"What God has joined together, let no one separate." —11 Mark 10:9
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Trixie didn't understand what Tommy meant until he was halfway downstairs. The ceremony. Their wedding ceremony.
Unhelpfully, her mind supplied, If you marry him you won't have to feel so guilty. But this wasn't marriage, this wasn't love, this was business and—sex. Something like it, without crossing that threshold. Trixie's neck burned where his lips had been, and she brushed over the spot with her fingers to see if it was as feverish as she felt—nothing. Like nothing had ever happened. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined that Arthur had not returned to the house so soon, and that Tommy would seize her roughly by the waist, taken her to his bed, and—
"Oh, for the love of God," she muttered. Here she was again, in Tommy's bedroom, fantasizing about Tommy. She balled her hands into fists and pivoted for the door. One crisis at a time. Downstairs, she found the rest of the Shelbys smoking with Jeremiah Jesus.
"Eh, there she is!" John howled, clapping and smacking Tommy on the shoulder. The brothers had apparently made up at some point, judging by the generous smile on Tommy's face.
"Alright, John," Tommy said, but he didn't step forward. He looked oddly relaxed, hands in his pockets.
"You're not dressed like much of a bride," Arthur remarked, gesturing at Trixie with the flask in his hand. She wasn't dressed like much of a bride, that was true, but since she'd only gotten the notice of her wedding an hour previous, she was willing to forgive the fault. Her collar was white, if that counted for anything.
Polly bypassed him from behind and snatched the drink from his hands. "No drinking until the reception. It's a holy day." With a glint in her eye, she looked at Trixie and said, "Tommy Shelby's settling down."
"We're all aware of what's actually going on, right?" Trixie clarified. "You know I'm not actually marrying him."
"You need something blue," Polly said. "Come on upstairs, then, we'll make something fun out of this."
"I thought the ceremony was starting soon?" Trixie asked, partially out of confusion and partially to avoid the interrogation that was sure to follow once Polly had her alone.
"Ceremony starts when the bride's ready," Polly replied, and before Trixie could protest, she was being marched back up the stairs to Polly's bedroom. The biggest in the house, with green floral wallpaper and a large mirror over the bureau.
