The Golden Greenhouse
The audit begins at nine, and the light is already failing in the west wing. "Sign here, Mr. Ashworth. Just a formality. The provenance of the Greenhouse." The aide, a man named Vane, did not look up from his ledger. His pen moved with the mechanical precision of a clock hand. I stood before his desk, the air thick with the scent of dust and old varnish. I was forty-two years old, a senior...
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