"Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God." -Romans 12:19
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Trixie assumed that she and Tommy would discuss the terms of their Lover's Quarrel in advance, but when she peered through her front window to find Tommy waiting in front of her door for her, she realized that she had been wrong.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, yanking the door open. "How do you know where I live?"
He pressed the door with his fingertips and Trixie, startled, moved out of the way, allowing it to swing past her so that Tommy could come in. "Do you think there's anything in this city I don't know?"
"I'm positive I can find something."
Tommy ignored her, inspecting her body. She hadn't yet gotten ready for the day—usually, she left around eight, and the sun had barely risen now. Nevertheless, Tommy was wearing his usual three-piece suit, looking as immaculately sharp as ever. In her striped pajamas—Luca's old nightclothes—she felt dreadfully out of place. This was improper, she knew. Tommy Shelby—or any man—should be seeing her in her nightclothes. But despite her dislike of him, she was afraid of him to some extent, especially without Polly around to defend her. "You're not ready," he remarked.
"You didn't tell me you were visiting," she retorted, turning her back on him and returning to the stove to find her water boiling over. Trixie pulled a bag of oats out from her cabinet and poured some into a bowl, following it with water from her kettle. "Why are you visiting?"
"Figured we could get the quarrel out of the way," he replied. When she turned, she found him looking at the few drawings she had tacked up on her wall. Luca had been something of an artist, sketching charcoal portraits of her and her father as gifts prior to his proposal. Trixie hadn't ever been able to afford a camera, so they were the only images of her likeness she owned.
"At seven-thirty?" she asked. "Sun's not even up."
"I'm an early riser." Something about the way he said it made Trixie feel like it assigned some sort of judgment towards her, but she didn't completely understand how. She ignored it. "The men at the cargo ports start working at seven. We should be at the Cut before they finish unloading their first batches."
Trixie sat down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of porridge into her mouth and considering. Men at the ports didn't gossip that much, did they? Certainly not enough to justify Tommy being at her house so early. The only other explanation was that he'd done this to, yet again, assert some sort of power over her. There he was, looking the way he did—and her, bare-faced and wearing her dead lover's pajamas.
