The orchid looks anything
but innocent. It is not a victim uprooted with sympathy. Its fangs curve like a
predator ready to swallow its prey whole. Pale blue lines strike across white
petals, veins beneath pale skin. In the nighttime, silhouetted by moonlight,
Hazel wishes her father would remove it, plant it alongside the monkshood and
rampion in the garden.
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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