METHOD OF MADNESS ━ 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 ¹ (Under editing)

𝒾𝒾. 𝓉𝑒𝓃: own ghosts

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : biting down - lorde

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ii. ten ❝own ghosts❞

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Small Heath, Birmingham

THE MORNING BLED slow and silver through the curtains. Marianna James stirred beneath the thin quilt, her body aching as if her dreams had been fists. Sleep had not come easy; not after the stable, not after the words that lingered like smoke in her lungs, nor the way Thomas Shelby had looked at her.

When she finally rose, the room smelled faintly of dust and old lavender. Her hair was a wild halo of straw-blonde tangles, and her lips were dry from unsaid things. The whispers came first; faint, melodic murmurs curling at the edge of her thoughts. He dreamt of you too, they breathed, soft as sin.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Diego and Tia were already deep in laughter, the kind that belonged to simpler souls untouched by ghosts or guilt.

"What's so bloody amusing?" Marianna asked, pressing a lazy kiss to Tia's cheek, her voice husky from sleep.

Diego smirked, eyes glinting wickedly. "Your face, for one. You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

Tia let out a chuckle, her Tteaspoon clinking gently against the teacup.

Marianna narrowed her eyes, attempting to tame her dishevelled curls with her fingers. "Not the sweetest way to greet your dear cousin in the mornin', Diego."

"Mornin'?" he scoffed. "It's near ten o'clock, Mar. The bloody church bells have given up on wakin' you."

She groaned softly. "Then I'll be needin' somethin' stronger than tea."

Diego's grin widened, impish as ever. "Perhaps a punch to the face will do the trick, eh?"

A teaspoon whizzed past his ear before he could finish laughing. Mari's tone sweet as honey, though her smile carried the bite of a blade."You try it, and I'll have your front teeth strung into a necklace."

Tia watched them both with fond amusement, her weathered hands stilling over the dough she'd been kneading. "God help whoever marries either of you. The house'll fall to ashes before the vows are done."

Before Marianna could reply, a knock sounded at the door; a soft, deliberate sound that silenced the room.

Tia wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer, her steps echoing faintly through the hall.

On the doorstep stood a woman like a portrait come to life; all polished poise and pale beauty, her figure wrapped in burgundy and white, the brim of her red hat casting delicate shadows across her face.

"Is Marianna up?" the woman asked, her voice sweet and clipped, with that foreign lilting grace of someone who'd never known dirt under her nails.