The Golden Crossing
You keep the foxglove in the cellar, not because it is dead, but because it is waiting. The stems are thick as your wrist, the bell-shaped flowers hanging heavy and purple, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic beat that you can feel in your own teeth when you press your ear against the damp stone floor. In the village of Ockham, where the mist rises off the river every morning like the breath of a...
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