THE FRENCH KISSERS ― Thomas Shelby

19. la douleur exquise

"Elegant men... I don't trust them," she said finally. "They will hide blades in expensive ties, blood under white shirts, violence inside stuffed wallets. And all we see is how much the diamonds in their hands shine, not how deep they cut."

Thomas snatched the cigarette from his mouth. It looked emptier without it.

"I don't hide me blades in ties, love, I hide them in flat caps."

"I'm aware." Rose took the cup to her lips to hide a smile. The bitterness of the tea felt sweet in her mouth. "When did you meet Grace?"

His voice was concealed, like every time he talked about the parts of his heart he couldn't handle. "1919."

Her brow arched, like a ballerina's hand fading away from the scene. "I met Steaphan that year too."

***

1919, London Bridge Station

Weaving her way through the crowd, foreign words graced Rose's ears from every direction. The smog invaded her lungs in an unfamiliar way. London was harsh and cold; no wonder to survive in it people had to be the same way.

"Excuse me, do you know when the next train to Birmingham is?" A blonde woman with a burgundy cardigan was asking around, crystalline voice wrapped in an accent Rose had learned to associate with the Irish. "I have to be there today."

Everyone passed her by without a second look, worried they might lose the train. Rose shared the same concern, but she still looked over her shoulder and shouted.

"11 o'clock! Platform 5!" She hopped on the train, catching a 'thank you' from the woman before her voice waned in the background. Clutching to her luggage, Rose found her seat and slumped down, closing her eyes so she could forget about the nightmares in London and dream about the home she had left behind.

The abrupt opening of the carriage door broke the train's blissful silence like the initial thunder on a stormy night, waking her entirely. Rose blinked; she might as well still be dreaming, for a tall man was making his way through the corridor, his shoulders squared and his stare impenetrable and decisive, like a king among peasants. He looked British. Like the kind of British Rose always had trouble staying away from.

She glanced away. He would pass by her and she would never see him again. Life would continue, normal and stale and exactly how she wanted it. But he had other plans. He didn't pass by her. Instead he sat on the seat right across hers, snatched out a cigarette and a book, and started reading.

Driven by some force greater than herself, her mouth opened. "Macbeth. That's a good tragedy."

When he turned his head to her, the world seemed to turn with him. Waves of tumultuous dark hair fell to his eyes, as light and cerulean as the sea in the morning. His face was sculpted, by angels or demons, Rose couldn't tell.

"And that's quite the oxymoron." His voice was velvety and gruff, soaked in a subtle accent Rose couldn't identify. Everyone in England seemed to have an accent. And once they heard hers, they would look at her sideways, blaming her for a war she had tried so hard to ease. "You shouldn't say the play's name, it's said to be cursed."

"Is it?" Rose shrugged. "So am I."

The man smiled, the kind of smile that could stop time. "What's your name, love?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" She tilted her head. She had known this man for five seconds and he was already hanging the rarest of smiles on her lips. "You just said we shouldn't say curse's names."