The new breath of morning spilled out across the pasture, bathing the land that had slowly begun to shed its shadows from the winter season, in a marigold glow that saturated the lifeless grass in a kind light. One that nearly made it appear as though life had been whispered back into it's softly swaying blades. The Warwickshire sky still clung to it's indigo haze, as the morning slowly seeped the sun in, as though to ease away the remnants of the long night. But the ashen hue, deepened by a blue that rivaled the shimmer of a sea deep sapphire, echoed with the gentle chirp of the blackbirds. Their calls resounding through the morning fog that coated the land in a soft exhale, replacing the empty void of the evening's darkness, with the welcome chirp of a morning song sung especially for Arrow House it felt like. For they were there with each new rising morning, a melody trickling through the windowpanes and blowing out in the open breeze that trailed through the ever flowing pasture, even when the sun was no where in sight, their songs appeared like clockwork.
The ground was damp beneath the soft steps of your heavy boots, the dew of the impending Spring season softening the soil hardened by the vicious Winter cold. Even as the grass lay brittle and limp, crunching beneath your weight like the fallen leaves in the midst of Autumn, there were glimpses of the warmer season rolling in. For the atmosphere still stung with a chill as it blew it's gentle breeze across the exposed skin of your neck and bare fingers, feeling as the morning cold soaked straight through the thin cotton fabric of your flowing white nightgown.
But you saw the sights of Spring in the way the birds sounded happier in their joyous melodies, the way the sun rose across the horizon and you could feel it's warmth promise that more was to come one of these days, with the faintest ghost of blooming buds along the bare branches of the surrounding trees. Winter had not yet abandoned the land and the air that swirled softly around your strolling frame, but Spring was close on it's heels, so much so that you knew one of these days, you would simply awaken and the breath of a warmer and brighter morning would be upon your shoulders.
The scent of the soil surrounded you, the richness only saturated dirt and the heady breath of the outdoors could bring forth in the soft twirl of the morning breeze, and it encompassed you in a warming embrace. For there was something you had always found incredibly tranquil about the countryside, the nature so vast it nearly seemed to roll on for an eternity into the ever fading distance. Perhaps, it was in your love for the open air and the rich chartreuse and jade blended land, that your husband had chosen this place. Planted roots in a house far too large for your own liking, but upon an estate of land that you couldn't help but fall in love with at the very first sight.
Perhaps, Thomas Shelby had taken one look at this house, out here in a little oasis away from the smoke and the smog of London and Small Heath and the little house you shared for years on Watery Lane, and thought instantly of you. Seen your happiness before you'd taken one step upon the land, known your reaction before he'd even opened the car door, planned that this would be the place to raise the children you would bare, before your youngest had even spoken his first word.
Sometimes, it felt as if Thomas Shelby had slipped into the crevices of your dreams and pulled out their unbelievable details with his bare hands and turned them into a blinding reality. But that was your husband for you, a man who when he wanted something, he'd get it. Somehow, no matter how, he always made the impossible... possible.
Tucking a fallen tendril behind your ear, as the gentle breeze rustled through your curls messed from deep slumber, you gazed up ahead. The fog drifting as the sight of the stables came into view, the wooden structure seeming bolder as it stood with the faintest peak of the sunrise expanding across the splintered oak. But it was as the heavy boots keeping your bare toes warm and dry, drew you closer to the stables, that the silhouette coming into focus made your steps slow.
