cross my palm with silver (line their pockets with good fortune)

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V. Grace's Secret

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"I've seen ya," hissed the IRA man, savage-eyed and uncomfortably warm and far too close. Her skin crawled where he was grabbing her face. "I've seen your face, serving at the Garrison. Come here."

The man pulled out a gun, jabbed it against her jaw, crowded her until she felt she would choke on the stench of booze and sweat. Her heart thundered in her chest, and all her nerves stretched wire-thin, ready to react to the threat. She could barely even feel his bruising grip on her. "I'm taking you in for—"

He let out a shout as, all of a sudden, out of absolutely nowhere, a black bird—a crow—dove at his face and began to attack him. In a furious rush of rustling feathers and swiping talons and raucous squawking, the IRA man was driven away from her and his gun knocked out of his hand.

Grace watched the scene with uncomprehending eyes, her head gone completely blank with shock. She watched as the man screamed and stumbled back, his arms waving frantically in an attempt to beat the bird away. Then she looked up, past him, beyond him, to the other side of the alley, where her gaze found itself caught and arrested.

Because there, stood within the shadow of a broken wall of bricks, was Naomie Young. Her hair was a fierce black halo, wilder than Grace had ever seen it, and her eyes were two black holes; looking into them felt like entering an abyss, lightless and unfathomably deep. Her pale moon face was a cold, hollow thing, completely empty of expression.

Grace did not normally put stock in the supernatural—but Naomie seemed, right then and there, to be something beyond human. It was as if a terrible spirit had taken over her mortal body, or as if she had herself become some distant, nebulous creature. For a short, fervid moment, Grace vividly believed all of Naomie's claims of being a witch.

Then, with a furious howl, the man finally managed to smack the bird with a stray fist, knocking it in the head and sending it plummeting to the ground. It laid there, stunned, and became so still and quiet that Grace was almost certain it had died.

Naomie began to move at that, clipping towards them in a rush of skirts. She suddenly looked like a normal girl again, all traces of Otherness vanished in the sunlight, but she also looked livid.

"The fuck are you?" the IRA man demanded, staggering around to glare at Naomie. He was clutching one of his eyes, blood dripping between his fingers. His other eye was wide and savage; he looked feral with pain and anger.

"Naomie, no!" Grace called, stepping forward in her panic. But Naomie did not stop—rather, she cut into a sprint.

"You're together? I'll kill BOTH of you," the man snarled, snatching his revolver up from the ground. Seeing the man train the weapon on Naomie, Grace also raised the gun still hidden in her purse.

His finger tugged on the trigger. Acid sprung to Grace's throat, caught between her teeth, and she squeezed down on her own trigger with as much haste as she could manage.

There were two simultaneous clicks.

And then Naomie was in front of the man and diving right into his torso, knocking him to the ground. They scrabbled around in the dirt; the man whipped his gun across her face, leaving a red mark on her cheek and a gash at the corner of her mouth and she replied with a bloody-toothed grin and a quick jab right in his only working eye. Then Grace was there, too, kicking the gun out of his hand and making it fly off into a stack of crates.

"YOU BLOODY CUNTS, I'LL FUCKING—" this frenzied roar was cut off by a vicious kick to his head, courtesy of Grace. The man stilled.

Everything became very quiet, all at once. Naomie and Grace stared at each other.

"Naomie," Grace finally sighed. She offered a hand out to the girl and, when Naomie grasped it, pulled her up to her feet. They stood next to the unconscious man, close enough for their skirts to whisper against each other. Grace's eyes fixed on the wounds on Naomie's face. "You're hurt."

"Oh, this?" Naomie touched her cheek and smiled a tiny smile. "I've been in worse scraps. What about you, are you hurt?"

"I'm alright," Grace said. And then, after a pause, "That was very reckless of you."

"It sure does seem like it," Naomie agreed, completely unrepentant. "Lucky that his gun was jammed. What are the odds?"

Another pause. Grace ghosted the back of her hand over Naomie's bruising cheek and tenderly brushed a thumb under the wet cut along her lower lip. "Tommy will kill me," she murmured, just to fill the silence.

Naomie snorted. "He doesn't have the right."

Grace was silent for another long moment, her lashes lowering. And then, finally, she said, "Thank you."

"Of course," Naomie answered easily, dimpling sweetly at her. She reached out and grabbed Grace's hand. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yes," said Grace. She looked onto Naomie's lovely little face; her body felt numb all over, her mind like a vacant room, but her heart squeezed hard in her chest. Under the cover of her skirt, her fingers tightened around the hand in hers. "Of course."

Ignoring all protest and wheedling, Grace corralled Naomie over to the Garrison, which was closer than either of their lodgings. She sat Naomie down—sending the girl a quelling look when she looked like she would run off as soon as she was left alone—and fetched the rudimentary tin of first aid supplies that Harry kept in the office.

Naomie had quailed at the thought of putting whiskey straight on her wound; Grace only managed to get her to stop squirming away by promising to treat the wounds only with Naomie's own ointments and tinctures. Deeming this to be an appropriate concession, Naomie had ceased her fussing to search through her satchel instead.

From the depths of the satchel Grace received a vial full of liquid in which she soaked a wad of gauze. She was gingerly dabbing this cloth on Naomie's lower lip and cheek when Tommy Shelby entered the Garrison.

Naomie's gaze was turned away from the door, and so she could not have known this, but Grace was positioned at such an angle that she could see his every expression out of the corner of her eye. She observed him as he stood motionless in the doorway, saw the way his eyes examined Naomie's entire body, searching. She saw the moment he spotted the purpling bruise spreading across Naomie's cheek, the way his careful neutrality gave way to something hard and cold. Like a lake in the first frost of winter, the dangerous stillness of his gaze gave way to a sudden rush of ice, a chilling layer of black glass that threatened to crack and drag you under for the slightest provocation.

He did not look surprised, though. It seemed this coincidental arrival wasn't a coincidence at all. Which, of course, meant that someone had seen them. Someone who knew Tommy well enough to think to fetch him. Who?

Faces flashed through her mind like frames on a reel. There had been a man—a man who had looked too interested—who had turned on his heel as soon as they had passed him—yes, there had been a man. The preacher. Grace noted this down as useful information and lifted the gauze from Naomie's lip.

At the flash of blood, the sight of an open wound on the girl's face, Tommy was spurred into motion. He stalked towards them, his legs eating up the distance in no time at all. A sharp glance at Grace had her moving aside so that he could take her place in front of Naomie.

"What happened," Tommy demanded. His tone was harsh, but Grace could see that the hand he curled under Naomie's jaw was painfully gentle. His thumb brushed just under the cut drawn across her lip and cheek, unknowingly following the same path that Grace had traced earlier.

Grace remained silent, unsure how she could explain the situation without painting a target on herself. He would have questions, she knew. He would ask her what she was doing there, why with that man, why the man had attacked her. He would have questions, and the means to verify her answers to those questions. She couldn't afford to attract suspicion now, least of all from him. Silence was her best defence. Silence meant Tommy would continue not to notice her.

Except Naomie. Except if Naomie made any mention of Grace. Any at all.

Grace had to physically hold herself from tensing when she saw Naomie's lips parting. Shooting a look at Tommy's back, Grace opened her own mouth.

But then—

"You should see the other guy," Naomie quipped, before Grace could begin to speak. The girl grinned jauntily; it must have hurt, but she didn't even seem to feel the way the motion stretched at her cut.

Though this smile was ostensibly directed at Tommy, it seemed to Grace that it was rather for her benefit. The tension that had slipped between her shoulders ran slowly out of her. Grace closed her mouth.

"Yeah. I think I should," Tommy said, his voice so even as to be ominous. His eyes were intent on Naomie's injuries, his thumb softly tracing the line of her jaw over and over. "Who did this? Tell me."

"How am I to know? I saw a man getting rough with a woman, so I decided I needed to get rough with him. It's not as if I stopped to ask for introductions."

Tommy's face darkened but he did not yet lose his temper. "Where?"

"Not on your territory, so, not your problem."

"Naomie."

"Why do you want to know? There's no blinding left to be done; I've already gotten at both his eyes."

"Naomie," Tommy called, low and warning. He was clearly getting frustrated with Naomie's stonewalling. Grace might almost have worried for her, except that she could still see his thumb stroking idly along her jaw.

At this, a frown came upon Naomie's brows. "What, Thomas?" she demanded, turning serious. She dropped the evasively lighthearted tone that she'd put on. "What will you do if you know? Track him down and cut him up? Kill him? And why? Because he treats women badly? Or maybe because he got a hit in on me?"

Tommy said nothing, but the muscles in his cheek were visibly bunching up. Unease stirred in Grace's chest. What was Naomie doing? Tommy had been angry for her, at first, but now it looked as if he was fast becoming angry with her. Naomie was courting danger, and Grace couldn't quite tell why.

"Well, let me tell you this, Thomas. You can't kill this man."

"I can't?" he asked, silky and dangerous. His thumb stilled on Naomie's face. Grace's breath was a thick stone caught in her throat. "And why is that?"

"Because I've read it," Naomie declared. Grace had no idea what this meant, but Naomie sounded bold as brass. Like she didn't notice that the hand cradling her jaw could just as easily twist and wrap around her neck. "A portent. It doesn't matter who kills him; that man cannot die anytime soon, or else a disaster will descend upon you. And not a small one, either."

Coming from anyone else, this would have sounded like a threat. Tommy remained silent for a long time, his lashes low. Grace's hand groped for the purse still hanging from her shoulder and the feeling of the gun inside grounded her.

"No time soon, eh?" he said, sounding pensive.

"No time soon," agreed Naomie, with a quick nod that dislodged his hand.

It trailed away, drifted up to brush her hair away from her face. "You get that looked at," he said, his curled fingers hovering over the vibrant bruise on her cheek.

"That's what Grace was doing, before you swanned in," she told him, playfully bumping his palm with her chin. "You'd best let her get back to it before I change my mind about letting her."

Tommy watched Naomie's face for a moment longer, eyes hooded, and then slowly inclined his head, turning to the side just barely enough to see Grace. Grace met his gaze out of habit, staring steadily back into those ice-chip eyes until she remembered—right, she had decided on a new strategy to find the guns, hadn't she? It wouldn't do for Tommy to think she was still interested in him.

Grace hurriedly looked away, and her eyes fell on Naomie, who was peering curiously at them.

An idea sparked in her mind. Surely if… yes, if that were the case… it would only be reasonable for Grace to direct her attentions elsewhere.

Grace tore her eyes away from Naomie and to the floor. Her expression, she knew, was blank and stiff.

Perhaps she should look more stricken? What sort of face were women supposed to make in such a scenario? When the man they were meant to have affections for was being soft on another woman? Tommy had never been openly intimate with any woman before, and seeing him being so unambiguously tender with Naomie was the perfect opportunity for Grace to appear… no, not jealous. That would make him think she still had some sort of emotional investment in him. Disappointed? Was that right?

Before Grace could decide, a voice broke through her musings.

"You take good care of her," said Tommy. His tone was firm, and no one would mistake his words as anything but an order.

Honestly, this was really rather cruel of him: he was establishing, in no uncertain terms, which woman he favoured between the two of them. If Grace had more than an iota of feeling towards him—as he thought she did—it would have cut her to the quick. As it was, she was perhaps more annoyed than anything; she had already been taking care of Naomie before Tommy Shelby had 'swanned in', and she had planned to do so regardless of what he might have to say.

But Grace kept her face blank and her eyes glued to the floorboards. "Yes, Mr Shelby," she murmured, taking care that none of her thoughts reflected in her voice. She could feel the weight of his scrutiny for another moment before he dismissed her. Out of her periphery, Grace could see him touching Naomie's face one last time before he detached himself from her and set for the door.

Grace was glad to see him go. Thomas Shelby was an awful man. He was dangerous, wicked, and immoral. He was a brute, a criminal, a cold-blooded murderer. He was also—though he was quite undeserving of this faculty—indecently attractive.

Yes, in fact, Grace did know exactly what Naomie had meant when she described Tommy's face as feeling utterly in violation of the law. It was difficult to look at him and feel no stirrings at all. From the moment she had first seen him, felt those striking eyes boring into her as she sang, she had felt a spark of—something. And when the Inspector had hesitantly suggested that she 'get closer' to Thomas Shelby, she hadn't even been repulsed at the idea, like she would have expected.

It was good that Naomie had arrived when she had, before Grace could lose perspective. The attraction was still there—it was difficult to shake—but Grace rarely had the opportunity for any meaningful interaction with Tommy. Besides, what sort of feeling could she have for a man whose eyes constantly trailed after another woman? Grace had never been the sort of person who could be satisfied playing second fiddle to someone else. And she never would be, either.

No, she wouldn't lose perspective. Thomas Shelby had the guns, and she'd find where they were before he could sell them to the communists, or worse—the damned IRA.

There was a touch on Grace's hand, drawing her out of her thoughts.

"He's gone, Grace," said Naomie, blinking up at her. "You can relax now." The girl smiled at her, a sunny beam, and Grace was hit by a realization.

She'd wondered, earlier, about Naomie's actions, why she'd said so much just to get him to leave the situation be.

Obviously, Naomie hadn't blinded the IRA bastard: she'd only given one of his eyes a bruise—nothing bad enough to call it lost—and the other had been taken by the bird, who had been perhaps provoked by the man's sudden yell or else angry about the disturbance under its nest. And all that nonsense about a portent—well, that was clearly her dissembling so that Tommy would stop asking about what had happened.

Naomie could have easily relayed what had really happened and enjoyed Tommy's concern, his protection, his attention; she could have simply sat pretty and allowed him to take revenge on her behalf. Anyone else would have done so. Even Grace couldn't say for certain that she herself wouldn't have, if she hadn't been afraid of being found out.

Instead Naomie had risked Tommy's wrath. She had lied to him and protected the bastard who had tried to kill her. And why? To what end?

It was difficult for Grace to wrap her head around the idea, but it seemed like—and she could be mistaken, of course—except she could think of no other reason—and well, it really did seem like—Naomie had done it for Grace.

An unexpected rush of warmth washed over Grace at the thought. She looked back at Naomie and smiled, small but sincere. Stepping forward, Grace leaned in close to the girl, fingers reaching for the medical supplies on the countertop.

"Let's get you properly cleaned up," she said, reaching out to tuck Naomie's dark hair away from her swelling cheek, behind her small, pale ear. Naomie blinked up with wide eyes and nodded docilely.

Grace's heart squeezed, a pulse so sharp it was almost painful, and she couldn't help but to think—a man as awful as Thomas Shelby didn't deserve a girl as sweet as this. He would ruin her.

Unnerved by the implications of such a thought, she shook it away and determinedly focused on dressing Naomie's wounds, her hands more gentle than they had any need to be.

The next day, Grace headed to the gallery to report to Inspector Campbell about the change in plans.

"It is difficult," she confessed lowly, her eyes fixed on the statue in front of her. "Convincing Thomas Shelby to pay me any mind at all. Far more difficult than I anticipated. It may be more expedient to… change targets."

Chester Campbell stared at her for a long moment.

"You, Grace, having difficulty catching a man's attention?" he demanded, sounding baffled. "Is he a eunuch?"

He paused and seemed to consider something; his upper lip began to curl, and he suddenly said, "Or perhaps—he has brought the godless depravity of the barracks and trenches back home with him?"

Though his voice dripped with disgust, a snide sort of glee glinted in the Inspector's face at the thought that Thomas Shelby might be a sodomite. Grace thought that Campbell might have taken much pleasure in having Tommy convicted for homosexuality. After all, those men accused of being gay suffered a particular sort of treatment in prison, whether from guards or the other prisoners.

Unfortunately for him, however, that was one crime that Tommy was certainly not guilty of.

"It is neither of those things," Grace replied quietly. "Rather… there is someone else."

"Another woman? There was no other woman when we last spoke, and that was not so long ago," Campbell said, making an incredulous expression. It seemed that he could not believe that Grace could lose the attentions of a man to another woman in—what felt like—the blink of an eye.

"Yes. She arrived not too long ago, but this girl," is unimaginably charming, "has charmed him to an unimaginable degree. When she is in the room, he looks to no one else. It is impossible for me to occupy a space that has already been filled so thoroughly."

Campbell chewed thoughtfully on this piece of information. After a short while, he finally said, "If that is your only obstacle, all we must do is to… vacate that space. Will he still want her if she is no longer so pleasant to look at, do you think?"

A burst of alarm ripped through Grace like a scream. Her elbow jerked back in an aborted movement, and she protested, a touch too loudly, "No, that—"

The Inspector's odd look was enough for Grace to realize her blunder. She immediately steadied herself, bringing her arm back to her side. "That is not necessary," she continued, her expression blank and her voice low. "Thomas is not the only Shelby brother; either of the other two will be far more manageable to work with. And the woman, she—she is fond of me. I can convince her to share what information Thomas tells her."

"I see," he said, "Rest assured, Grace. If I perceive that this… other woman is becoming a nuisance to you or our operation, I will be sure to deal with her in a manner most unobtrusive to your safety."

A little agitated, Grace began to say, "No, you…" Then she forcibly calmed herself, and, in a far cooler tone, continued, "You underestimate me. I can handle a single girl on my own. Please do not act unless I send word."

Campbell's probing eyes searched Grace's face for a moment longer. She remained placid under his scrutiny; even after he withdrew his gaze and left the museum hall, she remained as bland and impassive as the stone bust before her. After all, she could not allow herself to be anything else.

It was approaching the witching hour, as Naomie might have said, and the Garrison was as close to empty as it might ever get without Harry to chase patrons away. Unfortunately, as Harry had decided to go to the cinema to watch the newest Charlie Chaplin movie, Grace was manning the pub alone tonight.

Of course, even Harry could not have shooed out the man currently preventing her from locking up for the night.

"Another bottle, Mr Shelby?" she asked, turning towards the only other person in the pub. There would have been at least a few other men at this time, but the others had taken one look at his cloudy face and immediately filed out.

He grunted without looking up; Grace took that as an affirmation and brought him the bottle of whiskey she'd already had in hand. He grabbed it, threw a few glugs into his glass, and haphazardly knocked it back. With a harsh exhale, he thumped the tumbler back onto the counter and did not move to refill it.

The man's lashes were lowered so she could not see his eyes, but his face was sullen and tired. He looked more vulnerable than she had ever known a Shelby to look.

"Something seems to be troubling you, Mr Shelby," Grace commented, taking care not to watch him too closely. She kept her hands busy wiping down the counter and clearing glasses. "I hear sharing your troubles lessens their weight."

"Yeah?" he grumbled, low in his chest. "Except I ain't got anyone to share with."

"Well," she said. Grace showed him a soft little smile. "Perhaps I may be suitable for the occasion. It's my job, after all."

His head dipped forward. "It's true. That's a fair point," he murmured, almost sleepily. His lashes cast shivering shadows over his cheeks. When he spoke next, his voice was dim and wavering. "Why is it… that everyone in this fucking city knows more about whatever the hell's going on with my family than I do?

"This family keeps everything open. That's what we agreed on. So how come no one in this fucking family thought to tell me that Ada's gone and gotten herself knocked up? She's married a commie and disappeared off the face of the earth, and no one thought to let me know any of this shit was happening. No one. I had no fucking clue," he said, looking so tired and drawn that she was beginning to feel for him. "It's 'cus I'm just fucking stupid, ain't it? I'm too stupid to keep up with the rest of them, so they just don't bother to tell me. Let's just let mangy ol' Arthur stay the berk he is, eh?"

Head still hanging, Arthur pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes until Grace was sure he would see spots. She suspected that he had drunk himself near to weepiness; perhaps he would begin to cry at any moment.

Pity welled up in her, and Grace softened. She reached over the counter to lay a hand on his arm. "I have not once thought of you as lacking intelligence, Mr Shelby," she said, gently. "I may be speaking out of turn, but I believe that your family does not think so either. You are a capable man, and everyone knows it. Certainly, you deserve to be informed when things happen, but perhaps there was a very good reason you weren't. Or perhaps not. But it would do no harm to ask."

Arthur lowered his hands and suddenly looked her straight in the eye—unexpectedly, his eyes were bright and lucid, without any of the dampness that tears would bring.

At the moment their eyes met, Grace felt an odd… something. Like a sharp stirring, or a flash of a spark, from someplace within her. As if Arthur Shelby had pulled a string taut inside her, and it relaxed immediately. It was not enough to make her expression change, but Grace felt a little unsettled by the very memory of it.

"Is that right?" Arthur asked softly, still looking at her. "I guess it's time for me to have a talk with Tommy."

Grace studied him, and found that he did not seem nearly as drunk as she had thought him to be. He had drunk so much, so she had thought…

Well. This was fine, too. It wouldn't do if he moped so much that he could not get anything done; she still needed him so that she could learn more about the guns. Arthur Shelby was not so bad, and had potential to be better—if only he were brought out of the toxic lifestyle he currently lived—but that was not what Grace was here for.

And besides, she far preferred to use this man for the mission than to risk having Naomie being neutralised. After all—Naomie was her friend.

(And if it was Naomie against any of these Shelby men, the choice was only too obvious.)

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Notes—

This chapter is definitely short on purpose and not because I got author's block. haha…. also, I got busy with rl and ended up not writing anything much for MONTHS AAA

When I was watching Peaky Blinders, I was struck by how little chemistry Grace and Tommy had. And this baffled me, because Cillian is SO EASY to have chemistry with. Especially as Tommy. And I thought, well, perhaps it's not because of Cillian or Tommy. In fact, it would make a lot of sense if Grace… (two eyes emoji)

And so this happened.

I don't dislike Grace, but I think her character's full potential was definitely not realized in the show. Her character setting and background was so promising, so why does she feel so lackluster in comparison? Since she's a spy, I think the actress blank-facing everything does actually work with the character, but she definitely should have been more… I dunno. Interesting, or charming, or maybe even more ruthless. That could have been fun. These are just my little thoughts, though. This story is not about Grace so I won't address her development quite that much.

What do you guys think about Grace? Lemme know!