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There was magic in the air—it surrounded the house, emanated from the surrounding woods, sparkled like morning dew on the lawn, and its scent rose from the earth like the smell of a fresh, cleansing rain. This was one of the best places Boris had ever worked.
The house was on the west side of town, near the Broadmoor. The property was hidden from the outside world by a wall of trees, their leaves crisp with the colors of autumn’s approach. Tall cottonwoods provided a canopy for shade. A small creek ran beside the house, lined on one side with willows that shivered in the sun-dappled breeze as if the thought of spending another winter stark and bare in a snowdrift chilled them to their roots.