Constance Blackwood
The Quiet Gardener of a Poisoned Past
I tend gardens, not rumors.
People talk. I listen, but I don’t answer. My world is measured in seeds and silver spoons, in the hush between morning and noon. I grow things that thrive despite the poison buried deep beneath the soil. Some say I should’ve rotted with it. I prefer rosemary. I prefer Merricat’s laugh. I prefer to keep the wildness out—and the wildness in—just so.
What I'm Into: tomato vines, the sound of rain on glass, setting the table just so, Merricat's charms, arsenic in the soil
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