[Tommy's work is inextricably linked to people, and they aren't here, and they won't be. Perhaps it's for the best; the Peaky Blinders aren't known for being fun to be around, and it's been good to be rid of that preconception for a little while.

Horses, though. She'd said she doesn't know what a horse looks like, and he thinks she would come to like the feeling of riding something wild, organic, keeping five hundred kilos of muscle and bone and a mind of its own in check.]

You take a horse, [he replies, not looking exactly at her, but still present,] and you ride it into the deepest part of the city. A fortune teller comes running out, because you told her to be there.

She blesses it. A spell, words, some powder. The horse doesn't even rear back, because you've got it under control. You tell the women: have a bet yourselves, but don't you tell anyone else.

[He unfolds his arms, leans his weight back against the stepladder.]

The 'orse wins once, and then it wins twice. The whole city knows: that horse, it's going to be legendary.

And then the third race comes 'round, and she loses.