The Golden Greenhouse
The frost had climbed three inches up the southern pane since the last bell. I measured it with the brass ruler, marking the line with a grease pencil, my hand steady despite the shiver that had taken up residence in my marrow. Fourteen hours remained until the deep freeze, and the Golden Vine stood in the center of the glasshouse, its leaves a dull, bruised purple, trembling not with wind,...
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