The Golden Greenhouse
The banquet hall of the Royal Conservatory for Botanical Arts smelled of wet earth, crushed lavender, and the metallic tang of old coins, a scent that had permeated the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany tables until it seemed to breathe in the stagnant air. Marguerite Devereaux sat at the far end of the long table, her posture rigid as a dried stalk, her eyes fixed upon the centerpiece: a...
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