The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the atrium did not smell of earth or rain, as it should have, but of ozone and sterile plastic, a scent that clung to Margaret Holloway’s tongue like a copper penny. She stood at the center of the glass dome, the apex of the Royal Botanical Institute’s most prized asset, where the humidity was engineered to a precise sixty-two percent and the light was filtered through layers of...
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