The Golden Greenhouse
The jar sat on the mahogany desk, a squat vessel of amber glass that held within it a substance so viscous and golden it seemed to possess a life independent of the light. It was not honey, though it moved with the same slow, deliberate gravity; it was not syrup, for it lacked the cloying sweetness that would have made the air heavy with cloying vapor. It was, in the lexicon of the Bureau of...
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