The Faded Bouquet
The greenhouse had belonged to her grandmother, then to her mother, and then, for seven years after the funeral, to Isobel Whitcombe herself — though she had never once stepped inside it.
London called it a glass house. Isobel called it what it truly was: a cathedral of dead things. Orchids with pale, paper-thin petals still hanging from their wooden trellises. Rose...
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