[She's not very amused to get a quip instead of an answer. Not for this question, at least. Her eyes narrow a fraction at him, annoyance more readily shown now that she doesn't have to tread as carefully around him as she once did. Oh, she was herself more than she'd like, but she was mindful of the man. When he moves, she glances aside to make sure there's no one near. How lucky they are to be alone with the ghosts of artists dead and buried.

She'll have her work. A barmaid and a secretary. She wonders if it'll make her happy. Content, to work for the man she loves. The bartending was fine enough--she enjoyed the singing, the conversing. And she does like running numbers when she's not trying to find information on missing guns. Putting things in order and keeping them in check come naturally to her, but she imagines her role will need some altering once she comes back from New York.

When he takes her hand she watches him closely, and when their hands clasp together she can't help but curl her fingers around his. She doesn't quite smile, but there's something there in the light of her eyes.]

Is that what your people do?

[Blood vows. It's not entirely foreign to her, Celtic roots and old marriage vows somehow there in some corner of her mind. Irish blood runs deep, keeping toasts and vows safe all the same, and she recites one quietly between them.]

I shall be a shield for your back as you are for mine.

[This is what this is. The truth, their spun story to hand over the guns. Then it's you and me are perhaps the sweetest words he's ever said to her, and now she does allow herself to smile.]

But you do know I'll want to be asked properly before you come at my hand with a knife, Thomas Shelby?

[If he didn't, now he does.]