The Blood of Natchez
The humidity in Natchez did not simply exist; it pressed. It settled on the skin like a second layer, warm and damp and inescapable, carrying with it the scent of magnolia blossoms and something older, something that rose from the Mississippi River's mud flats and worked its way through the soil and into the bones of everyone who lived in the town. Silas Durand stood on the balcony of the...
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