until the water turned cold. Once it did, I turned the shower off and rubbed the towel over my body harder than I had scrubbed it. After drying off to the point that my skin was red, I wrapped the towel around me and went back into my room, where I searched for a pair of clothes for my first day of work.

I decided on a simple black blouse with the same color flower embroidery on it and a long green skirt with ruffles at the bottom. Once I was dressed and had a little bit of makeup on, I went downstairs to make myself eggs and tea. I ate slowly so as not to upset my stomach. I sat at the table reading the day's newspaper, trying to forget the events I had nightmares about.

I didn't have work until twelve, so when I finished with my breakfast, I moved to the small sitting room, which I used as a library, and picked up my copy of Peter and Wendy that I was just starting to reread. I let my problems drift away as I read.

Once the clock chimed eleven, I put my book down and went to the front door, where I grabbed my green woolen coat that went just past my hips and slipped it on. After buttoning my coat, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door to work.

Chapter Text

Alice

By one o'clock, the pub was packed. I was in the middle of helping Harry serve patrons when I asked, "Is it always this busy during the day?"

"No. They're on their way to Saint Andrews," Harry answered.

"The church?" I furrowed my brow.

He laughed, "Ha! That'll be the day! Saint Andrews is the football ground. The Blues are playing this afternoon. See, that's the forward line there," he pointed to a man in the crowd, "and that's the goalie." He pointed to another.

Before I could reply, a bang came from the pass-through.

"Hello?" A man's deep voice rose above the noise in the pub.

I turned around to find a very handsome man with hair almost as dark as mine peering through the opening. I smiled and walked up to the opening, waiting to listen to what he needed. Instead of speaking, the man stared at me with an unreadable look on his face.

"How can I help you?" I asked, unintentionally dropping the forced thick accent, leaving only a little of the Birmingham inflection.

When he did speak, his voice was deep with a thick Birmingham accent: "I need a bottle of rum."

Before I could move, Harry leaned over to me and said into my ear, "Whatever he wants is on the house."

I turned slightly to Harry and nodded, then turned back to the man in the window, "A whole bottle, yeah?"

"Yeah."

I turned around to go get the rum, but then remembered that there were different types of rum, so I pivoted back on my heels and asked, "White or dark?"

"Doesn't matter," he shrugged. I turned back around and went up to the liquor wall behind the bar. It took me a second to find it, but I grabbed a bottle of dark rum and made my way back to the man.

"Here you are," I handed the bottle over, "Harry says it is on the house."

He paused for a moment, so I gave him a smile. He took the bottle and studied me for a second, "Are you a whore?"

It took me a moment to process what exactly he said. Taken aback by his question, I slightly opened and closed my mouth a few times, trying to find the right words and settle on, "No. I am not a whore."

"Well, you're in the wrong place then," he said and immediately turned on his feet and walked away.

I stood there for a second in disbelief. After shutting the frosted glass wooden doors to the pass-through, I walked over to Harry and asked, "He is one of the men you warned me about yesterday, isn't he?"

"Look, Alice, you're a really friendly girl, but be careful. When I tell you something is on the house, don't say a word to whoever you are serving," Harry warned.

"Yes, sir." I nodded my head.

"And if they decide they want you, well, there is nothing I nor anybody else can do about it," he said and paused before adding in a hushed voice, "Luckily enough for you, since he got back from France, Tommy doesn't want anybody." Harry walked away and greeted a couple of customers who walked up to the bar.

I stood in place and replayed Harry's words in my mind as it drifted off to the look on the man's, Tommy's, face when he first laid eyes on me, trying to decipher what it meant.

The rest of the night was uneventful. I got out of work around midnight and walked back to my apartment with the light of the street lamps guiding my path. I still could not shake the look on Tommy's face from my mind. What was he thinking when he stared? What was going through his mind when he asked me if I was a whore? Why was he so handsome? That last thought caught me off guard. I could tell he was a dangerous man just by the way Harry talked about him. So why was I so intrigued by him?

Once home, I made myself some dinner and read more of Peter and Wendy at the kitchen table as I ate. After finishing dinner, I made my way up to the bedroom and took another shower before retiring for another restless night.

Tommy

Instead of thinking about Inspector Campbell and my brother, Arthur, that night, I thought of the girl at the pub. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but she was still peculiarly pretty in her own way. While her nose was a little too big for her face, her stark green eyes, plump red lips, and semi-curly black hair haunted me. A part of me regretted asking if she was a whore. But the other part wanted to warn her away from this wretched place. She seemed too soft for this part of town. Too innocent.

I stripped off my suit coat, vest, and button-up, leaving me in my undershirt. The bed creaked as I sat down on the edge and grabbed my opium pipe. I prepared the opium and inhaled it a few times before putting the pipe down and lying on my bed. I let the sense of euphoria rush over me as I fell asleep.

I was back there again. Freddie Thorne and Danny Whizz-Bang had snuck up to the wall of the trench to listen for enemy movement or conversation while I was drifting off to sleep.

"Tommy!" Freddie had shouted, rousing me from my sleep. I had woken up to see two men attacking them. There had been screaming. Danny had been stabbed. Freddie had shouted Danny's name. There had been more screaming. Freddie trying to fight off the enemies. Danny screaming in pain. There was another scream, this time my own.

I woke, jolting upright. My breath was gone. I was gasping for air. I looked around at my surroundings. I was home. I was no longer in the trenches of war. The bed creaked as I sat up and planted my feet on the ground. I glanced over at the opium and pipe. It was working less and less these days.

There were noises coming from outside, so I pushed the curtains above my bed aside and noticed two policemen watching the window. I rolled my eyes and shut the blinds. I glanced over at the desk. It was only five in the morning. I only had five hours of sleep, but I decided to get up anyway. No use in going back there again.

Chapter Text

Alice

A few nights later, it was getting rowdy in The Garrison, so I began to tell the story of Beowulf and Grendel's mother, acting dramatically along with it. I was at the best part, where Beowulf is in the cave fighting for his life. The men were whooping and cheering as I played out the scene.

"Grendel spotted the great sword forged for giants on the wall of the cave," I said as the doors opened. I ignored it and continued, "The sword is larger than any mortal weapon, and no human could lift it."

The crowd grew silent as some men turned their backs on me and the person who walked into the pub. And yet I continued, "Beowulf reached for the sword, wrapped his hands around the hilt, and with all his strength, he lifted it and brought it down and sliced through the monster!"

I looked up to see Tommy in the doorway. I'd found out earlier in the week that his full name was Thomas Shelby and that he was the leader of a gang called the Peaky Blinders. He stood a few steps clear of the doors and looked irritated.

"It hasn't been this lively in here since the war," Harry went up to Tommy and said sheepishly.

Tommy glared at him for a moment before saying, "Why do you think that is, Harry?"

Tommy then turned back to me with not quite a glare but not a pleasant expression either. Embarrassed, I broke his gaze and looked down at the floor. I thought this was a good idea. Apparently, the gangster and his cronies didn't. My gut churned as I felt his gaze still upon me. I felt like a scolded school child who had done something very wrong.

A few days later, I was cleaning the pub to get ready for the day ahead. Dumped the first pail of waste into the streets, and out of the corner of my vision, something big and white caught my eye. I looked up and saw a large white horse in the streets. With that horse was the man named Tommy. I stopped and stared as he rode the horse down the road, when suddenly something in the factory let out a big bang and poured fire out the windows.

The horse reared up on its hind legs and neighed. Tommy tried to soothe the horse while holding on tight so that he wouldn't fall. When the horse calmed enough for him to get off, Tommy stood in front of the horse, petting its nose. He put his head to the horse's and started to say something I could not hear.

"Alice, hurry up, we'll be opening in a few minutes!" I heard Harry yell out to you. Not mad, just loud so I could hear him.

I hurried back inside, grabbed the second bucket of waste, and tossed it out into the street without looking up. I heard a clop of a horse's feet on pavement come to a stop, and I looked up to find Thomas Shelby standing there with the reins to the horse in his hands. Fuck. I thought to myself. I'm in deep shit. I looked down to see if it got on him. Luckily, it didn't.

"Oh my goodness, Mr. Shelby, I'm so sorry." I looked up at his unreadable face. He didn't seem mad. But then again, neither did my father right before he had what I called his "calm anger."

He didn't say anything, just continued to look at me with a peculiar look. If he were calm angry, he most likely would've snapped by now. I waited for a second for him to speak, but he said nothing.

"I'm Alice Burke, by the way," I said to break the odd silence.

"I know." He nodded, and silence followed.

"What's this beauty's name?" I gestured to the magnificent horse that stood before me.

"He doesn't have one," Tommy said.

"That's a shame. A pretty boy like him deserves a name."

"Do you want something from me, Alice?" he said in an almost vexed manner.

"About the other night," I started, "when you came into the pub while I was telling that story. You said it wasn't allowed… I was wondering if you could allow one day a week where I can perform stories. I think it would be good for everyone."

He put his tongue in his cheek and looked away for a moment. Again, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Say, Saturday nights," I suggested. He turned back to me, and I added, "Harry was too scared to ask, so…"

The corner of his lip turned up for a slight second. As if almost remembering who he was, he immediately cooled his face into that unreadable stoned expression. It was almost imperceptible, but I saw it nonetheless.

"But you're not," he said accusatively.

"I actually am," I admitted, "but I love to tell stories more than I am afraid."

He opened his mouth slightly and barely nodded his head, "You sound like a rich girl who comes for the races."

I scoffed at the insinuation. I was far from rich.

"Do you like horses?" his voice was lighter now.

"Why?" It was my turn to sound vexed.

"How'd you fancy earnin' some extra money?" He walked over to the side of his nameless horse and petted him.

"What do I have to do for that?" I watched him closely as he got up on the horse.

"Find a nice dress. " He forced a smile, "I'm goin' to take you to the races."

Before I could give him an answer, he rode off on the horse. I watched after him as he rode down the street. Well, that's quite cocky and presumptuous. I thought to myself as I took the bucket back into the bar. I had no nice dresses. I'd have to go out and spend a week's wages on one tonight.

Chapter Text

Tommy

I got home later than I would've liked, but after running into Alice and then my meeting with Inspector Campbell and my fight with Ada, I had some errands to run. Upstairs in my room, I sat on the bed as I waited for the opium to heat up. I found my mind wandering to Alice. Her smile when she first met me. The unfortunate look of fear when she dumped the dirty ale in front of me. The way she then spoke and stood up to me as if I weren't head of the Shelby family. The opium was ready for me to use. I took a hit of the pipe and laid down in bed. I continued to think of Alice until I fell asleep to the familiar nightmare.

I was back in the trenches in France. The screaming wouldn't stop. The screaming of my name from Freddie. The screams of agony from Danny. The shouting of the Germans who had invaded our trenches. Then there were the gunshots that came in our direction. Someone grabbed me in a chokehold from behind. I couldn't breathe. As Freddie tackled and pounded on the German who shot Danny, I managed to get free, but not before another German choked me from the front. I writhed and squirmed and hit the man's arms continuously. Danny's screams filled the air.

Another scream woke me, again, this one being my own. I shot upright in my bed in Birmingham and panted. I brought my hand to my throat and touched it gently, trying to regain my breath. I stared at the wallpapered wall across from me and tried to orient myself. You're not there anymore. You're home. You're home.

A dull banging came from the downstairs door. I could hear a man call my name from outside, "Tom! Tommy! You'd better come quick! Tom!"

I moved the curtains aside and peered out the window, and saw Curly standing out in the pouring rain.

"Come! Come!" He was gesturing for me to come outside.

I held up a finger, telling him to wait as I got out of bed and threw my clothes back on. I grabbed my gun and flew out my bedroom door. The stairs creaked beneath my feet as I rushed down them. I opened the front door and stepped out into the downpour.

"You have to come to the stables quick, it's the new horse," Curly said, and without waiting for an answer, started to run down the street.

I followed him down to the stable, where I found my new horse with his front right leg tied up. I looked down at his leg and hoof. Concerned, I turned to Curly, "Curly, tell me."

"It's a curse, Tom." He said frantically. He walked over to the other end of the stall. He was nearly shaking.

I walked over to him and steadied his face with my hands, "Curly, sh, sh, sh. Tell me. Tell me, Curly, what's wrong with the horse?"

"You brought it at the fair in bad feeling. The Lees put a bad seed in the hoof. Got an old woman to put a spell on 'im," Curly said frantically, and then, as I walked back over to the horse, he started mumbling incoherently.

"So those Lee bastard fucking cursed him." I ran my hand through my wet hair.

"Whatever it is," said Charlie Strong, "he said it has spread to the other feet.

"It's goin' to his heart by tomorrow I say," panicked Curly.

I held my head in my hands. Fuck.

"Seen curses like this twice before," Curly said, frightened, "Can't take them back, Tom. No! No." He paced back and forth.

"I told ya Tommy," Charlie said softly, "There's better enemies to have than black blood Gypsies."

I ran both of my hands down to the back of my head and let them drop. I sighed before telling my men to get out.

Curly hesitated. Charlie spoke up, "Get out, Curly."

Curly gasped and ran out of the stables with Charlie following behind. When I knew they were gone, I turned to the horse with pity.

"I'm sorry," I said softly. I reached down to grab my gun. As I rose it, it felt heavy in my hands. I pointed it at the horse's forehead. How could I let this happen? I took a deep breath and faltered. This poor horse was going to die, and it was all my fault. It was like I was back in France all over. Having to put down a horse instead of letting him suffer. My gut churned, and I slowly cocked the gun. I took a long pause before closing my eyes and painstakingly pulling the trigger.

I opened my eyes, and I could feel tears prick at my eyes. I tried to sniffle them back, but one rolled down my cheek anyway. I walked down out of the barn and down the street with no destination in mind.

I found myself wandering to The Garrison a few minutes later. I knew it had just closed, but I couldn't help myself. I hoped that Harry or even Alice were there. I banged on the door, and moments later, Alice opened the door.

"We've just closed ten minutes ago, Mr. Shelby," She said, but let me into the foyer anyway. I walked in and took off my hat.

"Just get me a drink," I said detachedly.

She nodded and walked into the pub. She grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the bar and handed it to me.

"Should I leave you be?" Alice said from behind the bar.

I put the bottle and cup down on the table with a clank. Without turning to her, I said, "I came for company."

I pulled out the chair and sat before adding, "Where's Harry?"

"He took the night off," she walked over to my table while I poured myself a drink, "he went to see the pictures." She paused a moment and then gestured to the chair across from me, "May I?"

I nodded. She sat.

"How's your handsome horse? Does he have a name yet?"

I paused for a moment, bringing my drink to my lips and letting the amber whiskey burn my mouth and throat. I gingerly put the cup back onto the table, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and sighed, "I just put a bullet in his head."

Her smile faded into a frown as she studied me. She then spoke when she got the courage, "Was he ill?"

I considered telling her the truth. That I fucked up and got the damned horse cursed. That the horse wouldn't make it. But I decided against it. She needed to be warned away from me. If I let her in, things would not end well for her. "He looked at me the wrong way."

She looked scared. Good, I thought, she should be afraid. I'm dangerous. I'm a monster.

"It's not a good idea to look at Thomas Shelby the wrong way," I added.

"What a pity," she lowered her gaze to her hands sitting in her lap.

"Yep. A pity is what it is," I took another long sip from the glass. XXX

"You know, in France…" I said and then paused, debating whether to tell her. I looked around and avoided her gaze, "In France, I got used to watching men die… I never got used to seeing the horses die. They die badly."

I fished in my jacket pocket and pulled out my cigarettes and matches. I looked up and offered one to Alice.

"Thank you. I found a dress, just like you said to," She took the cigarette. I took one for myself and put it in my mouth.

"Is it the Cheltenham races?" she asked. I struck the match. She leaned forward so I could light her cigarette. As I lit mine, she added, "It's a big affair, isn't it?"

"The king'll be there," I told her.

She furrowed her brows, "King George?"

I forgot she wasn't from here, "No," I took a drag of the cigarette, "King Billy Kimber and all of his men."

"And what do I do?"

"For two pounds, whatever I ask."

She thought for a moment, then bargained, "I want three."

I laughed at her forwardness.

"If I'm meeting a so-called king, I need a good dress."

I pursed my lips, considering her deal.

"And," She added, "I would like to tell stories."

I had to admire her gumption. I smirked slightly, "Since when is that part of our deal?"

"Since now. Since you just nearly smiled," She grinned. "Saturday night only. Three stories a night, just like I did in Boston."

"You didn't work in Boston, so don't lie to me."

I could tell she was shocked, "How-"

"I asked around about that pub you said you worked in. You see, I have some friends there. And no one's ever heard of you."

She looked away from me, and I continued, "Now, I think what happened is you're a girl from a good family who got herself pregnant, and bringing a child into the world alone ruined your life. Right?"

Alice

I stifled a laugh. That was far from the truth.

He looked at me inquisitively, "Then what?"

Shit. I should've just said yes. I couldn't tell him what I did. So I found a middle ground that wasn't exactly a lie, "I ran away from my abusive fiancé and father to where my mother was born."

"So Polly was wrong," Tommy tapped the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray. He smirked.

"Wrong about what?"

"Doesn't matter."

"From here, it looks like it matters to you," I urged.

"Family business," was all he responded with.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?"

He raised his brow, "You think I tell people things?"

When I did not answer, he added, "So, what kinds of stories do you tell?"

I smiled, "Anything you want."

"Right," he slammed his hand down on the table, "Get up on the chair."

I stood up from my seat, pulled the chair back, and stood up on it, "Happy or sad?"

He contemplated for a moment and then said, "Sad."

"Okay," I smiled ruefully. "But it may break your heart."

He shook his head, "It's already broken."

I told him The Story of a Mother from Hans Christian Andersen. When I finished, we both stayed where we were in silence for a long moment.

After my talk with Thomas, I went home and started dinner. I somehow was in a bit of a better mood today after Thomas Shelby spoke with me today. So much so that I felt like trying to dance for the first time in over a month. While dinner was on the stove, I dug out my old pointe shoes. When I finished my dinner, I put my Swan Lake disk on the phonograph that the apartment came with and stretched. Then I tied on the light pink dance shoes and took a deep breath before standing up. I started in first position and worked my way up to fifth. I was surprised by how little pain there was after the "accident" a year ago. The pain escalated when I moved on to Rond de jambe a terres, but I forced myself to push through it. I wasn't going to let my father take everything from me.

The second I tried to go en pointe, sharp shooting pain shot through my right foot and toes. I went back down on flat feet. Angry at myself for stopping, I once again rose to the tips of my toes. Once again, an unbearable pain sent shock waves through my foot. On a shaking right foot, I lifted my left leg up in the air behind me. The pain increased tenfold. My whole body wobbled on my unsteady foot. I pushed through, raising my left leg higher and higher. My body quivered. My leg trembled underneath me. Before I could stop it, my leg caved in beneath me. One moment I was on the tip of my toes, and the next, my body came crashing down to the ground.

Tears pricked at my eyes as I sat on the kitchen floor in utter agony. How could I think this was a good idea? What he did to me ruined me. Why did I even keep these damned shoes? Why did he do that to me in the first place? I was going to be the next Anna Pavlova. And then he went and broke me. I was nothing but a god damned broken fucking ballerina.

With tears staining my vision, I ripped off my pointe shoes, threw them into the sitting room, and ran up the stairs to my room. I threw myself on my bed, still fully clothed from the day's work. It did not take me long to fall asleep. Once I did, I had a different nightmare than the usual one I've had for the past month.

I was back in America at my father's house. I was in bed after my father had been drinking, beating me, and complaining that a ballet was not a real job. That if my mother were still here, she would be disappointed in me. I had been fast asleep, unaware of what was going to happen next. I had awoken to a crushing pain in my right foot and my father standing over my bed with a mallet. No more silly daydreams. He said as I cradled my foot and cried out in pain.

Chapter Text

Alice

A few days later, it was Saturday, my new favorite day of the week. I started off the night with the tale of Ragnarok. After that, a man started to tell a story of his own, the story of Gancanagh, the seductive fairy from Irish folklore. While he told it, I went to the private room in The Garrison to serve beer to the Shelby brothers and some of their acquaintances.

"Would you also like some whiskey with the beer?" I asked no one in particular. I set the bucket of beer on the table.

"No. Just beer," Tommy took a drag of his cigarette.

"Why no whiskey, Tommy?" His brother, Arthur, I think, asked, "You expectin' trouble?"

Thomas did not answer. Instead, there was hooting and hollering coming from the main pub room. I continued to fill the beer mugs, ignoring the men out there.

"Jesus Christ, Tommy, what the hell made you let them tell stories like that?" Thomas' younger brother, John, laughed, "They sound like they're at a brothel."

"Alright," Arthur interrupted, "Twenty's the play. Come on. And what did make you change your mind, Tommy?"

I finished up giving out beer, so I walked away and could feel Thomas' gaze follow me.

Tommy

"And what did make you change your mind anyway?" My brother Arthur said. I didn't answer. After last night with Alice, I didn't want anyone to know I had feelings for her. She was too soft for my world, too innocent. So, instead, I just watched as she left the room and closed the door behind her.

I must not have been being as subtle as I thought because my brother John smiled at me, ""bout time, Tommy."

"Time for what?" I said nonchalantly.

"Time you took yourself a woman," John said.

"Just play the bloody hand," I changed the subject.

"You stay the way you are, Tommy. Remember what Dad used to say," Arthur chimed in. "Fast women and slow horses…"

"Will ruin your life," Arthur and John said simultaneously.

As I smiled at my brothers, a bright light flooded in through the windows. My smile faded. Something was wrong.

"Coppers?" John asked.

"No," I shook my head. Coppers would not give anything that would be considered as a warning. This was something worse than coppers.

I heard the doors to the pub open, and the whole room immediately went silent.

"Holy shit," I could hear Henry say from behind the bar, "It's Billy Kimber."

Shit.

"Is there any man here named Shelby?" an unfamiliar voice shouted.

Luckily, no one said anything.

BANG. A loud gunshot rang out.

"I asked, Is there any man here named Shelby?" The same voice said.

I had enough. This man was going to hurt someone. I slid out of the booth so I could open the door to the main room of the pub. I walked out of the private room, and my brothers followed.

"Harry, get these men a drink," I said, "Everyone else, go home!"

The patrons all scattered. Once we were sure they were all gone, I invited Billy Kimber and his men to sit at the large table in the middle of the pub. Before I could sit with them, Alice brought drinks over to the table.

"You go home," I pointed at her. I would not have her mixed up in the mess I was creating. Not yet anyway.

"But, Mr. Fenton said…" She started.

"I said to go home," I interrupted. She nodded and walked away.

Before she was out of earshot, Kimber spoke up, "I've never approved of women in pubs."

"You said you wanted a man named Shelby. Well, now you have three of 'em," I put a cigarette in my mouth.

"Right, I'd never heard of ya," Billy Kimber started, "Then I did hear of ya. Some little diddicoy razor gang. I thought to meself, 'so what?!' But then you fucked me over. So now you have my undivided attention… By the way, who am I talking to? Who is the boss?"

"Well, I'm the eldest," Arthur replied before I could answer.

Kimber scoffed, "Clearly."

"You laughin' at my brother?" John accused.

Kimber looked between my brothers, "Right, so, he's the oldest," he pointed at Arthur, "and you're the thickest," he pointed at John, and then turned to me, "I'm told the boss is called Tommy. Now, I'm guessing that's you 'cause you're looking me up and down like I'm a fucking tart."

"I wanna know what you want," I shrugged.

Kimber did not answer. Instead, the man next to him spoke up, "There were some suspicious betting patterns at Kempton Park. A horse called Monaghan Boy. He won by a length twice and then finished last with a three-thousand-pound bet on him."

Annoyed with this man's input instead of Kimber's, I asked, "Now, who am I talking to? Which one of you is the boss?"

"I'm Mr. Kimber's advisor and accountant," the man said.

"And I'm the fucking boss!" Kimber stood up, "'Kay, right, end of parley. You fixed a race without my permission, you fuckign gypsy scum. Live off the war pensions of these poor old Garrison Lane widows. That's your level! I am Billy fucking Kimber; I run the races! And ya fixed one of 'em, so I'm gonna have you shot against a post," He turned to leave after his outburst.

I stood and put out my cigarette in the ashtray, "Mr. Kimber?"

He turned around as his men pointed their guns at me. I tossed him the bullet the Lee family sent for me, "Look at it."

He did.

"That's my name carved in it," I said calmly, "It's from the Lee family. You are also at war with the Lees, Mr. Kimber, are you not?"

Kimber took a few steps towards the table.

"The Lees are attacking your bookies and taking your money. Your men can't control them. You need help."

"Perhaps we should listen to what Mr. Shelby has to say before we make our decisions," Kimber's assistant said.

"Right. The Lees are doing a lot of talkin' at the fairs. They have a lot of kin. They're saying the racetracks are easy meat because the police are busy with the strikes. Now, we have connections. We know how they operate. You have muscle. Together we can beat them. Divided, maybe not," I proposed, my plan falling into place.

"Mr. Kimber, perhaps we should take some time for reflection," Mr. Kimber's associate piped up, "possibly make arrangements for a second meeting."

I needed this done. So I said, "I admire you, Mr. Kimber. You started with nothing and made a legitimate business. It would be an honor to work with you, Mr. Kimber."

Kimber thought on it a second before boasting, "Nobody works with me. People work for me."

He tossed a coin on the floor, "Pick it up, pikey."

Instead of moving to pick it up immediately, I stood there and held his stare for a moment. When I did move to pick it up, John stood up, and Kimber's men started toward him.

"Sit. Sit down," I ordered my brother. Then I bent down and picked up the coin.

"It's for your ceiling," Kimber turned and walked to the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Kimber," I said as he walked out the door.

His assistant got up from his chair and walked up to me, "We will be at Cheltenham."

"As will I."

Once the men left, I locked the doors and walked back over to my brothers and our men.

"So you purposely picked a fight with the Lees," Arthur figured out, "Tommy, we can't mess with Billy fucking Kimber."

"Get yourself a decent haircut, man," I ignored his scolding and kept my plans to myself, "We're going to the races."