The old botanical exchange stood near the northern wall of the Capital, half forgotten by everyone except customs officers, foreign merchants, gardeners with too much education, and criminals who understood the value of abandoned privileges.
It had been beautiful once. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was that its beauty hadn't died properly. Glass roofs rose over the central structure in cloudy panes, some cracked, some replaced, some covered by creeping vines that had no respect for imperial architecture. Iron ribs curved over the conservatory wings. Stone planters lined the outer terrace, their contents long since gone wild, silverleaf shrubs tangled with thorn roses, pale moss climbing the steps. A small fountain in the courtyard held rainwater and floating petals, though no nearby flower looked capable of shedding them.
Foreign plants had a habit of being dramatic. Perhaps that was why diplomats liked them.
