The Golden Greenhouse
The glass is warm. That is the first thing you notice, the second time you pick up the blowpipe, and it is the third time your hand has slipped. It is not the heat of the furnace, which is a dry, punishing white, but a damp, living heat, like holding a feverish child. You are Elias Thorne, and you are forty-two years old, and by Friday the Golden Greenhouse must be finished, or the council will...
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