Cosima Blackshaw had buried a hundred men, but never one still breathing. When Thomas Shelby came to her with smoke in his voice and a plan stitched in sin, asking for a casket for a man not yet dead, she looked him in the eye and told him no. Death...
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The rain fell hard that afternoon, soaking the streets of Small Heath and turning everything cold and grey. Cosima stood under the side awning of the chapel, her black gloves wet at the fingertips from handling lilies that had started to fall apart. Her coat stuck to her, heavy from the rain. The air smelled like damp stone and wilting flowers as she watched the coffin slide into the back of the hearse—this time, not one of hers. A local child, barely six, fevered to death. The mother had chosen a Catholic burial, and the Blackshaw Funeral Home only helped with preparations.
She didn't expect to see him again-not so soon. The last time had been when they buried Danny Whizz-Bang. But there he was: Thomas Shelby, standing a few feet away, cigarette in hand. Smoke curled from his mouth, slow and thin. His coat was buttoned up tight, collar flipped against the wind. He didn't say anything at first, just watched the mourners make their way down the gravel path. His eyes were far off, like he was looking at something only he could see.
Cosima moved to leave first. She didn't want to linger, not today. But the sound of his voice caught her-not loud, not commanding. Just enough to reach her, low and dry like winter wind.
"You still wear black."
She paused. Her face stayed calm, but her eyes narrowed a little—somewhere between tired humor and something sharper. "It's a funeral, Mr. Shelby. It would be indecent to wear anything else."
He nodded once, slowly. Then flicked his cigarette into the gutter, watching the ember hiss. "Didn't mean just today."
The silence stretched between them like a drawn curtain. She stepped back under the chapel's awning, arms crossed beneath her coat, chin slightly tilted up. "And you," she said, "seem to have made a habit of arriving when the dead are gone and the flowers are rotting."
That made him huff a breath, something close to a laugh, if a bitter one. "You'd be surprised how often that happens to me."
She didn't smile, but the edge in her voice dulled. "What brings you here then? Or did you follow the scent of sorrow again?"
Thomas glanced at the chapel doors, then back to her. His face, always composed, always hard, looked tired beneath the brim of his cap. Not defeated, just...weathered. "I came to see you."
Cosima blinked. Once. Slowly. "Me?"
He nodded. "Some times ago I said I owed your father a proper visit. I meant it."
The rain thudded harder, carving rivulets into the stone steps. She looked at him for a long time, uncertain of what he wanted, what he expected. But something in her-the part that had watched her father be lowered into the earth without a full chapel, the part that still lit candles alone at night—did not turn him away.
Then, wordlessly, Cosima stepped down from the eave and turned toward the back path behind the chapel-the one that wound uphill through the graves. Thomas followed without question. They walked in silence, boots sinking into the wet earth. The old wrought-iron gate creaked as Cosima pushed it open. Rust bit into the hinges, and the damp air smelled faintly of moss, old stone, and turned soil.
