The Curse of the Idle
The air in the Blackwood plantation was thick with the scent of jasmine and rot. It was a place where the heat didn't just warm the skin; it pressed against the soul, heavy and humid. Silas sat on the wide veranda, a glass of mint julep in his hand, watching the Spanish moss hang from the oaks like the tattered lace of a dead woman's dress. Silas was the heir to a fortune built on sugar and...
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