After, the moments would come in patchwork. Rosie could sense the feeling of being put in a backseat. She could still taste the blood on her lips, blood from someone she didn't know. She heard voices, yelling. She was fairly certain Thomas was there. Maybe he was the one carrying her now.

She knew she was somewhere that was Not Home.

The sleep that she fell into was fragmented and shallow.

Rosie saw herself and Richard on the beach, black sand underneath their toes as they drowned their ankles in freezing ocean water. Their mother was there, up and away, sitting on the gingham picnic blanket.

How strange. Rosie couldn't remember the last time she had seen that gingham blanket.

"Rosie!" her mother called. Despite the strangeness of it all, Rosie left at once, hopping from the water to run back to her mother.

"Rosie, darling, where's your brother?" she asked, holding a hand up as a visor for the sun.

Rosie turned back to where Richie had been and saw nothing. She turned back to her mother.

"He was right there," she said. "I don't know where he went."

"I told you to watch him," said her mother, sighing. Rosie felt a ball form in the pit of her stomach as she watched her mother stand up and begin calling for Richie.

"I was! He was right there!" Rosie insisted, pointing to the beach. The tears starting welling up now, and she desperately tried to wipe them away before her mother noticed.

"Well, he's not anymore, is he?" her mother said, turning on her.

"I told him not to run-,"

"You had to run off and play your games," her mother said, rounding on her, coming close.

"I didn't-" sputtered Rosie. "He-"

Her mother scoffed. Rosie felt all the blood drain from her face, her body frozen.

"I told you to watch him," her mother repeated, her face twisting into disgust. "Go find him! Go! Now!"

Rosie's body jolted, her mind fleeting away from the beach and somewhere else, a place she didn't recognize.

She let out a gasp, or perhaps more of a sob, as she twisted in her blankets.

After a moment, her heart still racing, she realized it'd had been another of her nightmares.

It was late in the day, or so the light from the window told her. She was in a small square room, with only a metal-frame bed, a wardrobe and a small nightstand with matches on it. The rough cotton sheets smelled like smoke and something familiar.

A little while later, or perhaps a long while later, a woman came into her room.

Rosie stirred a little, and the woman tsked. Polly.

"Ah, finally. Our little bab can do something other than sleep," she said.

Rosie would have replied, but she realized her mouth was so dry it felt like sandpaper. She tried sitting up a little, only to get hisses from Polly.

"Lie still," she said, annoyed. "Here, take the water." She handed a cup to Rosie, who took it and drank.

"Well," Polly said. "Tommy will be happy to know you're alive in form better than a potted plant."

"Tommy," Rosie said. "He's—Where?,"

Polly huffed. "He's downstairs. You're at 6 Watery Lane, if you don't remember." Her voiced softened. "You…do remember the other night, don't you?"

"In pieces," Rosie replied.

Polly grimaced.

"Better let Thomas see you, then. Drink," she commanded and turned to leave.

As she shut the door, Rosie set down her glass and closed her eyes. She shoved away her thoughts from the nightmare and tried to piece together the night before. Patchwork.

Bits and pieces here and there. The man with the crooked nose—she had bit his hand. Lord Above. She was feral. Rosie knew she had acted on instinct, on pure survival, but that Rosie-the Rosie of last night and the Rosie of now-seemed two worlds apart.

An impossible situation, she told herself. Held at gunpoint by gangsters, bound. Thrown around. Hands pulling at her hair.

Rosie felt her stomach turn and she wondered if there was a waste bucket in the room.

She and Thomas Shelby—she'd gone with him to a party. Then they'd been alone in that room together. And then…the gunfire.

She recalled the popping in her ear. The men grabbing her. All of it started to flood back.

All of it, every bit of it, sounded like it was something in those war novels her mother would read in the evenings. Pure fiction, ridiculous. It couldn't be real. That couldn't be her.

And then the sight of her brother, laying there. No. No no no. Not Richard. No.

Why was he there? What was he doing there, her little brother?

And then that last bit gave way, and she remembered what he'd done.

"We made a deal," he had said to the man with the crooked nose. "Just grab her and—,"

And what? Give her a good scare? Kill Thomas Shelby and teach her a lesson?

Rosie felt the room sway, and she roused from the blankets to stand.

The door swung open, and there was Thomas Shelby.

"Rosie," he said, and in two steps was over to her, moving to hold her as she tried to stand.

"I'm—Richard—he…" she said. Rosie shook her head and sat back on the bed.

"What. Happened?" she gritted her teeth, looking up at Shelby. The fine lines of his face were deep-set. Today, he seemed grayer. The porcelain cut of his face didn't seem to inspire the same beauty it did only a week ago. But, then again, Rosie could barely look about the room, much less admire his features. The Rosie of then and the Rosie of now.

The Rosie of now needed air. Or a bucket.

"The Italians," he said, brushing a loose hair out of her face. She tensed at his rough, calloused hand. At that, Thomas dropped it.

"I assumed," was all she said.

He sighed. "That man they had, beaten—I knew him in the war. Danny didn't do well after it all." Tommy shook his head and drew a sharp breath. "Had episodes. Lost himself to the shakes."

Rosie suddenly thought back to the time he told her about Patrick. A lifetime ago. She nodded.

"A few weeks back he killed a man, an Italian. He didn't know better. But that doesn't matter.

"So the Italians' price was his life for one o' theirs." Thomas sniffed. "We didn't need a war between us and the Italians," he said.

"But you didn't kill him," Rosie said, her eyes searching Thomas's face.

"No, I didn't. I took a gamble. I sent him to your factory instead."

"You put a wanted man in my factory, and you didn't think it would come after me?"

"It was only temporary," Thomas said, his voice low and even. "I was shippin' 'im out to London only a week from now."

"'I'll get it done,' you said, 'Don't you worry, Ms. Walls.' That's what you told me, Thomas," Rosie whispered.

Thomas drew back. "Aye, and I would've. It was your brother who—,"

"Don't talk to me about my brother!"

Thomas pursed his lips and looked down.

"I am sorry—,"

"Do you know who did it?" she asked. Her voice trembled and she felt her throat grow heavy. She tried pushing back the tears. "One of your men? One of the Italians?" Rosie couldn't force herself to give voice to the last possible option.

"No," he said, looking up at her now, his brow softened.

She breathed out, trying to steady herself, then nodded. Thomas waited for a moment, and stepped closer. He gingerly put a hand to her face, holding her jawline in his fingers.

Some part of her, the part that wanted to reason, the part of her that was always screaming for her to leave well enough alone, told her to recoil from him, wanted to scream and curse at him to get away from her. She couldn't bring herself to all of that, but she did turn her head away.

Thomas understood, and drew back as well. They were both silent, not quite looking at each other. The space between them was heavy, full the things they couldn't say, the things they couldn't give right now.

So they left it at that.

The last time she'd seen this many of her kin dressed in black was at Father's funeral. It was a coin toss which crowd was less keen to be there.

Rosie had arrived early, donned in all black, waiting to greet family and the few contacts Richard had who cared to show.

The man hadn't been popular, as it were. Though a few of his Bennys had come out, blightingly drunk.

Rosie had greeted almost everyone before the ceremony started, and she stood solemnly. She gave no eulogy herself.

After the priest had closed his good book and thus loosed the hold on the crowd, people began to wander off back to their cars or down the path out of the cemetery.

They were outside Birm, though you could see the city from here. To be out of the smog and smoke and ugly grey of it all reminded Rosie there was an entire country outside of that city. An entire world.

And all of Birm seemed so small, including her problems and the people in it.

She stood alone as diggers began to shovel fresh soil on the lowered coffin. She'd said no last words to Richard-maybe that was fair, given everything. What could she say to her Abel?

It was easy to sink into her grief, to let the pain wash over her. It was more than easy to think of small Richie. After Mother, he'd been her ward and she'd been his keeper. The nightmares that kept her up in the wee hours were particularly fond of reminding her that.

But it was far more painful to think of all that Richard had done to her-stealing bits of the company from her, undermining her authority, questioning her goddamn right to lead.

Usually, thinking on every problem Richard had given her and how she'd found a way to succeed despite him gave her a sense of pride. An incorruptible sense of righteousness. How many women could take her place? How many men? That thought was always good to savor, because anger sings sweet praises. It emboldens. It justifies. It carries you through.

But, as she wandered to the next plot over and reread her mother's name, she realized anger gave her nothing. Not now. Because her shame it was stronger. The shame of feeling glad he was gone, of feeling relieved. Grief intermingled with relief, shock mixed with sourness.

Who did she really miss? Richard or Richie? The man he'd grown into was irreverent, stupid, toddling...but what could he have become, with a few more years under his belt?

Or maybe he would've stuck to his ways, blown all the family money on snow and girls, torn apart their company's reputation apart bit by bit and caused her headaches at every step of the way.

But that's all a maybe. Can a man's life be judged on how much of a nuisance he was to his sister? Potential or not, a pain in her arse or not, he was family. He was sinner, but so was she.

At the wretched heart of all this fucking mess, Rosie was relieved. She hated herself for it.

A horrible keeper, she was.

It was in the middle of these thoughts that she sensed someone approach her. She turned quickly, only to gasp at the sight of him.

There was Edward, greyed and lean, wearing his black suit, looking grimly at the tombstone before them.

"Alright," he said, in his way of hello. "Been some time, 'asn't it?"

"Yes," she breathed, stepping forward to embrace him. He was skinnier than she'd last seen, but well-groomed. Joan must be keeping him on a tight routine.

He smiled as they pulled away. "It's good to see you, Rosie," he said, before eyeing the scene around them. "Sorry I missed the service."

"It's alright," she replied. "Wasn't much."

"I only got the telegram last night. Rode in from Bath early this morning," he explained, watching the diggers.

"It was rather sudden, I know," Rosie said. She wasn't sure how much Edward knew of the details of Richard's death, so she said nothing more. There was a chance he thought it was just an unfortunate drunken scrap in the streets and had nothing at all to do with her. The guilt was probably sitting right on her face, however. You never were the best poker player, she told herself.

Yet she really did hope he knew the reality of it all. The newspapers hadn't printed anything more than a standard obituary, but rumors fly as they always did. The Walls girl and her brother with Thomas Shelby in a shootout. The Walls girl and Thomas Shelby. Walls and Shelby.

Edward said nothing, though.

"You know the men standing watch over there?" he said, nodding to the right.

Rosie looked past and saw two men standing far from the plot under an oak, hands clasped in front of them, with the Blinder caps.

She sighed. Of course Thomas would send men. After she'd left the Shelby home, she'd noticed there would be one or two passing across the street from her home at odd hours. Rosie hadn't spoken to Thomas since that day, but she guessed he was fearing retaliation from the Italians.

Fine, she thought. Extra security is alright. Though she wondered when security crossed into spying.

But she'd let Thomas do it, for now. The idea of some sleeper in the night come to assassinate her for biting their boss (God, what had overcome her!) or for simply being near Thomas Shelby was enough to make her lie awake at night, gripping a knife beneath her pillow. Add that to her growing list of nightmares.

In all honesty, she felt positively overwhelmed by the politics of their war-if there was to be one. Were they in a ceasefire as they waited for the next head to grow back? Would their revenge take months or only days? Would there be revenge at all, or would Thomas broker some shoddy peace?

But then, how long can peace last in Thomas's world? How long until the next shootout? After the Italians, then who? The Russians? The coppers at last?

The life of a Shelby. Was it ever really a surprise how all the rumors she'd heard were true?

It was a reason why she'd not seen Thomas, despite his calls, in the past week. One of many reasons.

Better she not be seen with him, better she let their connection wither in the public eye-at least for now.

Of course, that was the sensible, business side of Rosie talking. The practical reasons to ignore Thomas had been there since the very beginning, she'd only let her greater impulses stomp them down.

She'd acted like an impulsive love-struck girl, one who had not a bit of sense to stay away from criminals. She'd thought Richard's dealings had cast her along with the Shelbys, but she'd been wrong.

Thomas Shelby was built of a kind different from her, no matter what what fantasies and hopes she'd spurred in her heart to justify her attraction.

He was a hard man, and perhaps they'd say she was a hard woman, but in ways bent opposite from each other. Her confidence was born from experience, from the letter of the law, from the backs of her books. Thomas's confidence was...well, Lord knew where he got it from.

Rosie didn't explain the men or any of this to Edward, instead averting her gaze.

"I think I'd like to go back with you-to Bath," she said at last.

He raised a brow, but didn't question it. "You're always welcome, bab, you know that."

Rosie smiled, a brittle thing. She was suffocating in her home, alone in the dark with all the papers and letters and calls. She missed her brother, her nieces and nephews, the peace of a city that was undoubtedly not Birmingham.

She knew, too, that Tommy would come knocking soon, too. She wasn't able to face him, because so much of her was still hoping he'd come knocking. So much of her wanted that, and it scared the wits out of her. Her desire for destruction seemed to persist, even after it all.

So she needed to go-to get out of the smog and the streets washed with spit and grime. But above all, she needed to send a message to Thomas without sending one at all: Rosie Walls is not here, she will not answer your calls.

After their goodbyes to the graves, Rosie wrapped her arm around her brother's, and they walked quietly away.