spoiler alert idk what im doing & if nobody likes this i will seriously unpublish it & pretend like it never happened!!!! so if ur here & enjoying ty ily <3
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Florence had always wondered what it felt like to die.
She had heard more war stories than she could count. When her father and her uncles got a bit drunker than they intended, and the war was mentioned, it wasn't unusual for them to go off on whatever tangent that first sparked the conversation. Florence had heard about the hunger, about the disease, about the cold. About the gas that could kill men, about the rats in the trench, about the bodies littering no man's land that could never be retrieved.
The World War sounded like a biblical nightmare; and somehow, her family had survived that war.
Not all of them would survive this one.
As Florence looked down at the sleeping face of her cousin Michael, she felt a deep sense of sadness settle in the pit of her stomach. Right now, she was supposed to be getting ready for John's funeral; but the thought made her sick.
John shouldn't be dead. He should be alive. Every time Florence closed her eyes, that was all she could see. His smiling face, warm blue eyes squinting with laughter as he jabbed his fingers into her ribs, enticing breathless giggles and toothy grins of joy. If she thought hard enough, she could still feel the warmth of his arms around her, squeezing 'round her middle 'til she swore she couldn't breathe.
And now he was dead.
Florence closed the book she'd been reading, returning it to its place on Michael's bedside table. She had been in to visit him so frequently that she barely bothered bringing her books home anymore. It was easier to just leave them there for the next day.
As she got up to leave, Florence spared Michael one last look and wondered what it felt like to almost die.
"Miss Shelby, it's time for us to go." Florence, still traipsing in her own thoughts of death and dying and almost dying, nodded up at the Blinder boy. He was far too young to incite intimidation, but he was big and sturdy and somewhat looked the part. "The funeral is set to start soon, and your father will have my head if you're not on time."
Florence nodded, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a cigarette from her carton, dropping it on the book, along with her lighter. She knew Michael well enough to know that would be the first thing he'd ask for when he woke up.
"Right," she said with a sigh, giving her head a little shake to rid it of its horrors. "Let's go, then."
These days, the thought of Florence traveling anywhere alone was laughable. If she thought her father was protective before, he was ten times worse after the Black Hand was delivered. Everywhere she went, she had a Blinder's company. Which, she had to admit, wasn't always a bad thing. Some of the younger ones were cute. But sometimes--most times--it was irritating. Florence couldn't remember the last time she had a minute to herself.
She wished she could say that things had been easier before, but they weren't. Florence had watched her family go through Billy Kimber, Alfie Solomons and Darby Sabini, Inspector Campbell and the Russians. And now came the Italians. The Shelby family would never have enough.
Upon arriving at the field, Florence clutched her two white roses with tight fingers as she approached her family, her father greeting her with open arms that she walked right into, warm and familiar.
"You okay, angel?" At eighteen, Florence foolishly expected her father to quit it with the pet names and the soft terms of endearment; especially for a man as brutal as Thomas Shelby. But alas, her father was a headstrong man and, at heart, a man of habit. Florence nodded against his chest, eyeing down the flourished caravan that held her dear uncle's body. "Right. Put your flowers in then, love."
