Lilian’s POV
The Conservatory was not a greenhouse. Calling it a greenhouse was like calling the Titanic a boat or Alexander DeLuca a “manager.” It was a cathedral of glass and iron, rising out of the frozen earth like a Victorian fever dream.
Leo struggled with the heavy iron latch on the side door, his breath puffing in white clouds against the cold. “It sticks when it freezes,” he grunted, putting his shoulder into it. After a few more tries and with a groan of protesting metal, the door gave way, swinging inward.
“After you,” he said, bowing dramatically.
I laughed as I stepped over the threshold, and the world shifted instantly.
The cold, biting air of the upstate winter vanished, replaced by a wall of humidity so thick it felt like walking into a warm bath. The air smelled of we
