Saint ━━ Thomas Shelby

Two. Pretty Girls Make Graves

Chapter Two.
Pretty Girls Make Graves

There was a girl Lucy Foster once knew. A pretty girl called Angelina Baranoski, she was Polish. She had eyes the color of emeralds, short, brown curls, and a smile that was about as contagious as the plague. Angelina said she wanted to be a film star— to be in the greatest picture ever known. She was made for that; someone as angelic as she was must have their beauty captured.

     She said she wanted to be immortal, and that if she were in a picture, she could never truly die. She'll live on through her work, through her art. When she's six feet below the ground, her voice will still be heard, her face will still be seen. She'll live on.

On Fridays, Lucy Foster likes to go to the pictures because it's what she and Angelina often did together. She likes sitting in empty theatres— just as they once did— and stuffing her face with popcorn. She likes throwing kernels at the screen in annoyance when an unwanted plot twist appears. Sometimes, she can still hear Angelina's commentary beside her (or perhaps that's the drugs speaking).

Angelina Baranoski mysteriously disappeared in August of 1914. She was on holiday in Italy with her family, and, though there were dozens of them, nobody saw what happened. Nobody noticed. It was as if she'd just vanished into thin air, like she'd never existed in the first place.

Lucy hasn't forgiven them for that. To this day, she holds a tight, unwavering grudge against every single member of that household. Their grief has come to her mind once or twice, but she knows that if they're truly grieving— if they truly care— then they'd never let Angelina out of their sight in the first place.

So, naturally, Lucy Foster is a bit too protective. But in a man-eat-man world, she ought to be territorial, lest someone takes what is hers.

She's a target for powerful men all over London. Everyone wants a bite from the forbidden fruit that is Lucy Foster, and who can blame them? Her family implore her to be more careful, knowing she has a tendency of jumping into things without careful thought or consideration. But there's no fun in that, is there? And who wants to live a boring, dull life?

This is what Rosemary Hyde is for— to be the cold, calculating monster hidden beneath Lucy Foster's golden ringlets and jovial smile. Rosemary Hyde is both defense and offense combined, a devilishly fearsome woman.

     It is for this reason, that the Fosters conduct business with Rosemary, and not Lucy. To give the illusion that there is is a woman born from the flames of Hell itself on their side.

      And though it is a Friday, and Lucy Foster originally planned on going to the pictures, there is a more pressing situation that requires her presence and attention. She alters her appearance— her blonde curls are now shoulder-length strands of deep brown and her face covered in cosmetics. She slides black satin gloves onto her arms and makes her way towards her cousin's club. It's quieter during the day, but not completely dead, though the lack of music and laughter makes the place feel eerie.

     There is a singular black, locked door in the back. She knocks on it thrice and it swings open. Inside, there is a large, wooden desk, covered in mounds of paperwork and empty glasses. Her eldest brother sits behind the desk, and he looks at her with surprise.

     "You're early," he chuckles, pouring them both a drink as she sits in front of him.

     "It's never too early for drinks," she says, saluting him with the cup in her hand. They take large, identical swigs of their drinks. "Tell me, what's so important that I had to miss Enid Bennett?"