The house had been dying for a century, and it died the way dying things in Louisiana always die—slowly, reluctantly, and surrounded by magnolias that refused to acknowledge the process.
Lazarus Conroy was six months old when the fire took his world. His mother had held him in the cellar beneath the plantation house, a small room walled in river stone where the air was cool and smelled of earth. His grandmother had laid him there, whispering prayers that had been passed through Conroy women for three generations. Upstairs, the house was being consumed by fire. Ezekiel...
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