The-Garden-of-Thorns
The magnolias were in bloom along the drive when I arrived at Blackthorn Place, their white petals thick as candle wax and heavy with a scent that made my throat tight. The house itself was a Victorian monstrosity raised up from the Mississippi Delta like something dreamed by a woman who had been told she was not beautiful and had decided to build herself a palace instead. I had come because...
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