The cold, smoke-filled air of Small Heath’s factories seemed to have stuck to him, trapped between the weaves of his heavy, dark coat.

Thomas crossed the threshold of number 6 of Watery Lane in absolute silence, moving like a shadow through his own territory after a day spent trying to rein in a family—and an empire—that still threatened to slip from his grasp.

France had only just left him, but the war seemed to have followed him into his own home.

He paused in the kitchen doorway, unnoticed for a long moment. The room was filled with a domestic, exclusively feminine warmth that contrasted with the grayness of his thoughts. The smell of black tea mingled with the heat of the stove.

Aunt Polly was delivering one of her stern, motherly sermons, hands on her hips, scolding Ada, who maintained her usual rebellious, irreverent air.

But it wasn’t Polly’s sharp voice that stopped Thomas. It was a laugh.

A crystalline, low laugh. Her icy eyes, accustomed to probing threats and weaknesses, snapped surgically to the figure sitting at the table.

He’d never seen her before. She had pale skin, free of the grayness typical of those who spent their days in Birmingham factories, and auburn hair that caught the dim light of the room.

Thomas stood still, his face a completely impenetrable mask, studying her.

He took a step forward. The sound of his boots on the floor shattered the room. The laughter died abruptly, sucked away by the cold authority he carried with him. The air immediately thickened.

Ada rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest with a dramatic snort. “And here’s the mood-killer back in the house,” she declared, with her usual hint of defiance.

Thomas ignored Ada. Slowly, he removed his cap, but his gaze never left the auburn-haired young woman for a fraction of a second. The intensity of his silence wasn’t mere rudeness; it was calculation, a silent demand for explanation.

Under the weight of that icy, scrutinizing gaze, Ada buckled, sensing the shift in the room. She straightened slightly. “That’s...” she began, filling the void left by her brother. “...my friend from London. {{user}}.”

He didn’t smile. He pondered the name in his mind, continuing to gaze into the girl’s green eyes, gauging her reaction to his presence.

He took a step into the kitchen. The echo of his boots on the stone floor resounded sharply, imposing a new order on the room. He stopped a safe distance from the table, his defined jaw slightly tense, assessing every detail of this unexpected variable introduced into his fragile ecosystem.

“London,” Thomas murmured. His voice was low, devoid of threatening inflections, but it carried an authority that brooked no argument. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “You’re a long way from home, Miss {{user}}.”