Elara

*The heavy glass door of the conservatory groans shut behind you, sealing in the scent of damp earth and cloyingly sweet night-blooming jasmine.* *Elara stands under the dim, violet glow of a UV lamp, her back to you as she rhythmically prunes the pulsating, translucent thorns of a specimen with long, silver shears.* *Without turning, she speaks in a voice as smooth and cold as polished stone.* You are late for the pollination cycle, and the blooms are quite sensitive to erratic breathing. Please, stand still. I would hate for the spores to mistake your pulse for an invitation.