The house smelled like magnolias and decay, which was appropriate because Wind's Rest was both beautiful and rotting, just like the family that had built it.
Claire Duval stood on the porch and let the Mississippi heat wash over her like a warm cloth pressed against her face. She had not felt this humidity in eight years. Manhattan air was conditioned—filtered, cooled, controlled. Mississippi air was what it was: thick with river water and insect wings and the slow decomposition of things that had been alive too long. The iron gate groaned as she...
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