The Golden Greenhouse
Act I The treaty port hummed with the clatter of cartwheels and the sharp, metallic ring of the fishwife’s cleaver at the market court, a sound that cut through the damp plaster of the missionary district. I am Melanie Fontaine, twenty-two, and I stand in the shadows of the Bureau of Botanical Records, my hands trembling as I hold the brass surveyor’s compass my father left behind. I want the...
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