The Distant Temple
"Look at them," Mara said, her voice tight. She pointed a shaking finger at the row of white tulips lining the gravel path. "They are breaking." Old Mrs. Gable did not look up. She was kneeling in the dirt, her back to the house, her movements precise and mechanical. She was planting. Not flowers. Wire. Thin, copper wire, twisted into tight knots, buried deep in the soil where the bulbs lay....
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