The sky is bright blue and the sunlight is filtering through the branches casting patterns on the ground. I lean against the Rowan tree letting my legs sink into the ground allowing myself to finally relax. It's been a week since the funeral. A week since DuchessRavienne is dead. My mother.
The Duchy has been silent and grieving but that doesn't stops vile people such as that Lady with lilac hair from approaching the Duke. She has been coming here for last five days under the disgusting disguise of comforting the Duke for the loss of Duchess. She even tried to approach me but I rather find her repulsive especially her hair. People say it's not a dye and passed down from a rather extinct noble family, I find it rather superficial. I do not like her. And would prefer if she were not to marry the Duke. Never.
A white Camellia falls in my lap. It's from the Duchess's tree. It must have been blown away from the breeze. The small pinkish white flower lands on the ground around me covering it into a bed of pale colours. There are three trees in this part of the garden.
The Maple tree , that was said to be planted when Father—Duke Cassius—was born into the family. A blessing in the form of a child, that's what I heard though I am not sure how much of it is true now.
The Camellia tree, graceful and pale just like her, when Mother married into the Ravienne family.
And the rowan—this very one I lean against—was planted the day I was born. It is said to ward off evil energy, protecting the soul.
A tradition, they say. One tree for each turning point in the Ravienne line.
Birth. Union. Legacy.
I stare down at the camellia in my lap, its petals slightly fluttering from the wind, making an attempt to be heard but ending up producing an inudible sound. It's perfect—too perfect. Soft and pale, almost translucent in the sunlight. My fingers curl around it tightly, my heart burning with an emotion I don't recognise but I have definitely felt like this before. Perhaps.
And then, I don't know what comes over me as I begin to dig. My movements are quick but clumsy as if I need to hurry. The soft, damp soil from the morning dew takes no effort to be removed. I press my hands into it, scooping a small hollow in the shade of the my tree. Dirt sticks onto my nails, cold and wet. Some of it even clings to my white cuffs soiling it.
When the hole is deep enough not to be found, I place the camellia inside, gently. Not like a token. Not like a keepsake.
Like a burial. I cover it hastily with soil and a little grass, and press it down with my palm.
A part of me wants to say something. A prayer, maybe. Or goodbye. But nothing comes. Only silence and the distant rustling of the leaves.
The garden breathes around me.
Three trees. Three lives. And something now buried beneath them. My mother.