Someone had definitely been there; a fresh path was worn through the brambles, almost like a game trail, and the old greenhouse had been restored. It looked like they’d used cheap acrylic instead of glass, likely taken in a few sheets at a time and caulked into place. A few of the original leaded glass windows remained, either cleaned or repaired with more plastic. They were all fogged over with condensation, blocking any view of the interior.

The old clearing still got plenty of sunshine, and wisps of steam were rising from the old chimney–whoever had been squatting there had somehow relit the old boilers that the 12th Earl had used to keep his botanical specimens warm.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble, and expense to reactivate the place in secret, but for what? Growing illegal plants to make drugs, perhaps? Maybe methamphetamine?

The caretaker eased the door opened, and then coughed as something extremely bitter popped on his lips and ran down his chin.

Someone had prepared a greenhouse glade filled with a bubble machine, and nothing else. Soapy bubbles pinwheeled through the otherwise empty structure.

“What do you think of my crop, then?” A voice behind the caretaker said. “Best harvest I’ve had, so far.”

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