The Golden Greenhouse
Elias Vane, you are going to ruin us all. Martha’s voice was thin, scraped raw by the humidity of the workshop, and it cut through the roar of the furnace like a blade through wet wool. I looked up from the crucible, my hands slick with sweat and the greasy residue of the flux, and saw her standing in the doorway, her face pale in the orange glow, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if...
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