The arch’s skeleton has long since rotted away and the flowers droop into the path, clinging trails and vines that brush against her head and shoulders. Someone, years ago, built an archway along the arbor. It is cool inside this miniature forest the sky is blotted out by the purple-throated wisteria that drapes across and between the trees. A gray stone waist-high wall is all that stands between her and the cliffside. The path ahead is marked by towering cypress and laurel, verdant and lush. In her panic, she barely notices the pain. Her hair has come loose from its braid, flies unbound behind her like gossamer wings. A deep cut blooms red along her thigh, and the blood runs down her calf. The hem catches on a branch a large rend in the fabric slashes open, exposing her leg. The white dress, long and filmy, hampers her effort to run.
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