THE FRENCH KISSERS ― Thomas Shelby

12. in flanders fields

"Yes. Maybe he'll paint you if you ask nicely."

Thomas snorted, glacial stare melting over her. She didn't know. Whether she was the iceberg or the ship going against it. "I never ask nicely."

The way he said it made waves inside her head, and suddenly she realized she was the wrecks.

"Who is Picasso next to the great Thomas Shelby, anyway?" She shrugged, golden locks falling over her shoulders. "You're invited to come, if you want."

With a smile threatening to appear on his lips, Thomas went over to a thoroughbred mare, who neighed and leaned her head to him as soon as he caressed her chestnut coat. He was good with horses. Probably as good as he was bad with people. "Fine animals you got 'ere."

"Most people stay away from that one. The whole 'chestnut mares are wild' idea."

"That's just a myth. And when someone tells me I can't have something, I want it even more." His eyes darted to her, quick as lightning and just as dangerous, and she felt the bolt inside her, spreading its branches all over her heart.

"Is it possible we have something in common?" She tilted her head, with a smile Thomas had trouble looking away from. "We both like horses more than people."

"We have more than that in common." His stare slid from her eyes to her arm, and she felt the shivers in her slide along. "How's the arm?"

"Good enough to ride, not good enough to play yet." She gestured around, moving to a beautiful Friesian horse, as black as the night without stars. "Pick one. We're going for a ride."

Thomas narrowed his eyes, but Charles clapped and giggled, the idea of a walk making his eyes shimmer like gemstones, and Thomas didn't dare to put the light out in them.

***

They rode in silence through the forest around the Salvage's property, with the rustle of the wind against the green foliage, the hooves of the horses on the ground and the melancholic chirping of birds in the trees as the only sounds. Thomas had Charles firmly pressed against him on the chestnut mare as Rose rode beside them in the Friesian.

They arrived at a hidden part of the woods where a creek ran smoothly between the rocks, the treetops filtering the sunlight and giving the area a place in every fairytale. The willows on the banks whispered lost secrets in the wind and an enchanted Charles trudged around, eager to hear them.

"He seems happy." Rose joined Thomas by the riverside; he was throwing pebbles into the water, watching them bounce and leave their mark on the surface. Rose thought about how everyone was just one of those stones in the ocean of life, creating ripples that would affect others. Small ripples, until someone different enough came around and triggered a tsunami.

"It's you." Thomas said simply, and Rose bent down and dove her hand in the water. It was cold, but it warmed her against the chills the man beside her was evoking.

"When we first bought the manor, I used to come here a lot." She glanced at him, at the grey pebble in his hand. Maybe he wished he could throw thoughts from his brain the same way he threw the pebbles. But the thoughts returned. The pebbles didn't. "I guess Heraclitus was right, when he said no man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man."

Thomas threw the pebble; it skipped across the river several times before sinking, and then he looked at her. And Rose felt like all the ripples in the world were in her. "Has any man ever been the same after meeting you?"