She looked down from the window, her gaze settling on Fiona in the garden below. The girl was crouched among the rows of herbs, her hands carefully pressing soil around the roots. The sight should have been harmless, even calming, but something about her made Metheea's stomach tighten.
It was the same uneasy instinct that warns a person of a coiled serpent in the grass, beautiful, silent, and deadly.
Azrayel had once told her she could kill the girl if she pleased, that it would be justified if she ever sensed a threat. But Metheea knew she could not. Not unless Fiona actually did something. And so far, she had not.
Still, the guards kept Fiona under constant watch. Every move was recorded, every whisper overheard, yet nothing ever came of it. Fiona was immaculate, almost too immaculate.
