The Faded Bouquet
The gas lamp hissed, a thin, reedy sound that cut through the stale air of the laboratory. Elias Thorne adjusted the brass screws of the glass bell jar, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the dial. Inside, the *Orchid* waited. It was a monstrous thing, a tangle of black veins and pale, fleshy petals that seemed to pulse with a slow, rhythmic hunger. Elias was forty years old, a...
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