Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 52

I sit beside a large arched window with large grids, extending from the floor almost all the way to the ceiling. The sun is just beginning to rise, and the view of the grounds is slowly illuminated.

There are two dogs at my feet. They seem to have taken a liking to me. These, too, are vaguely familiar — I think I may have had dogs as a child. But I remember there being more of them.

The grounds look so enticing. There's a fresh chill in the air, and so I walk across to a large chestnut wardrobe, running my hands across the polished wood. The kind woman in the white coat who runs things here told me these clothes are mine — but she must have made a mistake. The waistband of the breeches sag and falls down below my hips. The jumpers aren't so bad, though I do feel like a sack of potatoes in the beige one.

As I step into a pair of boots from the wardrobe, I get another strange brain zap — but this time, instead of losing time, it's as though it stills. Freezes. At the movement of me stepping into my boots, something inside my mind has come to a halt, trying to piece things together.

Trying to remember.

Then it ends as quickly as it begun, and once more it feels like clutching at thin air. Pointless and frustrating.

"Come on, then," I tell the dogs in a soft voice.

I pull on a blazer and a thick, green coat from beside the front door. Nobody else is awake or moving. There are... how many other people live here? They all blur into one, and then reform into a hundred, and I can't remember. But they're all women. None of them are nurses. They're all kind, and they help me with things, and they bring me food or help me read a book or sit patiently at the chess table while I scrunch my nose up in concentration and try to remember what each piece does.

And none of them appear or stop me as I creak the front door open. Thank goodness. As lovely as they all are, at times it can feel a little like I'm being watched or monitored.

I've had enough of that for a lifetime.

The dogs scarper happily as we step out into the morning. They relieve themselves and run and play, never veering too far. I place my hands in my coat pocket, wishing I had a pair of gloves, but no idea where to find any.

The light breeze both awakens me and soothes me. I walk in the shadow of the trees, taking my time, inhaling the fresh pines and clear air and the faint smell of muddy paws. I take the whole perimeter. It's ridiculously large, I think, as more than ten minutes later, the large house slips from view, and there's only grounds before me.

There are many ways I could go. Towards the large barns, where I hear animals nickering. Into the woods, which would be the most inviting, but for the rays of sun now covering the rolling green ground and beginning to warm the world. I am cold, though not unpleasantly so, and so I step out past the shade of the trees and allow the sun to warm me. My eyes close as I tip my head back. It's the most heavenly feeling.

I continue to walk in patches where the sun can reach and turn round a corner, calling back to the dogs until they catch up. Once more I pause and lift my head to the sky.

How strange. I remember the sun now — of course I do, it has always been in existence — but when I was in the asylum, I forgot there was sun in the world. All I knew was rooms and corridors. Darkness and flickering light bulbs.

I release a small, frustrated sigh, and continue with my walk. I barely make it more than a few paces before someone catches my attention.

Arthur. That was his name, I'm sure of it. I freeze when I see him.

My memories keep getting confused and I don't understand why, and in this moment it really bothers me. Because he is wearing a white Henley shirt, covered with mud and dust and dirt, as he holds a farm tool. In my mind there's a dissonance — he's supposed to be in a tailored suit. Holding a glass of whiskey.