sabrina. peaky blinders

two

two

home, mid 1919

Sabrina awoke to the sound of the kettle whistling. Not the shriek of an engine or the distant thunder of shellfire, but a whistle, ordinary, domestic. The sort of sound that once meant tea and calm. She didn't move at first. The ceiling above her bed was mottled with faded water stains, one of them shaped vaguely like France. She stared at it, feeling the pull of memory, of linen wards, quiet prayers, and the smell of antiseptic. It felt like a dream now. Or worse, a life someone else had lived.

The clatter of plates drifted up through the floorboards. Her sisters were already awake.

Sabrina sat up slowly. Her muscles ached in the way they always did now, though there was no wound, no injury to point to. She rolled her shoulders and flexed her hands, once so steady with needle and thread. These days, they twitched slightly when she was tired. She looked down at them and wondered, not for the first time, what they were meant to do now.

Downstairs, the kitchen was warm, with a thin streak of morning sun casting a golden path across the table. Mary stood by the counter, carefully slicing bread.

"Morning," Sabrina offered, entering.

Mary glanced up, her expression soft. "You slept in."

"I suppose I did."

There was no scolding in Mary's tone, only quiet observation. Sabrina poured herself tea and leaned against the edge of the table.

"You've taken over Mum's routine," she noted, watching Mary move with practised efficiency.

Mary smiled, but it was faint. "Someone had to."

They fell into a comfortable silence. It was strange how easily the rhythm returned between them. Different, but familiar.

"Do you miss it?" Mary asked suddenly, not looking up.

Sabrina blinked. "Paris?"

Mary nodded.

"Yes," Sabrina said. "And no. I miss feeling needed."

Mary set the bread down. "You're needed here too."

Sabrina smiled politely, but the truth nestled beneath her ribs, persistent and thorny. Was she? The family had gotten on without her. Mary had filled the gaps. Betty had held the pieces together. Even their father, distant as he was, seemed more present now than she'd expected.

She didn't say any of that aloud. Instead, she sipped her tea.

The door creaked open, and their father stepped in, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. He looked half-dressed, as if he'd gone out and come back without fully committing to either.

"Morning, girls," he said, voice gravelly.

"Da," Mary greeted. "You been out walking?"

"Just down to the bakery. Thought I'd see if Harold still makes those buns your mum liked." He placed the small paper parcel on the counter. "He doesn't."

Sabrina watched him. His movements were slower than she remembered. He still wore grief like a second coat, shoulders slumped under its weight. And yet, there was something steadier about him too. As though Lillian's quiet presence had begun to patch some of the holes.

"How's it feel being back?" he asked her, pulling out a chair.

Sabrina shrugged. "Like I never left."

They all paused as Jane stormed into the kitchen, hair wild, feet bare.

"Betty says you're coming to the Garrison tonight!" she announced.