The Snake in the Bayou
The bayou smelled of cypress and rot and something older than both—something that had been fermenting in the dark water since the earth was soft and the land had not yet learned what to be. Clara Beaumont knew the smell. She had known it since she was born, in a house that leaned slightly to the left like an old woman who had forgotten how to stand straight, on the edge of a bayou that had...
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