The afternoon sun beat down on the Aldenar estate's gardens, heavy and hot, but under the white stone gazebo, the air felt almost too light, like it was holding its breath. The structure was a delicate sprawl of marble and climbing wisteria, overlooking a pond where fish moved like flashes of orange fire beneath the lily pads. It was the picture of Southern tranquility, a scene designed for idle chatter and the soft clink of porcelain.
Verona sat at the wrought-iron table, her back perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap. In front of her sat a delicate teacup, the liquid inside a pale gold infusion of chamomile and honey. A thin wisp of steam had curled lazily from the cup when it was first poured, but now, the surface was as flat and still as a mirror.
