METHOD OF MADNESS ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ¹ (Under editing)

𝒾. 𝐹𝒾𝓋𝑒: thomas' support

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : forest fire - brighton

⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

i. five: ❝thomas' support❞

✵✵✵

Small Heath, Birmingham

THE GARRISON REEKED of smoke and sweat that night, the walls trembling with the roar of men who had coin to spill and rage to drown.

Glasses clinked, laughter broke like thunder, and the heavy air felt alive with more than just gin—it pulsed with the murmur of spirits, restless and hungry. Marianna could feel them gnawing at her temples, whispering art, art, art with a peculiar insistence, as if the word itself were some key she had not yet learned to turn. It left her unsettled, though she wore her usual easy warmth like a silk veil, hiding the ice rooted deep in her bones.

Grace floated behind the bar with a practiced propriety that seemed both real and counterfeit. She moved like a woman bred for parlours and lace, not a tavern drowning in grime, yet her smile was genuine enough to make even the hardest men soften their voices.

Harry clapped her shoulder once or twice, pleased with her diligence, while Marianna leaned against the pump, lips curved into that faint, knowing smile that carried both approval and suspicion. There was something about Grace that scraped at her nerves. Too neat. Too polished. A woman who claimed to know the rough trade of bar work yet faltered when the crowd pressed too close or the foam spilled over.

The Gypsy woman caught it all, her hazel eyes sharp as razors, her kindness never blinding her to weakness. Still, she allowed Grace her space, her chance. Perhaps even her friendship—though the whispers coiled around her, hissing doubt.

Tonight was Grace's trial by fire. Harry wanted her at the helm, her soft Irish voice calling orders, her hands pouring pints as the tide of men surged. Marianna slipped through the crowd with easy elegance, collecting glasses, shoulders brushing against waistcoats and rough tweed, never once touched. She was the Peaky girl—untouchable, sacred in her own way. No man dared reach for her, not unless he fancied a bullet or a razor across his throat.

It was a freedom edged with danger, one she wore like perfume. The James woman knew she was beautiful—though not in the glittering way Grace was, with her elegant dress and soft hands. Her beauty was smoke and shadow, all warmth on the surface with frost beneath. Men had chased her before, and she had let them taste her smile, even her lips, when it suited her. But when their hunger grew claws, when they mistook her softness for surrender, she reminded them whose blood ran in her veins. Shelby blood, by bond if not by birth.

Marianna moved behind the counter with a steady grace, her hazel eyes sharp beneath her smile.

Grace, new to the bar, leaned against the pump, her soft Irish voice cutting into the chaos. "Is it always this busy in the day?"