Ellis didn’t see much of Charles Towne because all that could be seen from the car’s windows was trees. They touched the edges of the winding highways and side streets and formed canopies over them. “What’s all that gray stuff in the branches?” Ellis asked.
“Moss,” Bryn replied. He sat, crumpled and small and hiding behind massive sunglasses. “It’s Spanish moss. s**t’s nasty.”
Maybe it was, but it made everything look older and somehow mystical. The town car slowed when it turned onto another street that was little more than a strip of pavement flanked by manicured lawn. The trees opened up, grew sparser, and Ellis saw acres of green, flat land dotted with benches and gardens. A river snaked along one side of the property, and after they crossed a curving stone bridge, Ellis could see th
