The Pale Verdict
The iron cage of the greenhouse sat in the center of the conservatory, a skeletal ribcage of blackened metal that had once held the rarest orchids of the Empire. Now it held only you, and the silence. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of day where the fog rolls off the Thames so thick it tastes of coal smoke and wet wool, sealing the glass walls of your father’s estate in a white shroud....
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