Her sight moved through the bones of the estate the way a sunbeam moves through the pious fiction of a curtain — not breaking, merely declining to acknowledge that walls had ever been a sincere proposal.
It crossed the western terraces, the rose parterre, the long lyrical sweep of lawn that ran toward the cliff — and kept going.
'There.'
In the centre of an emerald immensity of the estate compound so vast any mortal eye would've refused, on principle, to scale it — a green so unnecessarily, decadently green that the colour ceased to be horticulture and began to be aesthetic theology — a thing lay.
It was small. Improbably small.
The size of a needle dropped onto a tournament green field built for titans. So dimensionally insulting against the magnitude of the lawn that even her divine sight had to consent to perceive it before it consented to resolve.
