The house on Landau Creek had been built in 1823, before the creek had a name, before the land had a owner who wasn't born in chains, before the cotton had blood in it. The house knew this. Houses built on that kind of ground always know.
Cecilia Landau knew it too, though she had never seen the house as anything but beautiful. The white columns were peeling, the wraparound porch sagged in places, and the gardens had grown wild, but from where she stood on the hill behind the house, looking down at the Mississippi river cutting through the flat land like a scar, the Landau plantation looked like what it had been in her...
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