She was all Japanese silks and Chantilly lace, standing in front of the window overlooking the night engulfed cobblestone below, bathed in delicate fabric that knew the floorboards of the bedroom better than that of her very own body. But it cascaded down her frame, as though the material that glided down her flesh instead of clinging to the structure of her bones beneath, had been sewn just for her. As if each and every stitch that entwined the hues that nearly disappeared within the evening's embrace, had been crafted solely for her and that not another body that walked the Earth, could wear the silks the way in which she did.
For the moonlight, that pierced through the dense cloud coverage and tainting smog that churned even in the late hours of the night, bled in through the linens made of thin lace. The beam of light pale and fickle, streaming in a single delicate ray into the bedroom illuminated by flickering candlelight, found her beside the window. Gliding over her body as though it's light reflected on the surface of the canal, the sheen radiating off of her frame nearly put the moon itself to shame, as the night fell upon her in the soft beam of a spotlight created especially for her.
Thomas Shelby had seen this set on her before, on more than one occasion, as she only had the money for a few outfits to interchange between evenings. But out of all of them, this one, of shimmering ivory and blush peony silk that made her appear even softer than she already was, was by far his favorite. Although, she hardly stayed within the confines of it's smooth and luscious fabric, when they found themselves in each other's company more nights than not, Thomas observed the way the whisper of a pink that fell from the very breath of spring, flowed down her body.
For it was a shade that seemed misplaced here in the core of Small Heath, where the color was bound to be touched by a hand stained black with coal or red with bloodshed and yet, on her it remained forever pure. Even in the darkness of the evening's presence, it still managed to bring out the warming tones of her bare flesh, accentuating the tendrils that fell down her spine like that of a rolling tide of thick curls that smelled of rosehips.
Thomas Shelby had never been one to give much attention to the shades of the world around him, having been brought up in a life drowned in miserable shades, he didn't quite care about the details that might just color in the environment around him. But with her, there was something about the shade of pink that she wore, like it were merely the delicate flush of her cheeks after his lips relinquished her own, that made him equate the shade to her and her alone.
If she was aware of his presence, standing silent in the threshold to her bedroom, she certainly hadn't made an effort to acknowledge it. But Tommy didn't mind. For he stood with his shoulder leaning against the frame of the door, wood worn and slightly peeling of it's chipped paint, and admired her frame by the window. His cap of charcoal tweed left dry as the sky hadn't opened up with cold and penetrating rain that day, tucked away in the pocket of his coat pocket, along with his right hand that was empty of a cigarette. The bedroom was always warm, with candles flickering in corners and upon end tables, with a crackling fire in the brick fireplace along the far wall, but the heat that radiated in the quaint space clung to the wool of the fabric he wore.
For despite the shade she adorned, spring was what felt like a lifetime away. As summer faded just a month prior and autumn entered the atmosphere with a vengeance, leaving those who lived in Birmingham to wonder if the season just might have struck up a deal with winter, letting the presence of the colder months seep in earlier than planned. But no matter the weather that awaited on the other side of that windowpane that she gazed out of, this place that Thomas visited more times than he probably should have, was always warm.
Perhaps, with her, it was warm in more ways than one. For it was a rundown flat, one she could afford on her own and was close to the center of the city. It peeled and it creaked, it gave her more hassle than it was worth, but despite the cold it exuded, there never seemed to be a lack of warmth. For she made up for the emptiness, the rusted frames and peeling paint, the groaning floorboards and a stove that went out too many nights. She was the warmth that heated the home and perhaps, it was for that reason that this insignificant little flat, was where Thomas found the most profound source of warmth in all of Birmingham to reside.
