Her time in Taranqar felt as though she had been staying in a Sunday. The calm and quiet hours that reminded her of a day after a morning at the pews. So utterly opposite the feeling of the Goodlands she found upon inspection. No swirling cushions of grey sleets and clouds, Helena could hear the blue birds singing so clearly their song played over and over in her mind.

A joy she had not heard before. In the Goodlands, there had been a hum that permeated the ground. Yet here it was quiet. The Giants slept well. The mountains they rested in, the many ranges dotting over Taranqar lands providing shelter and solace.

She had come down to Vakar in the glow of the morning. Spending her time browsing the local shops and practicing her taranqian. Everyone had been extremely helpful. Allowing her to make mistakes, to mispronounce her words and to be a bumbling mess as she translated the phrases n her head with the speed of a turtle all without a second glance.

Now, a gentle nightshade of black and violet slipped through the ash and dust dotted windows of the bookstore.

Upon remembering she had a few books to return, Helena reached into one of her bags. Flipping through the flaxen pages, an anomaly caught her inquisitive attention.

Splayed open in Ursula’s iconic and dramatic cursive writing, was her poetry. The page that had been filled with onyx ink on that cold and tumultuous night.

She slams the book shut, then after a singular and lengthy exhale, she slowly begins to pry it open. Though now with a delicacy she had not given it seconds ago. My dear. I have begun to find things I believed I would forget.

Intrigued, Helena skims forward only a few paces. If I could purchase your name so that no other could whisper or utter it other than me, I might find solace because there would be no other comparable gift across the seven seas…

Behind her, Helena heard the door to the store being pressed open, the wood dragging and creaking against the floor but she paid little attention to it. Instead the words captivated her entire being.

Her throat dried up more and more the longer she held her eyes there. Body rigid like a statue overlooking the pews, hands holding up the book as she scanned the singular page. A small smile sprouted upon her face, Ursula had truly bared herself. The poem spoke of an unknown figure, “my dear”.

Part of her wanted to put the pages down, to tear her eyes away as the guilt of reading the private words sank with her. But Lord bewitching was barely a word to describe the way it made her feel.

Over and over “my dear” appeared as she spoke of the ways they made her feel. Had it been an old love? Helena knew of no one like this that had appeared at the ball all those weeks ago. Ursula’s words were entirely and inexplicably enticing and enchanting.

“Ah! Hello Helena! How are you this evening?” With a voice like flowers, Zasria greeted her.

Slamming the book shut, Helena looked up to see Zasria. She wore a bright and colourful yellow and pink dress with a skirt so wide it connected with both side of the bookshelves. Her locks are tied up in a large hairstyle on the top of her head excluding two curly pieces that touch past her shoulders. “Ah, good evening.” Helena responded in Taranqian, intent on practicing this fine day.

“In actuality, I was looking for you.”

“For me? Why?” Helena places the book and its contents back into the safety of the bags she had placed at her feet.

“I would like to offer you a job at the Taranqar paper. As our foremost journalist.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Her dream was materializing. All of the breath in her pink lungs had suddenly dissipated; leaving her breathless and wordless.

Zasria took another step closer, now looking concerned. “Helena? Are you alright? Did I offend you? Did I say something wrong?”

“No! No!” She chuckled like the sun was bursting in her chest, “I would absolutely love to work with you! Oh it would be a dream!” Beginning to tap a finger against her bottom lip she began to mumble, “I would simply need to find accommodations.”

To begin again i the moss and iron of Taranqar was an exhilarating feeling.

“Accommodations? I was under the impression that you…” Zasria’s words faded into the oblivion before she waved herself away, “I am sure it will not be difficult. Plenty of Taranqians would take you under their roofs.”

“Thank you!” Helena exclaims once again, throwing her arms around Zasria and jumping high as though her excitement propelled her upwards.

“If you would like to talk more about it, I live on the other side of Vakar, near Ghak.” Helena knew where Zaria lived. Up on the edge of Vakar, a small bundle of cottages and homes sat. She had seen the outline on a miniscule map as she researched Varanqar’s geography in the enormous pages of Ursula’s library.

“I would love to. Tell me anytime and I shall be there.” Barely able to contain herself once again, Helena hugged Zasria once more, “Oh thank you!”

Twirling around as though the walked on the clouds themselves, Helena made her way to the bookstore door. The lady still wearing her apron raised an eyebrow. Helena all but burst into song, “Ms! I have a job! As a journalist!”

Leaping and skipping beyond the shelves of elden writings, Helena left Vakar behind her quickly. She had done it, Helena of Bathurst was a journalist now.

The Goodlands newspaper could wait.

While walking back up the mountain, Helena passed by a bundle of bluebells. Hues of lilac, emerald and white. Embroidery on a tapestry never seemed to capture their simple beauty. She plucked it, twisting the stem back and forth between her fingers as she skipped up the dirt road.