There was no rush in the bakery today, which was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing for it meant that she didn't have to rush around, making sure that nothing was burning and that everybody was satisfied. A curse, however, for that it meant that there was a storm brewing in Birmingham. The Bible quoted that on the seventh day, God rested, but there was no rest in Birmingham and when there was, it meant that the Devil was at work.

Biting her lip, Cordelia 'Cora' Johnson pulled her floured and stained apron off her body and hung on the small nail that rested two feet away from the oven, the beige contrasting greatly against the dark blue walls. Cora shrugged on her long, ebony peacock before she stepped out into the harsh wind that bit at her face and stung her eyes. The small rustic key felt oddly heavy in her hand as she locked the bakery door, turning the doorknob twice to ensure that it had locked.

She knew the action was foolish, for no one with a sane mind would try and break into her shop, but it was an action that made her feel secure.

The streets of Birmingham were often noisy with workers and young children who rushed through the crowds in games of tag and football, but today, the streets didn't hold the same rush as usual. People were able to walk without bumping into one another and the children stayed close together in one area, none daring to drift too far.

With a short huff, Cora pushed the large, mahogany doors of the Garrison open before stepping onto the wooden floors. Her heels clicked against the thin planks, the sound somehow rising above the loud shouts of men as if it were an overtone. Cora smiled sweetly as she slid onto one of the seats at the bar, her purse clinking against the polished surface.

"Ello, Harry," Cora greeted as she clasped her hands together and rested them on the table, "Any news floating around here?"

"There's nothing that you don't already hear in that bakery of yours." Harry said, handing her a cool glass of water, the condensation on the outside making it slick to the touch, "I don't know why you insist on coming here every day to ask the same question only to get the same answer."

Cora shrugged lightly before she picked up the glass and took a sip, the chill easing her dry throat, "It's good for business."

And good for business it was.

The more people who saw her around town—alone—the more they felt as though their words were safe around her. She honestly found some of the people a bit daft after hearing the stories they were throwing around, but the warm smile never left her face.

"Besides," Cora said, placing the glass to her left, "You get more interaction with the customers than I'll ever have." Glancing around at the packed bar, she turned her attention back to Harry with a raised, question brow, "When are you going to get another bartender? I know a few lads who would be interested if you are?"

Harry scoffed, giving Cora an exasperated stare as he dried an empty shot glass. Gently, he placed the glass on the second row of a large shelf before tossing the damp dishtowel over his shoulder and leaning on the table.

"You know I don't need the help, Cora. I like working by myself just fine." Harry stated, raising his eyebrow to challenge Cora's.

Relenting, Cora let out a sigh and leaned back in her chair, "I know, but I worry about you, Harry."

Which was true. Ever since the war had ended, the number of soldiers that would come to the cavern to drink their nightmares away was horrifying in itself. But, instead of helping, sometimes the liquor would cause a relapse and they were back out on the frontline or digging tunnels. Their eyes would glaze over as their minds got lost in the past, shouts leaving their lips as they punched at anyone near them.

One man couldn't take down a soldier alone.

"I know you do, and I thank you for that." Harry said, giving Cora a soft look before his eyes flickered to the clock behind her, "It's getting late. A lady such as yourself shouldn't be roaming the streets alone at night; it ain't safe."

Cora's mouth set, ready to argue, but she bit her tongue once she saw the look that Harry was giving her. He was the closest thing she had to a father and she respected him like one. Glancing outside, Cora conceded and let out a sigh before taking one last sip of water.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Cora said, grabbing her purse and dropping a few coins on the counter. Even though she knew that he would've said it was on the house, a business was a business no matter who owned it.

Tightening her grasp on her purse, Cora stalked out of the bar, her head held high as her heels played a sonnet against the men's chatter. She could feel the chilling stare on her as she exited the bar, his gaze cutting her like the icy wind that greeted her as she pushed the door open. Though the stare was intense, Cora felt no fear.

Only one man had the right to set eyes on her, and only one man would.