THE ONLY NOISE IN THE HOUSE IS that of the fireplace, roaring in the drawing room where Thomas Shelby sits. He has a faraway look in his eyes, as if he is somewhere else entirely, his body doomed to rot as his mind leaves. The cigarette in his hand has burned halfway down already, having not touched his lips in many long minutes. He replays Patricia’s face in his mind, over and over, the tears, the anger, the hatred.
She had been right. He doesn’t deserve to be loved, by her or by anyone. He stares absently at Grace’s picture and then reaches over to swat it off the desk, the first movement in almost fifteen minutes. The frame crashes against the wooden bookshelf and shatters. Grace continues to look away from him from behind the broken glass, ashamed.
There is a knock at the door that pulls him from his melancholy, and he clears his throat, putting out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on his desk. “ Come. ”
Frances, his maid, enters apologetically, looking a bit frazzled. “ Terribly sorry to bother you, Mr. Shelby, but there’s a woman here... ”
“ ... She’s drunk, Mr. Shelby... Drunk and irate. I told her it was too late, but she insisted she see you, and -- ”
“ Frances. What woman ? ”
“ ... She says her name is Carosella, but, sir -- ”
“ Right, send her in. And in the future, I decide whether it’s too late for guests, eh ? ”
“ That will be all, thank you. You can go to bed, Frances. ”
He stands with considerable effort, rubbing his eyes and lighting a fresh cigarette. Thomas does not know what to expect. The scabbed-over wound on his cheek begins to burn as the door opens, and he turns to face her, expecting a slap, or perhaps for her to spit in his face and tell him to go to hell again. But he isn’t expecting what he sees.
“ Blackened body of God. Pat ? What -- shh, calm down. Tell me what happened. ”
