The cellar was cold even in August, which was the point. Colonel Beauregard had built it in 1820 to store wine, and the wine had long since been drunk or spoiled, but the cold remained, rising from the earth like the patience of something buried.
Zek liked the cold. It kept the objects honest. He was arranging a new piece on the shelf: a wooden horse, carved by a man named Jonah three weeks before his eight-year-old son was sold to a sugar plantation in Louisiana. The horse was rough—Jonah was a blacksmith, not a carpenter—but the legs were strong and the mane had been combed, once, with a knife, and on the flank, carved so shallowly...
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