He stood by a large window, a drink in one hand, his ever-present white robe discarded over the chair next to him. I
closed the door behind me and waited, observing the crisp whiteness of everything in the room, down to the spines of the
books holding place on his shelves.
Xeoniteridone finally spun and smiled at me, a benevolent expression I'd grown accustomed to despite the truth hiding
behind his face. "My dear," he said. "Come closer. I won't bite."
I had no fear of that, no fear at all, as I crossed the room and came to his side. My eyes drifted to the window, gaze
looking out the glass over the lush garden on the other side. "Pretty," I said.
"It is, indeed," Xeoniteridone said, setting down his drink. "But it doesn't hold a flame to your perfection."
I turned to him, a tiny coil of revulsion waking and dying. "Thank you," I said.
Xeoniteridone patted my cheek, using the same hand he'd struck his son with. "Dear Meira," he said, sinking to the edge