The Golden Greenhouse
In the dreams that visited Cillian Vane, the walls of the High Court did not stand as rigid pillars of marble but breathed, expanding and contracting like the lungs of a colossal, slumbering beast, their surfaces sweating with a cold, viscous dew that smelled of ozone and ancient, rotting lilies, a scent that had permeated the very marrow of his bones since he was a boy hiding behind the...
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