The Golden Greenhouse
The champagne in your glass has gone flat, a dull amber liquid that tastes of copper and stale air, and you watch the bubbles fail to rise as if they were dead insects trapped in the liquid. You are Arthur, forty-two, a mid-level clerk at the Ministry of Botanical Standards, and the weight of the crystal stem in your hand feels like an anchor dragging you down into the floorboards of the Grand...
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