The Pale Bonsai
The jar contained fourteen roots, each one pale as the marrow of a bird’s bone, and Judith Kilbride counted them three times before sealing the clay stopper with beeswax, her fingers stained a deep, bruised purple from the lye used to wash the dirt from their skin. She weighed the jar against the counter, a block of iron, and the balance tipped only slightly, a fraction of an ounce that felt...
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