The Golden Greenhouse
The glass is perfect, Lord Vane, but the foundation is not, and you know it. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the conservatory, his hands still dusted with the white powder of lime, his voice flat and steady in the humid air. Around him, the structure hummed with the trapped heat of the afternoon sun, a sealed world of ferns and orchids that cost more than he had earned in twenty years of...
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