Page 31 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Once again, Helia continued her march, until she reached a row of tall, proud oaks that ended her flight.
The arborist who’d planted these trees had been strategic in his design. He’d staggered a variety of them, offsetting them in a way that they appeared natural in their placement; all the while they provided cover nearer the back of the grounds for the tall brick wall—unnoticed until now—that framed the immense gardens.
Tears filled her eyes, and yet even the cruel winter cold refused to allow Helia any control of her body and decisions; the wind erased those drops before they might fall.
She blinked and blinked until a warm tear slipped down her cheek, and she welcomed the winding path it wove.
It was the faintest and yet most profound victory.
And yet, it was a victory.
With the smallest of smiles, she opened her eyes.
Helia trembled. She wrapped her arms close around her middle and vigorously rubbed through the fabric at her shaking limbs.
Even so, a bead of moisture slipped from her forehead, and she wiped back the drop of perspiration her efforts had wrought.
And then she saw it.
Helia stilled.
Her gaze locked on a flowering tree, with crimson berries. That graceful, narrow deciduous one stood shorter than the others, making it one she couldn’t look away from.
Smaller than the birch or planes or sycamores and tucked in the far left corner of the gardens, this tree managed to prove still more vibrant for the vast swell of red that adorned its branches. Each cluster of berries sported the newly fallen snow, wearing it like a crown upon its mass.
A sob ripped from her throat, and enlivened for the first time in too long, Helia dashed as quickly as the snowfall allowed toward the solitary little tree.
Her heavy hems slowed her down, and then the weight of them pulled her forward.
She landed hard in the snow, and alternately laughing and crying, Helia struggled back onto her feet and resumed her unsteady tromp.
At last, she reached it.
Breathless and dizzy from the importance of this very moment, of this very find, she stopped and tipped her head back.
Arowantree. Amongst the Scottish, it’d long been a sacred symbol of wisdom, courage, and protection. Each year, Helia and her mother would plant another so that those gifts continued to flourish for all.
Here in the duchess’s gardens, in this flawless, English-plant-packed Eden, there existed but one.
But it was a rowan tree.
A stirring so very soft and small and faint, but profound enough that everything inside tunneled into that slow-building sensation—hope. That realest, pervading, intoxicating emotion where the impossible seemed possible, and the darkness which had gripped her these past months gave way, ceding its previously tenacious hold to a fervent, all-powerful light.
Helia moved closer, then rested her weary head against the thick, cold bark, finding only warmth.
Home.
This tree and its branches filled with berries harkened to the wild, untamed, majestic Highlands. That this glorious mountain ash, steeped in folklore and tradition, had been planted here was surely a sign that all would be well.
Then, placing a kiss upon the smooth, grey-brown trunk, Helia reached for the tree.
Her hand trembled and shook from the fervency of this moment, and she wrapped her gloved fingers lovingly around the nearest narrow branch.
Ever so gently, Helia bent it sideways. Back and forth.
As she worked, little puffs of white escaped her lips and joined in the cold of the winter air.
Snap.
