Thomas Shelby finds himself confronted with a ghost from his past-Maggie Hill, once an ally and the closest friend of his younger sister Ada, now a seasoned thief amidst London's notorious Forty Elephants.
Thomas Shelby x Margaret Lily Hill
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MAGGIE SLIPPED INTO THE SCENE with the effortless grace of a seasoned actress, her visage betraying an innocence that belied the cunning spirit within her. Each step was a calculated dance, her demeanor demure, yet exuding an undercurrent of mischief. As she approached, her foot wavered slightly-an exquisite misstep upon the polished floor, perhaps facilitated by the fine wine she had been sipping with an air of practiced nonchalance.
This moment of stumble was not mere happenstance; it was a performance honed through years of practice. Her body leaned forward in an elegant arc, her arm extending outward in a sweeping motion that sent her glass into a trajectory of graceful inevitability. The dark liquid sailed through the air, a crimson comet, and with a theatrical flourish, it splashed against Kimber's broad chest. The wine blossomed across the fabric of his suit, a vivid stain blooming against the crisp white of his dress shirt, a stark reminder of the chaos hidden beneath the veneer of sophistication.
"Fucking hell!" Kimber's booming curse split the air, surprise momentarily loosening his carefully curated mask of dominance. He stumbled back, bewildered, more accustomed to delivering blows than receiving them.
"Oh, Mr. Kimber, please forgive me-l'm mortified," Maggie purred, the picture of contrite femininity as she set about dabbing the spreading stain on Kimber's chest with a small handkerchief she had conjured seemingly from thin air, her fingers fluttering with well-timed modesty. Each motion was a studied masterpiece of contrition, her lowered gaze meek yet inviting.
Kimber's initial irritation melted under the warmth of her proximity, his frown softening into a look somewhere between bemusement and interest.
"Ah, don't fret, love," he chuckled, a rough sound that rumbled from his chest as he gazed down at her. His eyes lingered on her neckline, where her dress dipped just low enough to hold his attention—a diversion as meticulously arranged as the rest. "Just a bit of wine, no harm done. Accidents happen to the best of us."
And happen they did, Thomas noted dryly from his vantage point, a wry smile ghosting his lips. For as Kimber remained fixated on Maggie's ample display, Thomas keenly observed as her delicate fingers slipped, almost imperceptibly, into the man's coat pocket. Her touch was feather-light, swift and decisive, honed in the days when she had been his ally, a skill cultivated in shadows and sharpened in secrecy. With a slight movement, she retrieved the prize: a gold pocket watch, polished to a high gleam, its chain dangling briefly before disappearing into her purse.
Kimber, oblivious to the deft heist unfolding inches from his own gaze, continued to smirk down at Maggie, thoroughly enchanted. The man was a fool, Thomas mused from his post, captivated by glitter and gloss without ever sensing the hidden blade beneath. And Maggie—Maggie was a virtuoso, orchestrating a scene of deception with the ease of a master, her beauty as lethal as any weapon.
Thomas took a drag of his cigarette, the cherry ember flaring faintly against the darkness as he exhaled a thin, drifting plume of smoke. His lips twisted in an involuntary smirk, a flicker of admiration tempered by astonishment. Maggie's audacity was, indeed, a thing to behold-her impeccable skill and unapologetic nerve a testament to a recklessness few could match. It was as if the entire room had conspired to spotlight her latest maneuver, though only Thomas truly understood the art and craft that lay behind her bold gambit.
As Kimber continued to bluster, utterly oblivious to the calamity that had befallen him, Maggie excused herself from his vicinity with a grace so fluid it bordered on choreographed. Her gaze swept through the crowd, deliberate yet detached, until her eyes found Thomas once more. A glint of recognition—perhaps even challenge-sparked in her gaze. He felt its warmth like a distant fire, an invitation to a game only the two of them knew how to play.
The corner of her mouth tugged into a faint smirk, the kind that dared him to act, to join her in the delicate dance of mischief and pursuit. She raised an eyebrow, her expression a silent taunt: Well, then, Thomas—what will you do now?
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A/N: For over three years now, this piece has lingered in my drafts, gathering digital dust. Here, I present a sneak peek of my interpretation of Margaret Lily Hill, sister to notorious gangster Billy Hill, if she were in the world of Peaky Blinders. Aside from her name, occupation, and a few elements rooted in historical fact, the rest is entirely fictional. I've adjusted her age slightly to minimize the age gap between her and Tommy. The story unfolds in the first season of Peaky Blinders. Though it stands alone as a one-shot, I do have ideas for how it might continue, should I ever choose to explore it further. For now, however, it remains a self-contained narrative.
