The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~Chapter 27~

Small Heath,Birmingham, 1922.

Three years had passed, and life had settled into something Florence could almost call contentment. It was 1922, and the dark cloud that had once followed her began to dissipate, though it never truly vanished. The Shelby family, once figures of silent calculation and thinly veiled threats, had become a constant in her life. It surprised her sometimes, how the threads of loyalty and trust had woven themselves between her and those who once seemed untouchable.

Florence now lived in a modest, sunlit flat just a short walk from the Shelby betting shop. It wasn't grand, but it was hers, filled with touches that spoke of a life she'd slowly built back piece by piece. The armchair by the window, the faded but soft rug she'd found at a market, and the small potted plants that somehow managed to survive under her watch. And then there was the dog. A small, scrappy pup she'd found shivering and abandoned on the side of a road one stormy night. It had looked at her with wide, pleading eyes, its fur matted and wet. Florence hadn't hesitated; she scooped it up, tucking it into her coat, and carried it home. The dog's breed was a mystery but it didn't matter. The little creature had a fierce heart, and its loyalty to Florence was absolute. She named her Lara, and she followed her everywhere, her tiny paws pattering on the floor like a drumbeat of comfort.

Florence's wardrobe had seen a change too. No longer just the threadbare dresses and patched skirts, she now wore clothes that spoke of her newfound place in the world. The fabrics were richer, soft wool skirts, blouses with subtle embroidery, and a well-fitted coat that kept the chill of Birmingham at bay. There was a confidence in the way she carried herself now, her dark hair pinned back neatly, with a few stray curls that refused to obey, softening her sharp features. The betting shop was where she felt most at ease. The familiar noise of coins clinking, shouts of excitement or frustration, and the ever-present smell of ink and paper. She'd learned to handle the Shelby banter, throwing it back with a smile or a sharp word when necessary. Even Arthur, with his brash ways, had come to respect her quiet resilience.

Sometimes, on quieter days, Florence would sit at the shop's front steps with Lara curled up beside her, watching the street come alive. She could spot Thomas's silhouette in the distance, striding with that purposeful, untouchable air, or catch Polly's knowing gaze from the window above, a shared look passing between them that spoke of things only they understood. Polly seemed a lot happier in the past couple of months though. She had regained her son he was a young naive boy from the countryside living by the name of Micheal Gray and god did he look like his mother.

But Life still had its shadows and it was wearing the most on Thomas he had somehow grew more reclusive only really spoke when he needed and well John and Esme were now expecting a new child in there life. Florence can still remember the outburst John throw when he found of there marriage and now he could only smile at Esme and her growing belly. Ada moved down south after Freddie passing she took her son Karl with her and fled the Shelby family she seemed happier. Florence secretly sent her letters just to check in on the woman though she often replied Florence still cared for Ada's brief words and Arthur well Arthur was actually getting better from the three years Florence had been by his side as his assistant she seemed to have been more of a carer to the man helping him with his out bursts and his tendency to deteriorate when things went wrong and things went wrong when his pub was blown up the man was livid but he was getting better.

Life was becoming simple again well as simple as it could go for Florence but there were moments when the sound of raised voices or the crack of a gunshot would send her heart racing, memories of war clawing at the edges of her mind. But those moments passed quicker now. Lara would lick her hand, and she'd find her way back, grounding herself in the warmth of her new life and the sense that, for now, she belonged.