The scorching August sun poured down upon the meticulously manicured garden terrace on the south side of Monte Castle.
Grapevine trellises cast wide swaths of deep shade, while wisteria cascaded down like waterfalls. The air was filled with the fragrance of rose and rosemary.
In the center of the terrace, Murphy lay quietly propped up on a large wicker lounge chair.
He wore loose-fitting linen garments, the deep blue fabric making his face appear even more pale and drained of color.
A few strands of black hair on his forehead, damp with sweat, clung to his smooth temples.
His breaths were slightly deeper and more labored than usual, and the rise and fall of his chest was so faint it was nearly imperceptible.
The sweltering midsummer heat seemed to have no effect on Murphy. Instead, he looked as if he had just emerged from an ice cellar. The sunlight that fell upon him, far from dispelling the chill, only served to accentuate the ghastly pallor beneath his skin.
