Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

blades covered in a thin layer of grey dust. I stood by the window while Arthur Vance sat in my father’s old oak chair, his leather portfolio resting on the green blotter.

“I will need the green folders, Martha,” Arthur said, extending a hand. “The ones with the hand-written carbon slips for the autumn deliveries.”

My hand was cold continue reading …