Holding her hand out for a cigarette, which Sam so graciously passed to her, along with the matchsticks, she took a long drag, the smoke temporarily obscured her face behind a thin white veil. Then, she sighed as she exhaled, the smoke curling above her head and blending in with the forming cloud of cigarette smoke. She knew Sam was right, and it hurt to swallow her pride.

“What did you expect me to say? To sit back and take it like I'm some damned whore? How was I supposed to react? Because I would have rather put his bloody eye out with my steak knife than listen to him prattle on about how he's going to make me choke on his cock.” She spat angrily, trying to keep her voice low so as the guests in her flat wouldn't overhear.

“You're right, Sam. Maybe I did react out of line. Maybe, just maybe, if things get worse, we’ll have to put me outside of city limits.”

Meanwhile, as Silas shifted nervously, he finally took a seat in a lounge chair near the fireplace, rubbing his hands together in earnest than the need for warmth. On occasion, his aunt would mumble something under her breath, sometimes Silas would translate, and the other times he would turn red around the ears. On one such event, Silas blurted out her apparent question.

“Ah, she wants to know if Vera and you… are together? She says this place smells like passion.” To which his aunt, looked up with a smile on her lips and patted Shay’s freshly bandaged shoulder.

“Look Sam, why don't you give me some time alone to myself until we visit the Von Goethe's? Maybe my nerves will calm after the pipe...and thank you for that, the pipe I mean. I know it was too dangerous to go back so soon to my flat. So… Thank you.”

"Silas, you shut it right now." Shay warned in a hushed whisper, glancing back at Sam and the younger rougher. "You're the only one who speaks her tongue, aye? Don't say a damned thing that puts us in a bind, alright?" his face was flush with embarrassment. He didn't think it was that obvious that their lovemaking left notable traces, but here was a strange old woman who didn't speak a word of bloody English looking at him like the biggest snitch of all. "Just tell her, yeah, but this isn't the time." he said, grimacing with an inhale of pain as the woman patted the wound. What the hell was her problem?

Sam's jaw was clenched tightly as he clutched his forehead between his fingers in thumb, as if to alleviate a headache. "You do whatever the fuck you have to get out of a situation alive, and unharmed. Or is your pride more important than your life..." he said, his voice growing more terse and rigid as he sharply inhaled through his nose as his eyes narrowed into daggers as he stared back at Vera, refusing to back down.

"Was it worth Shay taking a goddamn bullet? The fuck did he do to deserve getting shot?" Suddenly, Sam's hands shot up, fingers curled like upturned claws, shaking with rage. "Do you ever think of anyone but yourself, huh? Do you bloody think that maybe your stubborn shit drags others into your muck, Vera? More and more, we've had to do everything to keep you out of harm's way. Your carelessness forced Shay to kill several men. Then he had to act as a bodyguard. Then we had to put what little fucking money we had saved for everyone's pay down for the next two weeks on this place, and the day you move in, this happens! What is going through your head, Vera? Tell me, before it's too late and you are found dead and brutalized with another one of my friends right beside you!" he was beginning to shout, the veins in his neck and head bulging as he punched his fist hard into the kitchen counter, prompting everyone to stop what they were doing and look back, alarmed.

At Shay's sharp, biting words, Silas face burned red, and he cast his eyes on the floor as he mumbled quietly to his aunt in their tongue. Emory caught the embarrassed look on the young Rougher's face and withheld a chuckle, he knew how the poor kid felt to be in an awkward situation such as this. As if offended, the older woman looked defiantly at Shay, her large black eyes peering at him as she set her jaw with a soured frown.

In broken English, thick with an Eastern-European accent, she addressed Shay as she pulled the shawl around her shoulders, "I speak your language. I ask for many reasons," With a gesture of her hand, she waved to Vera, whose back was turned to them as she leaned against the counter through the kitchen doorway, and dropped her voice low to match Shay's, "I know her father. He is apart of our clan." However, the argument in the kitchen halted her from saying anything else on the matter. Silas himself appeared surprised that his aunt Ingrid knew anything about Vera, or Sam for that matter. The two of them swiveled their heads to discern what had Sam riled up, or to listen in on what Vera had to say.

"You think I'm bloody selfish, do you?!" Vera snapped, her own voice rising to meet Sam's. "If you haven't gone and lost your head in the swaths of women you're too busy banging boots with, then you'd rightly recall just who the hell taught me how to shoot, eh? You sure as hell didn't do it! No one bothered! I looked after myself when you went away to the War, I worked two jobs to make ends meet, to make damn well certain that I had a roof over my head, and food in my belly. Do you remember how you just went off and left me here all by myself? So I don't give a bloody fuck if you think I'm selfish, Sam! I've had to protect myself, and I can damn well do it again if I need to! I NEVER asked to be apart of this, so don't you go pointing the finger at me and telling me how bloody selfish I am! I don't need anyone, Sam, you're too damn blind to see that your little sister is a grown woman, and not a damned child anymore, I make my own decisions." Vera seethed, her hands curled into fists at her sides. If she could, she would have struck Sam in the face, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins left her feeling dizzy and cold.

"Get the hell out of my apartment! ALL OF YOU!" Vera shouted and stormed out of the kitchen back into the living room where Silas, Shay, Emory, and Ingrid remained.

"GET OUT!" She roared as she flung open the door to the flat, and pointed out the door, her chest heaving with rage.

Ingrid didn't need a translator to understand the gist of what Vera had said, and she quietly gathered her items that she had used to bandage Shay with. As she hefted the bag up, her black eyes flickered to Shay, and pulled once on his hand. "Come with us. I did not finish."

Silas and Emory glanced at one another with uncertainty, they followed Sam's orders, especially when it came to his sister. However, they did pocket their revolvers and moved to the door, waiting for Sam to emerge from the kitchen. "Vera, I think you're acting a bit rash now, eh? Sam's only trying his best to help you. I'm sure he didn't mean what he did said." Emory attempted, but his words were shot down by the tempest that was Vera.

"Don't you dare preach at me, Em'." She hissed, her eyes became narrowed slits, which vaguely reminded Emory of a viper, poised and ready to strike.

"I was just trying to help." He muttered in defense.

The argument reached a crescendo, and Shay could not help but feel that he was responsible for much of it. He felt like excusing himself, to get away from two people he cared deeply about tearing each other apart in a vicious, heated argument, but in his current state, he wouldn’t be excused so easy, and he wanted to be there for Vera more than anything. The room was silent, save for the two siblings, as if everyone else were afraid to move, let alone speak.

Vera stormed out of the kitchen, looking very much so ready to murder, and her words dug into Shay like a dagger; get out. He wasn’t an exception for her wrath, and after everything, and perhaps in spite of it, he suddenly felt discarded, like he was shouldering the blame for something he was not the cause of. He could not control Sam’s words, who could? And yet, here he was, gathering his things at the behest of the unsettling Gypsy woman, and stepping out of the flat like a retreating army. Sam was livid; it didn’t take a psychiatrist to realized speaking to him was paramount to suicide at this point, and the fist he drove into a passing wall set off a deafeningly loud punctuation to the situation. If any of the residents of the building were aiming to complain, none reared their head; it was as if they knew the stakes.

The next few hours passed by in a haze as Shay was preoccupied by what was happening, only half listening to Sam’s rant and violent rampage across the Tawdy, and the Gypsy doctor kept working on his wound. With a whiskey in hand, Shay just wished the day to leave him be in peace, and he remained as non-committal as possible to inquiries his way, and even Silas didn’t look at him like he wanted to pry for details about how intimate his time with Vera got, like the boys usually did when women were involved. One glass turned to two, and to three, and before Shay knew it, the walls were beginning to spin and he sprinted to the washroom to upheave his shame, barely hearing the complaints about him being a shitty mess and to get him home before he made an ass of himself.

The wound in his shoulder was testament enough to that; it was a bridge that had long since been crossed.

Emory drove Shay back to his flat in the same car he was charged with driving, as if he were being revoked the privilege and it was someone else’s turn, someone who could prove to be more responsible, and a part of Shay resented Emory and the others for the fact, all the while still hearing Vera’s scream to leave like a siren. She was furious, and for good reason, but why did she have to rope him in with the others? Did he not prove himself enough, that he genuinely cared? A dark mood crossed him like a foul miasma, and the rage that consumed Sam left impressions through his soul like inky tendrils.

Goddamn you all. Shay thought, slamming the door of the car and leaving a startled Emory speechless as Shay stormed off back to his flat, where against his better judgement and perhaps entirely because of the alcohol ebbing through his body and soul, he grabbed a bottle of vodka, God knows what brand, and sat on his couch as if gravity finally took his legs out from him. He sat in the dark, stewing, vaguely aware of the protesting ebbs of pain from his shoulder and something prodding at his side. Drinking deeply, Shay eventually found the irritation enough to investigate what it was, and from between the cushions he pulled the Webley Revolver from the couch, the cold steel breech opening handgun feeling empowering in his hands. He stared at the cylinders, the destructive potential contained within as each cartridge was worth a man’s life.

The only question was whether it would be his own or another man’s the gun would claim next. The unsettling thought floated as the cylinder rotated, clicking softly as each chamber came and went from battery.

The next time Shay saw Donald Hayes, he was going to blow his fucking brains out, consequences be damned.

0700, February 2nd

Disintegration

When her eyes cracked open, she winced painfully at the orange glow from the opium light on her bedside table. It took her several minutes to understand exactly what time it was, or more importantly what day it was. Frankly, she didn’t have a clue, not that she cared. Ever since the day she kicked Sam, Shay, and the others from her apartment, she fell into a relapse. She recalled the words that Sam had uttered to her at the Tawdry, that he had left a present for her in the end table in her room. Sure enough, he had gone out of his way and purchased her an entirely new pipe set for her dependence. In her wallowing emotions, a mix of regret and anger, of spite and agony, she practically ran straight to her bedroom after locking the door behind her, and yanked the drawer open. To her relief, and relative surprise, she found a beautiful copper pipe with a jade bowl, and a matching oil light over which she could heat the opium with a similar pair of copper tweezers for her to hold it over the flame. Nothing sounded more inviting than to lull herself into a drug induced sleep, one where she could forget everything, the incident at The Spirit of Tuscany, the passionate morning with Shay, and the fury of her brother. One could call her childish, and she wouldn’t deny it, for she felt immature in her actions. Yet, as she recoiled back on the mattress, and brought the pipe to her lips, inhaling slowly, she felt all of her worries become a liquesce fog.

The passing of the hours merged into a heavy blanket of mist, a miasma of time, one that she could not discern one hour from the next, nor the passing of days. Every time she opened her eyes, she did not rise to feed herself, to shower, or to take care of any other bodily needs, rather, she remained in her bed, curled close to the bedside table, her pipe clutched in one hand. It was there, in this opium-induced state did she wander through a haze of dreams, one dream blending into another, which soon felt like a singular dream that continued when she shut her eyes. A blur of fantastical dreams that simply made no sense. She dreamt of Shay, how she envisioned his warm arms wrapping around her, and she dreamt of her mother, where she could recall the distinct sound of her voice as she spoke to her, but the words she could not hear, nor could she see her mother’s face. She dreamt of wandering across purple heather fields shrouded in mists, she dreamt of running away from an unknown pursuer, and she dreamt of people emerging from the mists to speak with her. Again, their faces she could not see, nor understand the words they spoke unto her, but it seemed that she at least understood the meaning of their words.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

Startled at the excruciatingly loud noise, Vera woke from her dream-like slumber, and scrambled to sit up in bed. Hesitating, she remained on the edge of her bed, her eyes wide with fright, and heart pounding in her ears. Did she imagine that? Was she hearing things again? Sometimes after waking suddenly from a continued bout of smoking, she often heard imagined sounds, so she was uncertain as to whether what she just heard was real or not. A trembling hand covered her heart as she desperately tried to slow her racing heart. A sudden wave of nausea overcame her, for the lack of food and water had left her in a weakened state. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that hung over her dresser, her skin seemed paler than usual, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. Not to mention she had a horrible case of bedhead, for the curls in her hair sprang away from her head like coils on a spring.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

There! So she wasn’t hallucinating! Through the closed bedroom door, she could hear a voice calling for her. Was it Sam? What day was it? Grudgingly, with a heavy pit in the bottom of her stomach, which could simply be a lack of food, she stumbled from her bed, and hastened for her flat’s door, a sudden headache sprang on her, making her see colors. She bumped into a vase that she could have sworn wasn’t there before.

“VERA. It’s Sam, open the door, or I’ll break it down.” The sound of his voice made her ears ache, and her head pound all the more.

“You don’t have to be so loud…” Vera grumbled, as she struggled to unlock her door from the inside. When she lifted the hook, the door swung open suddenly as Sam pushed his way inside, behind him was Shay.

“God Vera, you look like shit.” Sam said as he kicked the snow from his boots, glancing at her with scrutinizing eyes. It seemed that his anger had not abated.

“Shay…” She ignored Sam’s biting words and turned to face Shay instead. Her first initial reaction was to reach out and embrace him, but she recalled the day she kicked them out from her apart, and she wondered if his feelings for her had changed. “How’s your shoulder?” She asked, his injured shoulder was hidden from sight behind his worn pea coat.

“Christ be damned, have you been at the pipe this entire time? Your flat smells like the rear end of a horse. Do you even know what day it is?” Sam demanded, discarding the chance for Shay to reply, he made his way to the tall French windows, and threw open the curtains. Wincing at the sudden light of day, Vera sought for words, but none came to mind. She didn’t know. How many days had passed? Sam took her silence for his own answer.

“It’s the 2nd of February, Vera. You’re supposed to go see the Von Goethe’s today. Do you remember that at all?”

“Already?” Her eyes widened in astonishment. Four days had passed, and she hadn’t even noticed.

Coming away from the window, Sam headed straight for her, where he grasped her jaw in his hand, to her, it felt like she was caught in a bear trip, and his fingers were the iron teeth which held her in place. Chilling steel grey eyes peered back at her, as if searching for an answer, one that he already knew as he stepped away from her, uttering an agitated sigh. “Things never change with you, do they? Look, you best get your mind right, and go freshen up. It’s a two-hour drive to the Von Goethe’s, so we’ll leave in an hour.” Sam disappeared into the kitchen, where the opening and closing of the cabinet doors, as well as the running of the tap hinted as to what he was up to. Now that it was just Shay and her in the room, she desperately thought of something to say, but nothing readily came to her mind as she stood in her living room, a heavy awkwardness growing between them, her eyes stealing secretive glances at him all the while. Emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water in hand, he held it out to Vera to take. She did not reject this act of kindness, for when her eyes landed on it, she realized her overwhelming thirst. In one go, she downed the entire glass, and the shaking in her hands subsided, and a bit of her headache as well.

“Go. Get cleaned up, and I’ll make breakfast.” Sam ordered, and to his relief, she reluctantly obeyed, slipping off to the washroom. “C’mon Shay, you can give me a lending hand, eh?” He gestured with a wave of his hand to follow him into the kitchen where he set about pulling various items of food from the ice chest, such as eggs, milk, and from the pantry, beans and bread. Normally, Sam never had to see his sister in a state like this, as she lived above Mr. Harrison’s, and she kept to herself, out of trouble, out of mind, out of the way.

“Look… Silas told me what Ingrid said about Vera, and I know that you know, but please, for her sake, don’t mention a word of it until after this job is done with your marks. I need her focused. While you’re working, I plan on visiting their clan, and seeing if what Ingrid says is a lie.” Sam mentioned as he cracked several eggs into a cast iron skillet. The sound of sizzling egg whites filled the tiny kitchen. It was evident to him, as he looked about the kitchen, that by the lack of dishes, Vera hadn’t eaten since she threw them out. The skin pulled tight over her cheekbones was clear enough to him. Part of him felt guilty for exploding on her, but another part of him felt angry again, why did she act so irresponsible? All she was doing, was burying whatever problems she battled with, beneath the thick smoke of opium.

Turning the knob for the water to fill the tub, still a new contraption to her, Vera gathered fresh undergarments from her room, along with the tea dress Shay and her purchased from the market. When the tub had filled, Vera carefully discarded each layer of clothing, casting them onto the floor like unwanted refugees. As she stepped into the water, she let out an audible sigh as she lowered herself into the water. When she settled into the porcelain basin, the warming water helped soothe her taunt muscles, muscles she didn’t realize were taunt to begin with. She carried on with her normal bathing rituals, and when she had cleaned herself sufficiently, she emerged from the water, and pulled the plug. While the water drained away, Vera brushed her teeth, brushed her hair, and pinned it oh-so carefully. Finally, slipping the peach-cream colored fabric of the tea dress over her head, Vera gazed at her reflection staring back at her. Some color had returned to her face, her cheeks were rosy in hue, and her skin had lost some of its ghostly shade. Pleased with the resurgence in color, Vera left the bathroom to find Sam and Shay just setting the kitchen table for breakfast. Her brows rose in surprise at the sight of the two of them working together.

“You look much better now.” Sam mused as he glanced up at his sister. And he wasn’t lying. At his compliment a light flush of pink bloomed, the thin peach dress trimmed in lace flattered her skin tone, and brought out a peculiar sheen in her eyes.

“Thank you.” She muttered, a bit shamed for her past behavior, her eyes gazed at the meal before her, stunned at the generosity of the two men before her. There, her eyes flickered to Shay’s, and then away again.

“Are you coming with us?” Vera prompted, curious as to why Sam had even bothered to show up today.

“Aye. The roads are a bit bad from the last bit of snowfall. I’ll drive you, since your guise is a well-off couple, you’ll need a driver. And that’ll be me. Now eat up.” He said, gesturing towards the eggy-in-a-blanket, toast, beans, glass of milk, and bacon.

“Shoulder’s fine, miss Vera.” Shay replied, not quite ready to make eye contact with the woman he thought he loved. After the other night, he wasn’t sure what to make of her any longer, and coming into her flat, smelling of the very same illicit substance that got her into all of these messes to begin with just helped to erode what faith he had that she really cared. And so, he reverted back to his usual self, the stoic and dutiful member of the gang that simply did what was ordered without fuss.

For four days, Shay struggled with both his wound and Vera brushing him aside with the others, and here she was not even knowing the day, all of her feelings and thoughts washed away in a haze of acrid smoke. A part of him wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, to see if anything of the kind and tender woman who showed him such compassion still existed, or if that person vanished when the pipe came out. It was impossible not to feel slighted.

When Sam asked if Shay could assist with making breakfast, the Irishman simply nodded, resisting the urge to light up a smoke to relieve the tension that gripped his chest. He was busy igniting the stove top when Sam spoke up once more, stepping close to keep the conversation confidential as his sister disappeared into a cascade of running water that would drown out her ability to hear what he had to say.

“I don’t plan on being distracted from the job, Sam. It’s too big of a task to bungle up with personal feelings and hearsay from a strange witch of a woman. Miss Vera doesn’t need to know what she isn’t told from the source. Whatever the case may be, Sam, I wish you luck in getting to the bottom of that mystery.” He said, cracking open the eggshells on the edge of the skillet and depositing the contents on the rapidly warming surface.

Breakfast was soon prepared, a quick job between the two men, so that when Vera emerged, she was beginning to resemble the woman Shay grew to care for. Their eyes met briefly, and Shay chided himself for giving into the temptation, to see if she were still there. A part of him wanted to scorn her, to let her know he deserved more from her indifference, but another part of him wasn’t ready to dismiss the few days they had together as a mere coincidence. Why the hell did things have to be so complicated?

The three ate quickly, and largely in an awkward silence, knowing full well they only had a bit of time before they needed to depart. Shay felt like protesting about not being the one to drive, simply because he did not relish the idea of sitting in the back seat with Vera, especially with Sam in the car. Whatever needed to be said couldn’t from that alone, and what had initially been an assignment he felt quite sure of himself on was now up in the air, as he found it increasingly hard to concentrate on the reading materials he purchased to try and lie his way through their visit to the von Goethe’s. After quickly eating and washing down the meal with a quick glass of water, Sam and Shay finished cleaning up the dishware and prepared to depart. They were already dressed for the occasion, and it was simply a matter of Vera to get changed herself.

When Vera emerged from the room, it was hard to reconcile the drugged out husk that greeted them with the stunning woman in the dress they had purchased for her earlier, and it was true; she cleaned up immaculately. Shay needed to buy a new blazer, vest, and button down shirt after his gunshot wound, and it still was quite tender to try and move his arm. It was better than being dead, to be sure, and that was still something that bothered him; there was no reason he should have survived the encounter, yet here he was, in his own purgatory with a pair of dueling siblings he had grown to care for in their own respective ways.

Soon, they were in the car, which Shay dutifully got the door for Vera and climbed in on the opposite side, staring out the window as London’s snow-blanketed streets rolled by. It was deceptively peaceful, and he knew too well that that pure white powder could be so insidiously tainted so fast by the blood of man, and in some dark alley, the traces of his mortality were concealed from days of miserable weather. It would take the entirety of the two hour drive to build up an affectionate attitude towards Vera again, he was certain. There was still too much on his mind he just could not find it in himself to look past, as much as his heart screamed at him to do just that.

By the time the Peugeot made its way out of the many boroughs and districts that made-up London, Vera had failed to realize the passing of the time until the lack of buildings became magnifying, so much so that there were no longer clusters of villages, and now, a blanket of pure white snow created a veil of serenity. While her thoughts of the von Goethe’s kept her primarily occupied, it was when she realized that Sam, Shay and her were now alone in the English countryside that the internal battle of the problem with Shay. She recalled the stiffness in his words, and while her opium-sourced headache had readily subsided, it still felt as if there were a heavy pressure behind her eyes, and up to her forehead. All she wanted was to retreat to the comfort of her bed, and find peace. Deep down, in her heart, she knew that she had to say something to Shay, and she didn’t care if her brother was present. She would apologize to him later. Breaking the silence, as Sam sat alone on the bench in the front of the French car, Shay and Vera shared the back bench.

“Shay…” Vera began, finding immediate regret filling her mind as she spoke his name, regret at breaking the silence that is. As she gazed ahead at the stretch of road before them, Vera noticed Sam’s eyes flickering back at her at the sound of her voice in the rear-view mirror. “I wanted to apologize to you. When Sam and I had that fight, I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I suppose you could say, that I was a bit selfish, and that you didn’t deserve the heat of my anger.” Twisting in her seat, she tipped her head to the side as her eyes tried to search his face for any sign of emotion. “I’m terribly sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.” When she finished speaking, her teeth sank into the flesh of her bottom lip as she pursed them together in angst. Unexpectedly, Vera reached her hand for Shay’s, and with an affectionate caress, attempted to convey unspoken words, that she still held the same feelings for him. Then, with a flick of her eyes, she made certain that Sam kept his focus on the snow-covered road in front of the car, and leaned over to Shay, dropping her voice low to a whisper so that only he could hear.

“I still love you.”

---

---

1045 February 2nd, 1920 – Von Goethe Manor – Nottingham, England

Driving north of London, and slightly to the north-east, the rolling hills of England revealed the sleepy village of Nottingham. In comparison to London, Nottingham’s population was significantly smaller, one that Vera estimated to be between three to four-thousand. Outside the windows of the Peugeot, she took note of the lack of civilian life. The early February snow-fall had come down in thick swaths, measuring around half a meter on the ground in some snow drifts. While her gaze remained fixed on the passing scenery, a wave of familiar nostalgia washed over her. This drive reminded her of the railway to London from Liverpool. A twinge of sadness made her yearn to see the comforting face of her mother, and her mind wandered back to her yester years as a child.

“Make certain that you have your facts straight, eh? You’re Conway and Abigale O’Doyle, meeting Albert and Clara von Goethe for a friendly luncheon. Herr Goethe is a Monet enthusiast, and Frau Goethe is a bit on the nosy side, so be careful what you say around her. Vera, no, I’ll call you Abigale now to get into the swing of things. Abigale, you are a poet, and a painter. And you Conway, you’re an investor in British archeological expeditions in Egypt and Persia, as well as an admirer of Monet. Remember, the objective is to locate the Monet painting for Mr. Tindall. We’ll deal with pilfering the painting later. As for me, if they ask, my name is Bernard Rivers, you’re recently hired chauffeur. Don’t forget that you told them you purchased a new home on the outskirts of Liverpool. Am I missing anything else?” Sam inquired, breaking the lengthy silence between the three of them.

“I think you remembered everything, Sam.” She said, nodding her head in agreement.

“Good. Try to be non-conspicuous as possible.” He advised. For some reason, this vaguely reminded him of the war, perhaps it was the notion that anything could go wrong, and from his experience, would go wrong.

Another eight kilometers, and the sight of the von Goethe manor appeared like a beacon in the monotony of the snow. A lengthy cobblestone road appeared as Sam turned off the main road, the Peugeot rumbling towards the looming, red-brick manor. Even now, from a distance, dark grey tendrils of smoke rose from the chimney’s. Not before long, a wrought iron gate, surrounded by impenetrable snow-covered boxwood hedges appeared. Behind the gate, in a respectable brick shack, sat the gatehouse. As Sam climbed out of the cab of the car, he left the engine running. As luck would have it, or rather, that the von Goethe’s were indeed expecting the O’Doyle’s, a man in a grey wool coat emerged from the gatehouse, and approached the gate. From the back seat of the car, Vera could distinguish him to be an older gentleman, for he had a greying mustache, and the skin on his face sagged with apparent age, she guessed him to be no older than forty or fifty at the most.

“What be yer business ‘ere?”

“Hullo good sir!” Sam called back, flashing a friendly smile, “I have with me, Mr. and Mrs. Conway O’Doyle. They’ve come to call on the Herr and Frau for their appointed luncheon today! Will yeh let us pass?” Sam quickly imitated the man’s accent in hopes to gain his favor.

“Aye! O’course my lad! Let me ‘andle the gate ‘ere right quick. They were expectin’ them, told me to be on the look-out for yer lot.” As he spoke, the gatekeeper fumbled with the lock securing the gate, until a pleasant click could be heard. There, he pulled at the gate and secured both doors of the gate. Sam had climbed back into the cab of the Peugeot, and waited for the gatekeeper. Shortly after, he waved the car forward, only to stop them before they could carry on.

“Nah then, follow this ‘ere road, ‘twill take ye right up to the main house. Ye may park right outside the door, so the missus won’t ‘ave to dirty ‘er dress with all o’ this snow.” Then, the gatekeeper waved them on through, and the Peugeot rumbled on past him. Turning in her seat, Vera stole a glance at the gatekeeper, watching him as he locked the gate in place again. Silently, she swore inwards, that gate would prove to make it difficult to smuggle the painting out after all. Or so she thought.

“Shay…”

The single utterance felt like a cold finger through the wound in Shay’s shoulder, and a part of him feared, or resented what Vera was about to say. He didn’t want to forgive her, to hear her build that bridge that would set things back where they were. He wanted to be cold and resentful, to hold onto the sense that she made her opinions of him clear when she cast him aside with all the others in a fit of rage, something that could happen again and again, only to be lost in a haze of opium to forget why she was upset to begin with. It was volatile, it was toxic, and Shay hated it.

When her hand touched his, he wanted to recoil, to pull away, but his resolve was weakening. It was the first sign that the Vera he’d fallen for was still there, and no just a convenient lie. And then the dreaded words came, the one that may change everything.

“I still love you.”

Shay pulled his hand away, folding it into his other hand as he stared straight ahead, his expression tired. He did not have the resolve to change things, not now. Not on this day. He did not speak for several moments, breathing in and out in equally measured increments, much like when he was behind a rifle and about to take a mark. “If you say so, Miss Vera.” Was all he said, thinking, Your actions were the second shot that found my soul.

His gaze turned back to the snowy fields that rushed past, homesteads and farms with pristine and untouched fields of while that begot a sense of serenity that Shay simply did not feel. He was cold, and he did not wish to be playing pretend with a rich couple of Jerry sods that probably found a way to profit from the deaths of their countrymen. Shay found a resolve inside himself then, at least. What he’d take from them was reparation for them missing out on the war on account of entirely too much money that so many others desperately needed. What they’d lose would fetch a fair price, and be a minor inconvenience to their sort. The world was an unfair place, and not for the first time, Shay wondered if God actually gave a single shit about any of them.

~ ~ ~

Eventually, the house came into view, a mansion of such scale it might have been mistaken for a high end hotel or apartment complex that could house a couple dozen families, easily.

Sam spoke up, bringing their minds on the task at hand, going over their identities and areas of expertise, as if he weren’t the one who spent days preparing for this. Shay had gone over numerous books he’d afforded on Monet, as well as van Gogh and Paul Rubens, just so he’d have some other artists to fall back on to disguise the fact he tried to digest as much as he could on a single painter to seem knowledgeable enough to pass some sort of exam. Likewise, he’d found what he could on Egyptian relics and curiosities, and found that apparently Britain had quite a fetish for Egyptian artifacts; it was not hard at all.

And say, Shay simply replied, “We’d gone over this enough times that we can convince anyone we’re Conway and Abigale. We’ll get the job done, Mr. Rivers.” He said with sarcastic emphasis.

The Peugeot rolled up to the estate, and Sam managed to get them through with a ridiculous Cockney accent that got them through the gate. Following the gatekeeper’s directions, Sam pulled them up to the steps, and the scale of the building was becoming more and more evident; it felt monolithic to consider it was only the von Goethes who lived here, and their servants. Once parked, Sam first departed the vehicle to open the door for Shay, who then in turn walked around with Sam to take Vera’s hand as Sam held the door to help her from the vehicle. The pavement and subsequent steps were cleared of snow, evidence of the hard working labours of the landscaping staff. Bidding a quiet farewell to Sam, Shay and Vera walked up the steps where the doors were opened by another attendant as they approached, evidentally tipped off at their arrival.

Crossing the portal, an offer to take their coats was extended by the attendant, who disappeared after informing them that Herr von Goethe and the lady would be arriving shortly to greet them. The momentary quiet was the first time Shay and Vera had alone in several days, and Shay took in the grand opulence of the place. It was hard to imagine someone living here, instead of this being Buckingham Palace or some museum. Several paintings and artifacts were on display here and there, likely the less expensive decorative pieces that they would not miss should some ill-intended character break in and take some target of opportunity. The real treasures were deeper within, Shay decided.

There was still a gulf between Vera and himself, which he knew he had to mend somehow. He sighed, deciding to break the ice. “I appreciate to know that you still feel that way, Vera, I truly do. I’m not sure what I should feel now, but let’s put on a good show for our hosts, aye?” he said quietly, taking his eyes off of the exquisite decorum to look at Vera. “But I don’t regret taking that shot for you. I’d do it again, if I had to. I just think you should know that lumping me in with the other lads when Sam riled you up tarnished my heart.” He caught sight of the German aristocrat and his wife rounding the corner at this time, dressed splendidly in a tuxedo with a bow tie while Frau Goethe wore a striking black dress with a minx fur cowl about her shoulders.

“Well talk about it later. Show time.” He said quietly to Vera as Herr Goethe approached, hand extended. Shay shook his hand warmly, cupping his left hand over the older gentleman’s in a familiar gesture.

“Conway, Abigale, welcome to our home.” Herr von Goethe said with a warm smile, before taking ‘Abigale’s’ hand and kissing her knuckles. “A pleasure, please, come in, may I offer a refreshment?” he asked them both.

“Pleasure is ours, Herr Goethe.” ‘Conway’ smiled. “And far be it from me to turn down such a generous offer. I’ll defer to your judgement. He said, waiting until Vera had her say.

“Ah, splendid. And please, you’re in my home, call me Albert.” Von Goethe said.

“Frau Goethe is acceptable to me,” the lady interjected, her voice cold enough to belong to a reptile. Shay simply smiled in acknowledgement before Albert returned them on track, “Come now, let’s have a seat in our great hall. I’m sure both of you could use a bit of relaxation after such a long drive in this taxing weather.” He said, leading them down a hallway to the left, where a few paintings were illuminated from beneath by mounted brass floor lamps. One such painting Shay recognized caught his eye.

“The Starry Night over the Rhone,” Shay said, stopping to admire the piece. “Is this an original?” he asked, pleased he was able to pick it up so quickly.

Luckily, Albert was good natured. “I’m afraid not, a very convincing replication I had purchased for a fraction of the real price by an artist in Amsterdam that studied Van Gogh’s stylings. It’s quite lovely, even if it isn’t authentic, but even that doesn’t detract from the quality, I think. It just allows me to purchase other quality pieces to add to the decorum.” He said with a good natured chuckle.
Soon, they were led to the great hall, where it was open three stories to the ceiling and the room was dominated by a substantial 8 foot fireplace and two fine leather couches and a tiger skin rug on the floor. Several trophies lined the mantle, along with a pair of small taxidermy animals, a cheetah and a wolf, along with the heads of a moose, an elk, a male lion, and a black bear along the walls, along with an ornately decorated Mauser 98 rifle hanging on the cobble work, along with two other rifles and a pair of shotguns Shay didn’t readily recognize. Vera and him were invited to sit on one of the couches facing the von Goethes, and Albert requested his attendant bring them a pair of glasses of Brandenburg brandy, as well as what the women requested.

“Your home is beautiful,” Shay said, admiring the animals and the firearms on display. “I was not aware you were a hunter.”

“Quite so, I used to go on expeditions to Africa and Canada when I was able, they’re thrilling ventures, and I do love the outdoors. Sometimes, one must reconnect with nature to appreciate life, I’ve found.” Albert said. Shay nodded in response.

“My son is a Hauptman in the German army, one of the few who managed to keep his posting after the end of the war. He is a medical officer, he ran an ambulance service and field hospital behind the front lines. He told me that on a few occasions that he operated on French and English soldiers, and on one notable instance, a very foul-mouthed American who was not at all happy to have his war cut short after his first battle without even firing his weapon.” The aristocrat chuckled, thanking his attendant when he returned with a tray containing the beverages. “You served in the Great War, did you not?” he asked Shay.

“Aye, I did. Dublin Rifles. I met Abigale after the war when I was on leave in London before being deployed back home, and things just took off from there.” He replied, smiling as he took Vera’s hand in his own. “I’m rather relieved your son and I never crossed paths, it’s a shame so many didn’t make it home.”

Albert nodded solemnly. “Very much the truth. My son in law, Herman, was one such casualty. Artillery shell in his trench, as I understand it. I apologize for the macabre turn of conversation, but I felt it necessary to clear the air if you were indeed a veteran that regardless of what side of the war one fought on, I find it all a terrible tragedy and my prayers were and still are for the men who went off to fight, regardless of nationality. My wife and I love England, and as you may assume, the climate here for us has been considerably less cordial than before the war. It’s part of why we regularly attend fundraisers for charitable events, we wish to be seen as citizens of this nation, regardless of our ties to the Fatherland. Abigale,” he said, turning to face Vera, “I must apologize for taking so much of Conway’s time while not giving you enough. I understand it that you are in a considerably prestigious line of work? I think it’s splendid that women were able to take such important tasks in the workforce and society with the men at war, I always found it rather absurd that people as bright and ambitious as Clara and yourself never were given the same opportunity as your male peers.”

"If you say so, Miss Vera."

The sharpness of his words felt as if a dagger had been thrust straight through her heart. He left her barren, without a desire to speak henceforth. Furthermore, as his hand withdrew from hers, it was as if the dagger in her heart, twisted, the blade of agony, the repercussions of her actions from four days ago, fell upon her in crushing waves of guilt. As Shay had turned his face away from her, so had she, however, she did this so to hide the tears that fought to spill. A knotted lump in her throat pushed her to the verge of sobbing, yet she swallowed it with what pride she had left.

'Let your heart be cold... Cold and painless as the snow upon these hills. It would not do you well to focus upon other things. The painting. You must secure the painting. Focus, Vera. At least for today...' She chided herself inwardly, her hands balling into fists of self-hatred.

~

In all honesty, she hadn't heard a word in the exchange of conversation, simply because of the fact that her thoughts were elsewhere, even though she had chided herself repeatedly, the entire car ride over here, it did not help, especially when Shay had helped her from the car. Any physical touch, be it feigned or not, still sent her heart into a whirlwind. Even more so, the words he muttered in the entry way as they waited for the Herr and Frau to receive them pained her further. She knew that she had no time available to dote upon her own misgivings when such pressing matters at hand called for her full attention. When Albert had invited them to receive refreshments, Vera requested a cup of tea, anything alcoholic might give rise to unwanted emotions. She took note of the fact that the Great Hall was, down the left wing of the manor, and as Shay stopped to admire one of Van Gogh's paintings, only to learn two more facts. First, during her opium-haze, Shay had studied up on painters that Albert would possibly know. And secondly, the fact that the painting was a replication, and not an original.

As they entered the great hall, she made certain to keep her emotions in check, any overreaction or exceptional enthusiasm would draw attention to her by the Frau, such a nosy little badger she was. With confidence, as customary to having guests in one's home, Albert led them to a set of twin leather couches, where a tiger skin rug commanded attention. However, as Shay took the lead in conversation, Vera allowed herself to gaze about the room. She spotted several curious animals on display, such as a cheetah, lion, and a wolf, along with the impressive head of a black bear. What she missed in conversation, Vera deduced on her own accord that Albert was quite the hunter. Without a word, a servant bearing the trays with the requested beverages were set before them on a silver platter. After the brandy was poured, Vera claimed her cup of tea, and reached for the cream. When she returned the cream to its place on the platter, her eyes met Clara's, and while the Frau gave her a thin-lipped smile, Vera's heart began to pound. Carefully, she lifted the saucer and rested it upon her knee, taking care not to spill a drop of tea.

Finally, when the time came, Albert turned his attention upon Vera, causing her to take a sip of tea before returning it to the platter. Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she gave him her full attention. "You are too kind, Albert. Yes... now that the war has come to an end, I've reclaimed my brush and my pen once more. Conway, has been uplifting towards my works. While my father isn't so fond of either, it's nice to have someone such as him be a source of inspiration, and motivation."

"Tell me, Abigale, what poets do you find enthralling? Perhaps you can recite for us something you've penned yourself, if of course, that isn't too much to ask?" Clara butted in, Albert reclined back onto the sofa, swirling the brandy around inside the crystal tumbler.

"Hmm, that's a well put question, Frau von Goethe. I would have to say, Lord Byron, as well as Edgar Allen Poe. Although I shan't forget, Aleister Crowley. That is but to name a few. I don't suppose it could hurt to share one of my poems that I've set to working on as of late."

"Oh yes, please indulge us." Albert enthused, for he too, was a man that enjoyed art with a passion, therein, he raised his tumbler as a gesture to proceed. Casting a hesitant glance at Conway, Vera allowed a few moments to pass as she racked her brain for anything that sounded poetic. Then, she turned her gaze upwards to the ceiling and sighed, like that of a lover reclining against familiar, warm skin.

"And so, the time has come." She began, her voice as soft as the sound of snow falling,
"From whence the days bygone,
Leave us but to mourn.
Spirited away, is love lost.

Foolish mistakes we make,
left alone to face our own reprimand.
So, what is left behind, we partake,
in habits to soothe our aching hearts.

With pride crushed, one may turn
a blind eye. For when the time comes again,
there is naught left to lose. The tears,
that fall asunder, are cast aside in meaningless endeavours."

When she finished speaking, the pounding of her heart made her feel as if all could hear it. Yet, Vera put on a smile, and shrugged her shoulders haphazardly. "It still needs some work, as it's nowhere close to being finished." She added, feeling a bit uncertain herself over the choice of her words.

"How splendid! Such emotion in your words, Abigale. Take not to heart the words of your father, you are young still, and have many paths ahead of you in this world of ours." Albert raised his tumbler as if to express his astonishment.

"Ah..well.. thank you kindly." She managed to muster, reclaiming her cup of tea, she brought it to her lips, and turned her gaze away from Albert and Clara, instead staring at the taupe colored fluid before her.

"We've but a short time before our luncheon is served. If you would care to join us, I would love to show you all my favorite place in our home. My hall of curiosities. Abigale, when you mentioned Poe, it brought to my attention that you may enjoy the room as much as I do. Please, come. Conway, I believe you will recognize some items from your expeditions to Persia and Egypt." With that, Albert rose from the sofa, took Clara's hand in his, and bid them to follow.

Hearing Vera’s poem was a bittersweet moment for Shay, as her voice, angelic and light, filled the great room for an expectant audience. He was brought back to but a few short days before, where it was just the two of them in his apartment, where her heart was set free enough to sing. How mesmerized he was, how charmed, he was at the moment, wondering with awe how she had stumbled into his life.

Now he wasn’t sure of the woman sitting next to him, reciting strange words as she played the role to deceive another family. Shay downed his brandy, imagining the liquor were an acid that would dissolve the lump that had formed in his throat. Was he being too hard on Vera? She was playing the part magnificently and seemed absolutely genuine in her efforts to apologize for what she did. He knew full well she had a problem with opium; he just never appreciated it would have consequences.

It’s like she’s shell shocked, Shay suddenly realized, appreciating her struggle all the more while feeling guilt for his hostile indifference towards her. He loved her, he truly did. He was just doing a piss poor job showing it.

Albert’s voice broke through Shay’s concentration, and at the prompt invitation to see his Hall of Curiosities, Shay smiled, genuinely excited at the prospect. He might have been a self-taught con in the span of a few days, but it didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate things of such rich historical value. Seeing a low quality image in a book would never compare to the real thing.

‘Abigale’ and ‘Conway’ were led through a few more corridors, the entire residence starting to seem more labyrinthine by the minute, and many of the hallways had paintings and portraits, some familiar, most not, and Shay was hoping to catch a glimpse of the painting that Vera and himself were charged with locating. While it was perfectly understandable for one to be curious of the decorum, and collectors were prideful of their collections as if they were the ones who painted or crafted them as they were status symbols of wealth and culture, Shay knew he could not let his gaze linger for too long. He hoped Vera managed to have better luck finding the prospective target than he was.

Before long, a double set of ash doors were opened and Albert’s “Hall of Curiosities” opened before them like a museum exhibit. While much of the artifacts on display were accessible on a shelf, others were kept in illuminated glass cases. Shay immediately recognized the jewelled scarabs, a section of Hieroglyphics on a sandstone tablet, a pair of the Menat amulets, a rack of four crook staffs, and on the Persian side of things, a stone bust of Darius, some copper jewelry which were green cast due to time, and an entire wall was dedicated to an impressive wall carving of a lion, incredibly well preserved after all these centuries. Shay, however, recalled the conversation of when they first met and honed in on the jars with animal heads at the end of the room. “This are the Canopic jars!” Shay exclaimed with enthusiasm, hurrying across the room to look at them in closer details. After spending about seven hours specifically trying to figure out what the hell was the deal with the jars, he almost felt eager to test his knowledge.
“Right you are, “ Albert chuckled good naturedly, joining Shay to admire the clay craftsmanship.

It took a while for him to realize that the heads were not specifically the more well-known gods like Rah, Anubis, and Osiris, but rather the sons of Horus. Of the four, only Imsety and Duamutef were present, the start of the collection. Given how easy it was to find counterfeit artifacts pop up from particularly ambitious Egyptian scalpers, it was understandable that Albert was a little more than eager to find out if his latest acquisition was what he hoped it was. Shay found himself sharing the man’s sentiment in hoping it was genuine.

“May I?” Shay asked, gesturing to the jackal-headed jar. Albert opened a drawer near the display, pulling out a pair of cotton gloves. “I hope these are your size, Conway. Go ahead; I am eager to hear your appraisal.” Albert replied with a warm smile. It was hard not to feel guilty about the real reason for being here, but Shay had to remind himself that if the von Goethes knew their real identities as common riff raff, they would likely view them with scorn. The politeness and courtesy had to do more with their perceived wealth and high class than their personalities.

Shay slipped on the gloves and gingerly grasped the jar, suddenly aware of the gravity that he was holding something that was both priceless and thousands of years old. He carefully turned the jar in both hands, looking for signs of wear, for anything that looked too new. The paints also were not easily replicated colours, so a knock off would look the part if they had shades too reminiscent to modern techniques and materials, and anything that looked like it might have been carved out with a rotary file. So far, he wasn’t seeing anything to suggest that this wasn’t anything but a genuine article.

“I must commend you on your discerning eye, Albert, I feel like the last time I’ve seen one of these was in Alexandria on the River Delta waiting for a ship back home. If this is a forgery, it is unlike any I’ve seen before and I am wholly convinced you have acquired a genuine Duamutef Canopic jar. I must profess my envy, sir. Your entire collection is astounding.” Shay replied with a smile, carefully setting the jar back in its place.

The German clasped his hands together. “Absolutely splendid! It is always such a joy when a second set of knowledgeable eyes can confirm your thoughts. My collection is still growing, but I believe I’ve acquired some truly magnificent pieces, would you agree?”

“Without reservation, this is astonishing. It feels like this room is right out of the London museum. You’d make a fair curator.” Shay said, pacing about the room to examine some of the cases.

While 'Conway' and Albert took to gazing upon the vast array of truly, curious items, Clara pulled Vera aside, and out into the hallway. There, the Frau uttered an annoyed sigh, her ivory cigarette holder bobbing up and down in her hand as she swiveled it with a certain degree of irritation. At first, Vera did not speak a word, for fear that Shay and her were found out. However, that did not seem to be the case, as the Frau moved to the opposing wall, and gazed steadily at her own reflection in a mirror trimmed in gold. Vera fidgeted with the hem of her blouse, uneasy at the idea of being alone with the lady of the house, especially without being in company of Shay.

"Do you love him?" Clara asked, the reflection of her face in the mirror showed that her gaze and switched to gaze back at Vera.

"Pardon me?"

"Conway, my dear girl. Do you love him?" With a crestfallen sigh, one that hinted at some past misfortune unbeknownst to her.

"Without a doubt in my heart, Frau von Goethe. May I propose the question as to what makes you ask me such a peculiar question?"

"Walk with me," Here she extended her elbow for her to take, to which Vera linked her arm without hesitating, "let the men be men, and stare in stupefied wonder at their whimsical trinkets." Together, with elbows hooked, the Frau and Vera set off down the hallway, the clack of their heels against the stone flooring being the only sound in the entire manor it seemed.

"I was young once, like you, but nay, not as lucky as you, I daresay. Shall I tell you the story of how Albert and I came to be?" Here, Clara cast a sideways glance at the woman on her, making certain that she paid close attention.

"I would be delighted to hear it. Please, go on." She encouraged.

"It is not a delightful tale, alas, it happened nevertheless. You see, my family, we hailed from Trier, one of the oldest cities in all of Germany. We were apart of the Uradel. And as such, we have been nobles in the Fatherland since time immemorial, as the saying goes. However, it is but a curse to be a Uradel as well, for there are far and few of us now living. We are but a dying breed. My ancestral line, up to about twenty years before I was born, my mother had to marry beneath her rank, for shame. The family money was dwindling due to the irresponsibility of her grandfather, squandered away in years of lucrative foolishness from gambling, drinking, and whores. When it came to me, our family was near destitute, the lack of funds made us near equivalent to the common man, save for our title. My mother was a resourceful woman, she used the curtains in our home for our clothes, for they were of the finest brocade at the time, and replaced them with inexpensive muslin. On the land where my family home stood, my father and brothers hunted for our food out of necessity, instead of it being for sport. By the summer of my 17th birthday, my mother left me in a perplexing situation when she announced my sudden betrothal to Albert. I wept for days on end, for I could not fathom a life for myself with a man I did not love, especially a man fifteen years my senior. And while she tried to soothe my heart with comforting words, I could not shake from my head the shock I felt at knowing my future. Needless to say, when we were married, I held resentment in my heart, even when our son was born, for I never loved Albert. In the very least, I do love my son with all of my heart. So you see, dear girl, the reasoning towards my bitterness towards you, and for that I apologize deeply." While she spoke, Vera held the Frau in a new light, a light of awe and surprise, one that left her shocked, and feeling deep sympathy towards the older woman on her arm.

"Frau-"

"Clara. There is no need for formalities now." The Frau interjected, and for once, a softened smile graced her lips.

"I am honored to hold privy to such astonishing facts about your life, I would have never expected such misfortune to befall you as it had." Vera returned, giving a gentle squeeze to Clara's hand.

"As a woman from the Fatherland, it is comforting to confide in a woman such as yourself, for I see much of myself in you. Before the war broke out, I participated in several of the women's suffragette rallies, I chained myself to government fences, donated what money I could siphon away from Albert, and even bailed out a few women from Holloway." With that she sighed, as if remembering a different time, a look of nostalgia descended over her, for her eyes grew distant as she gazed on ahead, and so they walked on in momentary silence.

Rather peculiarly, Vera caught sight of the aforementioned painting by Monet. And such, she reacted with pure curiosity, stopping Clara mid-step, and gestured with her hand for them to inspect the painting. "My goodness, what a beautiful replication." Vera commented offhandedly, pulling out of their hooked elbows, and approached the framed painting.

"Oh it is not a replication, not that one. That is the original by Monet himself. Albert insisted on purchasing it. He said it reminded him of our honey moon in Prague. There was a bridge much like this in one of the parks. I never cared much for it anyways." She added as she relighted her cigarette at the end of the holder.

"Truly? I would have never expected to see an original in a private collection." Vera mused, she would tell Shay as soon as possible.

"Mhmm. Well, dear girl, I believe our luncheon should be ready, let us collect our men, so we see that they don't forget to feed themselves proper, and then we'll make our way to the tea room." Clara said with a smile of newfound friendship.

It was not long after that ‘Conway’ and ‘Abigale’ were collected and whisked further along to the tea room, which turned out being something of a conservatory, an extension of the mansion that held glass walls and ceilings with a plethora of vegetation, some of which looked like it had come from rather far off and Shay could only venture to guess at the species of some of them. A botanist, he well understood, he was not. There were, to his surprise, fruit-bearing trees present.

They were seated around a wicker round table on high-backed seats with ample velvet padding and tea was brought out by servants immediately. Albert smiled warmly as he took in the scent as his China was filled. “I’d be amiss if I didn’t take pride in the satisfaction that the lemons were grown in his very conservatory, it brings out a very fresh zest to the flavour.” He noted with a chuckle. Shay smiled politely, waiting for his drink to cool. He’d never adopted the English fixation on tea; he much preferred a stiff coffee for occasions a whiskey or a stout wasn’t exactly socially acceptable.

The meal was a serving of wiener schnitzel with fresh slices of black bread and sliced and seasoned potatoes, and for Shay, it was perhaps the most excellent meal he’d had in weeks. Their hosts were quite hospitable and the conversation felt rather light and endearing, giving Shay reservations of what he’d soon be doing. It was harder to take advantage of people when you were given a glimpse into the human side. The von Goethes weren’t just rich aristocrats, they were people with disarmingly courteous manners and simple, charming tastes. It didn’t help that the German couple had treated Shay with more respect and dignity than most Englishmen ever managed to muster, making him feel somewhat bitter about returning to that life. Why was it pretending to be someone so utterly different than what he actually was made him more happy and fulfilled? For that, he had no answer.

When the hosts mentioned they were leaving for Greece in two-day’s time only cemented the fact that they were about to be burgled. It left something of a pit in Shay’s stomach. Of all the jobs he was charged with, this one did not sit well with him, even though the people sitting across from him were the embodiment of what he’d grown to resent in society. It should have brought him joy to bring them down a peg, but instead he felt a pang of self-loathing. It was going to happen, whether he wanted to do it or not. He did not believe himself a good man, he was far too gone to entertain that notion, but usually his wrath was saved for the wicked and cruel, not a pair of Jerrys that had a taste for fine living and lived in a land that likely scorned them for where they originated from.

Like me. Shay thought, the realization hitting like a rock.

The end of the luncheon couldn’t have happened fast enough, and Shay and Vera were escorted to the door from which they were introduced to the family. Waiting for Sam to pull around, Shay fumbled for a cigarette, feeling ever so uncertain of himself.

“This feels wrong. Why the fuck are we doing this?” he asked suddenly, inhaling deeply enough that the embers burnt back a quarter of an inch. “This isn’t what I wanted to become.”

As the Peugeot rumbled around to the front of the manor, Sam hopped out to open the rear passenger door for them, Vera took one look at Shay upon hearing his words, and decided to keep quiet until they were safe within the car, that way, she knew for certain that no one from the manor could hear them. “We’re doing this because of the money, Shay.” Vera said coldly, it would do them best if they didn’t develop any feelings of empathy towards the von Goethe’s, no matter how nice their manners were to them, even if they were lying straight to their faces.

“We’re poor, and they’re not. 200 pounds is still a lot of money. Besides, I thought you hated Jerrys like them? Imagine if they knew who we were, and we weren’t in this situation Shay. Would they stop and say hello, or would they keep walking as if we were the scum of the earth? They only like us because of our lies, not who we really are.” She turned her face from the window as the vehicle turned onto the snow covered lane, passing through the gate of the manor, and onto the main road that brought them there in the first place.

“It’s a job, Mick. I don’t quite enjoy all of the things I do with the Roughers, mate, but I do them anyways, because the money is good, and it keeps other rotten folk from doing what we have to.” Sam butted in, fumbling in his coat pocket for a carton of smokes, where he stuck one in the corner of his mouth, and then retrieved a lighter. With a swipe of his thumb, a flame leapt up, and an orange glow at the end of his cigarette could be seen in the rear view mirror.

“Where shall I take you both?” Sam offered, trying to change the subject.

"The Tawdy, Sam. I need a stiff drink." Shay said, not buying into the counter-arguments, the excuses, for why the job was necessary. He knew exactly what they were saying, and he didn't disagree entirely. It was just a lot harder to take advantage of someone who opened their doors to you and treated you like a human being, especially when the rest of society was so quick to ostracize Irishmen like Shay. He had more in common with a pair of German aristocrats than the average Londoner walking down the street.

The Peugeot rumbled across the countryside back into the city proper, and the familiar winding streets brought them back into the snow-covered cobblestone of Southwark. Sam pulled them up to the side of the road, and for once, Shay didn't have to pretend to be a gentleman. He left the car without a word, pulling his coat closer about his frame and headed into the pub, leaving Sam and Vera behind.

"Something's up his arse," Sam observed, although his tone was one of concern rather than indignant. "He say what's been troubling him?"

Inside, Shay walked to the bar, lifting the waist-high barrier and stepping behind it, much to Frankie's surprise.

"Begging your pardon, Frankie; pay me no mind, I've got this covered." He said, plucking a glass from under the counter and a bottle of some Yank bourbon from the shelf behind him before heading around to the opening where he came, sitting down on a padded brown leather seat, setting the bottle and glass down before him, wasting no time in filling the glass up until half an inch short of the rim.

Frankie stepped before him, not reaching for the bottle to stop Shay. "What's troublin' you, lad?"

"If I got into it, Frankie, we'd be here all night. Wishing deep down I didn't have a bloody conscious or the capacity to love." Shay replied, knocking back the glass and downing half of it. If the hard liquor bothered him, it didn't show. His expression didn't shift.

"Ah," Frankie said, wiping the counter down in front of Shay. He was the kind of man who had a hard time standing still, and so he kept busy. "Couldn't help but notice you'd been rather close with lady Vera the past while. Begging your Pardon, Shay, but I can tell you care for her. I haven't seen you look at anyone like that before, and you actually looked happy after you started getting paired up with her. Now you look like the Reaper's been looking for you."

"Hm." Was the non-committal reply. Shay didn't bother meeting Frankie's gaze.

"Word of advice, Shay? Don't lose hope in those you love. They'll stumble from time to time, as will you. Way I see it, she sees you for you, and not just what you are. Don't be so quick to discard what that's worth."

"Since when do you know or care so much about people?" Shay asked, regarding Frankie wearily behind a tilted back glass.

The barkeep smiled in reply. "Been working here as long as I care to remember, I notice everything, my boy. Remember that while you pound back five shillings worth of bourbon; while the lot of you are getting tossed, your tongues waggle freely and I know a lot more about you lot than you'd be comfortable with. I know you wanted to pay Lizzy's way over to London, Shay, because you miss having a family."

Shay's features hardened. "I don't appreciate you eavesdropping, Frankie."

"And I don't appreciate you coming around back here and helping yourself, but point is, even thought you only told Sam about that little detail, I still heard it. Liquor might mask your pain for a time, but it'll come back to haunt you if you aren't careful."

"Such a cheerful way of keeping customers engaged in what you're pushing." Shay replied sarcastically, sighing, and looking back at the now opening door, where Vera and Sam were coming inside. "I just don't know what to make of her anymore, Frankie. I'm afraid she's going to always go back to choosing her vices instead of me." He said, expression downcast. "The way she spoke on the drive back, it was cold, ruthless. Ever feel like you're in a place you should have never been?"

"Think I grew up wanting to serve drinks to a street gang in my middle-years?" Frankie asked rhetorically. "I wanted to be a bloody architect, or veterinarian, or something. Life takes us unexpected places, and brings people we don't expect in our lives. You may feel like most of the world hates you because of things you can't help, Shay. I know you feel that way. The good things don't always come easy, and sometimes you have to work at it to make it work." he said, looking up and smiling as Vera approached.

"Lady Vera, a pleasure as always. What can I get for you?" He asked, winking at Shay when Vera's gaze was averted.

1945, February 2nd - The Tawdry Countess

Anguish and Regret

“I suppose you could say that I’m his problem.” Vera grumbled, sticking her hands under the pits of her arms. Her mood towards Shay had soured exceptionally, especially at his recent behaviour. So what? Was he angry with her for trying to justify the situation? While she couldn’t fully comprehend what was going on in that mind of his, she could tell something bothered him deep down.

“What does that mean? You two have a lover’s quarrel or something like that?” Sam asked, popping a cigarette in his mouth, and held out one to Vera, to which she readily accepted, though her brows were raised up in surprise. “C’mon V, don’t play dumb with me. Everyone has been talking about you.” He nodded at the Tawdry to indicate those within had been aware of the growing relationship between Shay and her.

With a hand rubbing her brow, she swiped the book of matches away from her brother, lit the end of her cigarette and then crushed matchstick beneath the toe of her shoe. “It’s because… of me. You know… what got us into this problem in the first place, eh?”

“You mean your problem?”

“It’s not a problem,” Vera growled, giving her brother a deathly glare full of hate, “I have it all under control.”

“Mmm. I beg to differ on that.” Sam interjected. “You were running through a daze, another binge again. Don’t act like I haven’t noticed before, or Frankie, or Mr. Harrison. I tried to call you two days ago, and you wouldn’t wake up. Imagine what that does to Shay.”

“What about it, Sam? Get to the point and quit trying to pussyfoot around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

“Let me put it like this… When a man expresses interest in a woman, and she returns it, but then she flies into a rage, kicks the man she supposedly loves out of her apartment, even though he didn’t do anything to be kicked out in the first place, he’s going to feel rejected. Spiteful, even. Think about it. That fight that you and I had, that was just between us. Shay had nothing to do with it, yet you punished him like he had done something wrong. Christ. Vera, he took a bloody bullet for you.”

“Yea, and I bloody well saved his life!” She interrupted, throwing her cigarette down in disgust. Hot tears stung her eyes as she gritted her teeth in anger, and began pacing in a small circle beside the Peugeot. “Y-you’d think, th-that he’d at least thank me for th-that!” She stuttered as a wave of tears rocked her body, she doubled over in inner anguish and wrapped her arms around herself.

With a heavy-hearted sigh, Sam flicked away the remains of his own cigarette, and pulled Vera into him. On instinct, she buried her face into his jacket, and let out a roll strangled sobs. Cries that she tried to stop, but the emotional release felt too good to fight it back anymore. Ever since the morning’s drive out to the Goethe’s, she had been waiting for a moment like this, to let it all out, to grieve for her mistakes. While one arm held her tight, the other stroked her back in a comforting manner as Sam rested his chin on her shoulder. He could smell the faint lavender perfume that she wore, and felt vaguely reminded of their deceased mother. When she seemed to have cried herself out of it, Sam pulled back, and grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes were red and puffy, as was her nose. A half-smile crossed his lips as he was reminded of their yester years, of the day Vera had fallen and scraped her knees when playing chase with the boys. She looked the same as she did then. Frustrated, hurt, and angry at herself.

“There. Do you feel better now?” He asked, fishing out his handkerchief from his coat pocket, and used a fresh corner to wipe away her tears, doing his best to erase all evidence of her pain. She didn’t have the courage to speak, so she simply nodded her head yes in response. “Vera… I love you. You’re the only family we have, and I don’t like to see you upset. But sometimes, you bring this upon yourself. As a person, let alone a woman, you have a self-destructing nature. You never let anyone love you, because you always end up pushing people away that care about you the most. Shay is a good man. I like him just as much as you do, but I would hate to see either one of you upset. There’s only one way you can fix this. You have to apologize to him. If he loves you, and his pride isn’t too injured, he’ll forgive you.”

Her light blue eyes had drifted to the pavement underfoot. Her mind was awhirl with an endless train of thoughts. There was so much she wanted to say, to Sam, to Shay, but nothing would come out. With a spring, she tossed her arms about her brother’s neck, whispered in his ear. “Thank you Sam.” He hugged her with one arm, and let go when she pulled away.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside. A nice drink will warm you right up.” Sam said as he held the door open to the Tawdry, waiting for his sister to pass through.



“Lady Vera, a pleasure as always. What can I get for you?” Frankie asked as she came to stand at the bar. At first she had taken a distant stance from Shay, one that came across as standoffish, or perhaps aloof, but Sam was quick to remedy that as he stood on the outside of Vera, and pushed her nonchalantly towards Shay.

“Where do I start?” Vera sighed, and then remembered Sam’s words. Her attitude wouldn’t help the situation with Shay. Putting a hand to her forehead, she inhaled slowly to calm her frayed nerves. When she lifted her head, she cast a quick glance at Shay before putting on a false smile for Frankie. “How about a Bee’s Knees?”

“Right you are.” Frankie said as he slapped the countertop of the bar, and set a tumbler on the counter. With a bottle of gin in one hand, and a jar of honey in the other, he measured out the gin, stirred some honey into mix, and then squeezed fresh lemon into tumbler. He pushed it towards Vera, and watched her closely.

“Here Frankie.” She said, as she reached into her coat pocket to pay him.

“Ah ah, Tommy’s orders. Tips only for those on a job. Free drinks for the lot of you.” The older man said. He had a long face with thin lips that were always ready to smile, his thinning hair gave him the appearance that his head was larger that it actually was.

“Oh… well, thank you.” She smiled, feeling a bit ashamed at the sudden charity.

“Sure thing. Say, they haven’t arrived yet, but Grant and Jonny want to speak with the three of you when they get here.” Frankie said as he sidled on down the bar to another customer, someone from the local area.

Now, the three of them were sitting together in an awkward silence. Vera sipped heavily on her cocktail, wishing all the while that she hadn’t acted the way she did, that she could rest her head on Shay’s shoulder, breathe in the scent of his cologne, and feel safe all over again. It was like they had never gone to see the von Goethe’s at all, like Vera had shared intimacy with Shay. Turning in her seat, her eyes swept across the Tawdry, searching for no one in particular. With Sam seated next to her, he drummed his fingers on the counter, pretending as if nothing was amiss. She spotted Eris Hawkins, Miriam Dorsey, Elouise, Silas, Matthew, and the Lindsey brother’s. Feeling defeated in her attempt to make douse the fire of her emotions towards Shay, she turned back around in her chair and turned to face, though she gazed not at his face, but at the tumbler in his hands.

“Shay-” Before she had a chance to begin, the door to the Tawdry flew open, and in strode John Kirby, and Grant Wallis. The pair spotted the trio seated at the counter, but Grant departed to the private office that Tommy often used, and Jonny approached them at the bar.

“Hello boys, miss Vera, I’m glad to see that you had a safe trip. Come, Grant and I have some things to discuss with you lot in the office.” With that, he clapped Sam and Shay on the shoulders, for he was a tall man, standing in at 6’5, so his arms spread out were of an equal length.



When they were all seated inside the office, Grant sat behind the desk that Tommy had sat less than a week prior, addressing Vera on the matters of becoming an active member of the Roughers, while Jonny leaned against the wall, cradling a glass full of whisky.

“Did you locate the painting?” Grant asked, using his one good eye to look between Shay and Vera. He lost the use of his left eye in the war, a shard of shrapnel from a mine flew up, and destroyed the cornea. Now, a modest, black eye-patch covered the blind eye. From time to time, he still suffered the loss of his other eye. He had a hard time perceiving depth perception, and often ended up dropping glasses where he presumed the edge of a table would be. Now, his brothers preferred for him not to drive, or wield a gun, in case he did more harm than necessary.

“Yes.”

“Was it the original, like our proprietor mentioned?”

“Yes, it was.”

“And Sam, did you have a chance to survey the property?” Grant asked, shifting his eye over to him.

“Yessir. The only problems that could arise, are the gatekeeper, and the wrought iron fence they have surrounding the property.”

“Does this fence encompass the entirety of the property on their estate?”

“From what I can tell. They have over twenty acres of land, though I’m not sure if it runs the entire length. I didn’t have the chance to ask the gatekeeper, as he was interested in the Peugeot. The poor bloke had never seen a car so fine, so I let him drive it up and down the road with me in it.”

“...you let him drive the car?” Grant asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Yes. I wanted him to like me, and by doing so I gained some valuable information. Such as, the von Goethe’s keep no dogs on the property because Herr Goethe is allergic. You would be pleased to know that their entire wait-staff totals sixteen employees. A cook, ten maids and one butler, the gatekeeper, and three groundskeepers that rotate throughout the year depending on the season.”

“Impressive.” Grant mused, his eye shifted to Shay, where it lingered. Vera wasn’t certain if he was sizing him up, or trying to formulate a question.

“What of you, Shay? Anything of significant importance that you can share with us?”

Vera’s arrival at the bar counter did little to assure Shay that things were going to work out, and for all he knew, she was fixing to tear into him for his attitude. Part of him wished to just do away with it all and start back before Vera had her episode and the days that followed, but war had taught Shay all too well that you were forced to live with whatever the day brought, and the mistakes with it. As she attempted to speak, the sudden appearance of John and Grant came in like an unwanted draft that designed to carry them away into that back office, a place Shay seldom enjoyed venturing. Sighing as he topped up his tumbler again with the bourbon, Shay left a pound note on the counter behind him, despite the arrangement the Roughers had with Frankie regarding the consumption of his wares.

The office was kept surprisingly tidy, and stuffy, for the back of a tavern, and the Wallis brothers managed to give off the impression of bank owners whenever it came to running the administrative aspect of the gang, and while the Irishman understood there were financial and business connections to manage in a way similar to what legitimate businesses did. It seemed both tedious and mind-numbingly boring, and it was part of why Shay had no real aspirations for control and power. He listened as Vera and Sam recounted their observations, and by the time eyes fell upon him, Shay was a quarter through his tumbler. He let the burn sit for a few seconds before allowing himself to speak. He looked back at Grant, level gazed and disinterested.

“It isn’t a fortified compound, and the staff are common folk who probably never touched a gun in their lives. Some might be veterans, but I doubt they’re expecting intruders. Simple locks, from what I gathered. Mansion is something of a maze; I’ll draw up a map from memory from the areas I’ve seen. The von Goethes are going to be vacationing in Greece in a few days, end of the week latest. It feels like every other corridor in the residence has some form of valuables. Albert von Goethe is quite the collector. Other than that, Vera was the one to locate the objective. There isn’t much more to say. It probably will not be hard to infiltrate, grab the painting, and go.” Shay said, taking back another drink before cradling it in his hands.

“Excellent.” Grant said almost immediately after, regarding the siblings and Shay with a series of quick nods, it was clear his mind was going a mile a minute. “Okay, Shay, do that. Here.” He said, passing over a notepad and a pencil. “Take your time, recall what you can, and illustrate a map for us. In the meanwhile, John and I will begin preparations. Good work, the three of you. Now go take the night off. You earned a breather.” Grant said, turning to speak with John Kirby, who was already digging through the filing cabinet for something.

Shay, Vera, and Sam all milled out of the room in an orderly fashion, Shay carrying his drink in one hand and the paper and pencil in the other. His head was already feeling groggy from the booze. It couldn’t come along quicker.

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Sam said, grasping Shay by the shoulders and giving Vera a nod before he went off to join Eli at a table. Shay walked listlessly to an empty booth, sliding in one side and setting the materials down gingerly. “You wanted to say something?” he asked after Vera sat across from him. He began to work the pencil across the paper, making rudimentary geometric shapes as he thought about the details loosely.

For a few moments, Vera watched the lead scratch across the paper beneath Shay’s hand. She could envision the rooms he planned to draw, the hallways, the key rooms, the doorways even. She couldn’t hide from it any long, and even now, as her gaze flickered between Sam, who sat happily with Eli sharing a drink, and Shay, who looked just as bitter as someone with an infected tooth.

Then, she made a bold move. With one hand, she reached out to Shay, her hand covering his own, while her other hand coveted the paper, preventing him from drawing anything else, and forcing his attention on her. Or so she hoped. “Shay,” She began, and immediately the lump in her throat returned with a vengeance, the next few seconds she stared mouth agape at him, desperately searching for the right words to say, “I meant what I said back in the car. I am sorry. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way I treated you. I was angry, and hurt. I was frustrated with Sam. I didn’t feel in control anymore, and I took it out on you and everyone else in the room.” She forced herself to look him in the eye. From her peripheral vision, she could feel Sam’s gaze on her, not to mention the other eyes on her. Everyone knew now. Whether it was Emory or Silas, someone let slip what happened in the apartment, and they all knew the relationship between Shay and Vera, though they were still uncertain what...they were.

“You… I don’t know what to say to make this better. I am afraid. Afraid that I’ll say something wrong, that the next words out of my mouth will make you disappear from my life forever.” Her hand atop his began to tremble, while the other covering the paper withdrew into a clenched fist on the edge of the table. She worked her jaw in agitation, her teeth grinding against one another like gears that didn’t fit. Truly, she was at a loss for words on what to say next, how could she make him understand? What could she say?

“Please Shay.” Her voice dropped into a low, hoarse whisper as she fought back an oncoming surge of tears. “Just give me another chance to make things work, to make it right.” The lower lip of her mouth was pushed forward and trembling. She blinked rapidly, trying her best to make the tears in her eyes disappear, she didn’t want him to her like this. Not now, not in front of everyone here.

The suddenness of the gesture caught Shay off guard as Vera’s hands cusped over his own. Any defiance he might have harboured and cultivated resist was eroded away by the suddenness of the gesture, the blatant display of emotion and intimacy for the entire pub to witness. She wasn’t keeping their relationship a secret, and it was a powerful gesture. He felt a flush creep up the back of his neck, feeling on the spot with the others in the pub, not knowing what Sam would make of Shay seeing his sister, although it would be foolish to think he didn’t suspect something after they’d been put together so closely the past while.

The apology came hard and sincere, and Shay felt the welling of moisture pulling from the back of his eyes, threatening to have his emotions spill carelessly for the world to see. He wanted, no needed to hear Vera say those things, to try and set things right. Her trembling hands, her outward expression of sorrow and regret moved him, making him feel terrible for how he treated her since reuniting at her apartment. He moved his thumbs, placing them atop of Vera’s to show he was receptive of her touch, her apology.

“Vera, I…” He began, not trusting his words. It took all he had not to pick up and move over across the table and take her into his arms and undo all the pain and distrust that had fermented. He knew there were going to be hard moments between them, he just took for granted that he would have to endure vitriol thrown his way when things became hard on her end. He would fight through it, he vowed quietly. He didn’t want to lose her, not because he let himself have thin skin.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I should have stood by you. I was selfish.” The admissions came pouring out, he was beginning to loathe how he handled the situation, how spiteful he’d been. How could he have been so narrow minded? “I’m a damn fool, Vera. Do you… do you want to go somewhere? We’ve amassed a bit of an audience.” He said, all too aware of the multiple sets of eyes intruding on a private moment.

She felt as if all of the breath in her body had gone, just like a lit candle snuffed out by a strong gust of wind. All that she had feared and dreaded was replaced with a grain of hope as Shay admitted his own feelings, as well as confessed that he had been selfish. Part of her felt relieved by that fact, she knew she wasn’t imagining things, or that she had acted crazy alone, it was both of their stubborn feelings together that had caused a rift due to miscommunication.

“Where do you want to go?” She asked, rising out of her chair while glancing around the pub. When she stood up, some of those around them that had been watching with interest, turned their heads away, yet Sam’s eyes lingered on her, to which he gave a small nod of approval.

“We could go back to my place… or yours. Or we could take a little walk?” She suggested, anxious to leave the Tawdry to be alone with Shay.

Shay rose with Vera, both as a sign of solidarity and an earnest desire for privacy. Shoving the paper and pencil into a pocket after folding them quickly, Shay did his best to ignore the lingering gazes. "Let's take a walk and see where it takes us. I feel as if we need some air." The two quickly gathered their coats and began to walk the gauntlet of their friends and associates taking in the new revelation of exactly what their relationship was. Shay met eyes with Sam with apprehension, worried about what he would think. To his surprise, Sam smiled at him with a wink.

It was not at all what he'd expected. Approval was the last thing he felt he'd get for seeing Vera.

Soon, the couple stepped out into the street, and Shay helped Vera pull her coat over her shoulders to protect her from the nip of the winter air. Offering his hand, Shay and Vera began to walk aimlessly down the street, the gentle snowfall dancing past the street lights almost looking romantic in this context. After a few moments of silence as both looked for their words, Shay spoke. "Look, Vera, I meant what I said. I truly am sorry for how I've behaved towards you the past while. I... I should have known there'd been times where being with you would have challenges, and I'm less of a man for having been too weak to stand by you when you needed me most." Shay said, a long sigh escaping his lungs, leaving a cloud of steam in the air before him.

"Truth is, Vera, I'm scared of being discarded by the very few people who actually give a shite about me. I've been along most of my life, you see. People in Cork didn't give a shite about who I was. They just saw me as an English child with the wrong accent. My sister suffered through it, too. I came to London to try and find the family and acceptance I never had in Ireland only to find the people here are worse. Very few people look at me with respect, let alone affection. It took a long while for the boys in the Roughers to come around to me. You saw how that bastard in the tailor treated me. All on account of where I was born." He shook his head slowly, closing his eyes as he came to a stop. He took Vera's other hand in his own, and he moved to face her head on.

"I know this whole painting burglary is against a pair of rich aristocrats with more money than they'll ever need, who would never consider us as humans if they met as as we truly are, but I really need you to understand that the reason I hate the idea of doing it is the fact that they never once made me feel like I was less of a person for where I was born. They treated me like a friend, all without recoiling or reacting as if my accent were a pox. I know it's just a job, and we need the money and there's a need to not get attached to our marks but... Vera, do you know how it feels when the two people you thought it would be easy to hate for being born in a country that you were conditioned to hate and slaughter its men by the dozens only to find out that they were two of the nicest people I've ever met in my adult life, only to be told I should be ashamed of having compassion for them?" he asked, his voice strained. The emotion of the evening was carrying to this moment as he confessed to her what was eating away at him.