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" Love Makes Believers Of Us All "

          IRISH WHISKEY WAS POURED INTO two glasses dropped onto the kitchen table at which, under the light of a single flickering candle, two men sat in a respectful attempt at silence. Balthasar's right knee was bouncing underneath the table, despite his best attempts at stopping that nervous tick; he pressed his right palm's bridge down hard enough to leave a bruise on his thigh, but his leg refused to answer to his better reason. Apart from the tapping of his shoe's heel on the wooden floors, there wasn't a single creak in the Shelby home when Thomas downed the whole of his glass and reached for the knife to open the letter.

Balthasar grasped the bottle of whiskey in a motion to pour some more for his boss, however, Tommy rushed to cover his glass with his hand. He needed the bravery of one glass of fire, but not the lack of sobriety that came with anything beyond that.

Alas, his knife pierced underneath the fold of the envelope and sliced across. With a gentle tremble in his hands that he stiffened by lowering his palms back to the table to abandon the knife and retrieve the letter. A sigh was the bridge of transition whilst unfolding the letter and beginning to read ...

MY DARLING,

           For the past months, I have been writing letters to you without sending them. I don't know why — well, that's a lie; I know exactly why I had stopped sending my letters and it has nothing to do with the Russian assassin that almost got me in Turkey, though oftentimes my paranoia wonders whether or not my letters do get opened before they arrive, if at all, to you. My brothers would sure like to believe I had stopped sending letters because I saw reason that they were pointless, but this fact hardly has anything to do with that, or the money spent on stamps and posting; since we've left Japan, as previously approximated, the business' profits have once again entered their steady, steep climb.

It is shamefully that I must admit I have lost my hope.

Not in your capabilities or your survival against Kimber, neither in the veracity of what we felt for each toher throughout my stay in Birmingham, feelings that otherwise have followed me all across the world by now, but instead in the fact that what little we have shared together in an arguably short time was enough for you to wait for me this long.

Knowing my own agony of missing you not only in my cold beds and nights of storming, but also on my days of victory and joy, I had at first found it peaceful to believe that you had moved on. It was, I admit, only a short-lived feeling, soon to be replaced with unspeakable dread that I have been sending letters of my love to a man who perhaps loves another by now. You see, I realized I can do nothing about my love for you then; there is no extinguishing this fire you set within me anymore, for better or for worse. But I knew that should that be true, should the reason behind your silence be that you had moved on, I should not allow myself to be selfish enough to ruin your life for the sake of my illusions.

There were a thousand more reasons that my mind has fabricated, but all that matters is that they have compelled me to start writing for you, instead of to you. Well, that has obviously changed, since here you are, reading this. I'm sorry I have lost my faith to thoughts without proof, to their claims and gossip I conjured up myself to ease mine own suffering. I suppose there was only so much silence I could take before my breath carried itself bitter to my lungs and my whole soul darkened with the sickness of loneliness.

I must give credit where it's due, so I will have you know my eyes have been opened by a witch I met by mistake here, in Cairo, Egypt. She stopped me on the street and at first I thought her begs were seeking charity from me. My contact translated her words, just as I was about to give her the spare change I had in the currency of the country: "Give him another chance to show you that he's waiting," she begged me.

Little as I believe in witchcraft, I believe even less in coincidences as stark as this one.

Though I couldn't pay any mind to her publicly, right before my brothers' gazes — my eldest is a hardened Christian who would sooner burn me to the stake himself than have me associate us all with witchcraft of any kind — while we were out on our afternoon stroll, I asked my contact in the city privately to get me a meeting with the witch and he set us up for a session that very night.

It didn't phase me when she told me that she was expecting me, for it sounded far too common of a gimmick to marvel at it, but once I sat at her table and she started telling me these things she knew about me, goosebumps begun traversing my skin. I must remind you once more: I was never a believer in witchcraft. I was raised Christian, a strict household, the sort that says a prayer before and after each meal, the sort that goes every Sunday for mass in clean clothes and that makes of the Baptism of a child a true celebration.

I was not a believer, but I believed her.

And I know, that should I tell this story to any of my brothers, perhaps especially the older one, they'd argue that I believed her only because the witch told me something I wanted to hear, but that's where they are wrong: she told me more than just things about you.

After noting that I am skeptic, she claimed she will dispell that skepticism from me and begun listing a series of things from my past that have never been written down in any register or legal document, and for one to know, one should have been there. She knew that I didn't go to my grandfather's funeral, because my mother forbid me. She knew about how my mother used to pull my hair on purpose while braiding, and she pulled so hard it brought me to tears each time. She told me about the dogs I had as a child, their names, their color, how they died. About the black cat that visited my dreams and told me I could fly.

Not even I could stay skeptic before such words, such memories I didn't think of in such a long time.

After telling me about my past, the witch told me about my present, at which point I have turned suspicious — everything has a price and she was yet to ask me for anything. Even after I had pointed out that she should name her price ahead of her service — a common curtesy in any business —, she went on, called you by your name before me and told me you've been dreaming about me.

Have you? Have you been dreaming about me, my love?

          TOMMY INHALED SHARPLY AT the sight of her question. With far too little hours of sleep behind him to stop him from enaging in such vulnerable actions, his exhale carried not only a whisper but a faint smile too, "I have."

"Pardon, sir?" Balthasar flinched, startled to hear a sound that, though quiet, sounded loudly amidst their silence. "Is it bad news?"

Tommy looked above the letter at Balthasar whom he had been compelled by Jackie's words to forget was seated there with him, in the flickering light of a candle. Returning his eyes to the letter, "The Russians tried to kill Jackie." Balthasar's knee stopped bouncing abruptly, but regardless of his seething range becoming all too palpable from across the table, Tommy continued calmly, "She's alright though."

          The sneaky witch knew that once she said those words, whatever she asked of me next to continue was going to be granted to her. She knew I would be too desperate to refuse her anything at all — that's how big of a weakness you have become to me, my love.

For the price she asked of me, she advised me to write to you again, reassuring me that this time, unlike the times before, my letter will reach you in time and you will actually answer.

Here I am. Ashamed that I had given up on my faith that you are written for me for nothing but passing dark clouds, when in fact it was nothing but bad luck that has brought silence between us. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest even as I write this, because for the first in so long, I feel hopeful again. I can see the end of a journey that I thought would last forever and the prospect of seeing you again at the end, I will be a foolish romantic to admit that it excites me.

Well, if you are to send me a letter, you should know where at the very least and since it's been a while... I will confide into you once again more than that bare minimum.

After leaving Egypt with my now three cargo ships, we'll be having a smooth cruise across the Mediterranean Sea. Since one of my ships is supposed to stop in Palermo for a couple of deals I shook on in Turkey, I will be crossing the Strait of Gibraltar with two vessels and dock for a final stop before England in Cádiz, where I should be spending only a month in order to pick up some packages of cognac and wine. Send your letter to the Cádiz Cathedral, addressed to Lady Sarah — the alias by which my contact within the cathedral recognizes me by. After I receive my shipment, I will be sailing towards England with only one of my vessels. I am undecided yet whether I should anchor in London or Southampton. Perhaps you could advice me on this matter?

Part of me still doesn't believe that I am writing this, but... I hope to hear from you in Spain. I truly am looking forward to it, my love.

WITH LOVE,
A WOMAN YOU HAVE
DREAMT ABOUT OF LATE

          THIS WAS IT, THOMAS caught himself thinking. This was the chance he wished he had when he wrote that letter which, by some higher will's power, did not completely turn to ash before word from her had reached his hands.

After a quick order thrown at Balthasar to wait at the table and an even quicker account taken of the fast beating of his own heart, more desperate than ever to cling to seconds like they have turned from pebbles to diamonds slipping through his fingers all at once, Thomas raised from the table and rushed back upstairs, letter in hand. He must have skipped three stairs at a time in his ascend, because in no time, he barged into his own room and started looking fanatically for an envelope.

Thuds marked each time his desperation turned violent towards furniture not cooperating with his desire to find a darn envelope he could use to place his written letter into. It was not until his desk became an utter mess and he moved on to the single nightstand that a drawer gave him what he sought and he returned just as ravaged to sit at the table.

His handwriting on the back of the folded letter he had previously written was rushed enough that Thomas worried it would be unintelligible in its direct reply to Jackie's latest message. Despite his best attempts, he couldn't calm himself enough to stop his hand from shaking as it wrote on, so he simply hoped that by writing bigger, the words would become clearer.

Alas, after that final addition on the back, besides the burn mark, Thomas stuck the letter into the enevlope and skimmed through Jackie's to graps the address he had to write on the front. Finally, an address. I am no believer, he caught himself thinking after sealing the letter, but I pray this reaches you in time. I pray. Damn you, you miraculous woman, making me pray at night.

Thomas Shelby exited his room a few minutes after his letter was ready for the post, a time in which he dressed himself up properly for leaving his home and attending business. In the hallway, he was greeted by Polly, awakened by all the ruckus he made to a multitude of questions. Noticing his formal wear and the money he held with his letter, she summarised her confusion to one quick question, "Are we at war?"

"Go back to sleep, Polly," Tommy passed her. "Tomorrow is a big day."

"Why?"

"Why?" He echoed her inquiry, slowing down before the stairs, sufficiently to throw a glance over his shoulder at his aunt. "Because we're expanding to London, that's why."

He didn't linger any longer to invite further questioning from Polly, but instead rushed to meet Balthasar downstairs. "Do you have your gun with you?"

"Yes, sir," the man stood up.

"Good, we're sending this letter to Jackie tonight." And they will accept no delays to it.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 
I am curious... What do y'all think the Egyptian witch asked as payment from Jackie for the advice she gave her? 👀👀👀 ( hint: this will be important in the future of this book )