Twelve Rooms with a View. Theresa Rebeck

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      “You can’t touch any of them?” I asked.

      “Until you know which ones are poisonous, and which aren’t, no, in fact, you can’t touch any of them.—

      “How did you find out which ones are poisonous?”

      “The hard way,” he informed me. “I studied.”

      The place smelled like growing things, and sounded like water. He had little fountains in corners, and strange pools suddenly appeared behind tree trunks, or alongside a hillside of ferns. That greenhouse was so big it had hills—small hills, but there were definite undulations. And everything was green, a thousand different greens, each one more subtle than the next. In spite of the pink coleus and the startling sexuality of the many-colored and poisonous orchids, green was what you saw, everywhere. And sky. You forgot, honestly, that you were in a building, in a city, on an island. I don’t know where you were, but it was not where you thought.