The Golden Greenhouse
The knife slipped between the roots of the host plant, and the smell hit me before the sight did. It was a thick, cloying scent, like overripe peaches left in a warm kitchen, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood. I pulled the stalk free. It was golden, pulsing faintly in the dark, and my hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped it. I am Elias Thorne. I am a botanist. I am forty-two...
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