The Golden Greenhouse
The brass key was cold enough to burn, its surface slick with the damp that always clung to the ironwork of the estate. Thomas held it in his right hand, the metal biting into his palm, while his left gripped the hem of his tunic to keep from shivering. He was twelve years old, old enough to know that fear was a tax one paid for proximity to power, yet young enough to believe that gold could...
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