The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the Archive smelled of dust, dried lavender, and the sharp, metallic tang of old ink. I was on my knees, my hands buried in a box of correspondence from the reign of King Henry the Eighth, my fingers stained black up to the second knuckle. Above me, the vaulted ceiling of the library stretched into a darkness that felt less like an absence of light and more like a heavy, breathing...
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