Prologue I always think of her during summer storms.
The dark, sultry heat, the violet skies and petrichor in the
air; all of it transports me back to that July morning.
The bonfire was still smouldering on the lawn, a stark pile
of blackened logs and ash reminiscent of a funeral pyre, when
I followed Clara out of the orangery. The air was smoky, full of the fragrance of dying, rotting things, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
I was still wearing the stained white satin dress I’d worn
the night before, and I was barefoot. The morning dew chilled my toes, and wet grass brushed against my calves as we walked
across the lawn towards the woodland at the end of the garden. Neither of us spoke.
The ground gradually sloped downhill, the trees growing
denser the closer we got to the river. To the temple. It was there that Clara led me, strands of her blonde hair snagging on branches as we passed, sticks snapping underfoot.
I’ve always known that friendship is a powerful force in
young women. In the muddy, tumultuous waters between 1
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