The Sun Collector
New Orleans in 1893 was a city of ghosts. The heat rose from the streets like breath from a dying man's lips, and the humidity clung to everything like a second skin. The magnolias bloomed in the cemeteries, white and perfect, and the ironwork on the balconies was black and ornate, like the ribs of something that had died a long time ago and was now being remembered. Silas Durand had fled the...
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