Metheea hurried through the corridors, her skirts gathered in her hands. The unease in her chest refused to fade. By the time she reached her wing, her voice was already sharp.
"Where is Fiona?" she demanded of the first maid she saw.
The girl startled, bowing quickly. "In the laundry, Your Highness."
Metheea did not wait for more. She stormed down the narrow passage toward the washing yard. The sound of water sloshing, the snap of wet linens against wooden poles, met her ears. Rows of garments fluttered in the breeze, veiling the servants as they moved.
She walked swiftly between them, her eyes scanning left and right. No sign of her. Her pulse quickened. She pressed deeper into the rows, past the smell of soap and damp cloth, until at last, on the very last line, she saw her.
Fiona turned, wide-eyed, a bundle of linens in her arms. "Princess?" she breathed, her voice small, almost frightened. Her face was the picture of innocence.
