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IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1922, London — the gleaming, modern capital of the British Empire — was as far from the word safe as possible.
Men kept their head firmly down as they rushed home from their places of labour, one hand firmly clasped on the handle of some sharp tool or a pocket knife deep in their pockets; women held their purses even tighter once the sun fell and the smog settled like a firm blanket over the empty streets, providing a backdrop for the colourful array of calamities that might befall one on their way home.
As of late, with the noticeable unrest shaking the underground of the capital, the powerful criminals who held the reins of the city allowed their soldiers to use all means possible to ensure the defeat of the opposing side. It was a guerrilla war for every street, out of the shadows and through things seemingly insignificant to one's eye; a bakery in flames, a restaurant under a new management after a night of dulled screams and gunshots.
No one was spared; this war lacked a no man's land.
Still, Grace Burgess — though she was Grace Campbell now, it still felt foreign on her tongue — held her head high and arms tight around her coat-clad body as she walked down Fitzrovia to the address he gave her when she had called, desperation lacing her voice and all the weight of two, almost three, years of separation gripping her heart.
Her heart hammered in her throat, in the same rhythm as the soles of her heels.
A light, dimmed by thick curtains, spilled from the windows and onto the neatly paved patio, flanked by a respectable pair of flowerbeds — white and pink gerbera daisies, she noticed — awfully in character for a house of some well-off official, a family of new money with budding prospects and a deep pocket making their name in the heights of the capital's society. Certainly not something a gangster would enjoy.
The deep blue door opened even before she had the opportunity to grasp the gilded door knocker that stared at her.
He was there, on the threshold, as sharp and well-dressed as when she had last seen him, only his fringe was slightly longer and the fabric of his three-piece visibly more expensive. Age seemed to bypass his features, unscathed by the will of time in all manners save the deep set of his eyes.
"Thomas."
"Grace," he replied, stepping aside to let her pass in the foyer and close the door behind her.
Sage green tapestry complimented the dark wood of the floor and the staircase at the bottom of the hallway, the crystal chandelier spreading thin strips of light over the intricate fleur-de-Lis' on the walls.
