Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
The next morning, Goldie found herself at the front desk of the Bellwether Center for Alternative Literacy, doing her best impression of a very responsible member of society.
But since Nell was holding down the fort, literally—being the Anchor meant staying put and steadying the thread that bound Sig to this plane so he could chase whatever Doom needed stopping—Goldie was taking one for the team.
Still, whether on the front desk, in her zone, or sweeping floors, Goldie loved this place.
She’d found the job entirely by accident, not long after moving to Bellwether in the smoldering aftermath of what she still referred to, without sarcasm, as the World’s Worst Breakup in the History of the World, Ever.
She’d wandered in looking for somewhere quiet to cry that wasn’t a coffee shop or her car, and ended up walking out with an application and a vague promise that someone named Suzhanni Kephra would be in touch.
The pay was decent. The company? Delightfully strange.
And the books—oh, the books—were a revelation.
The archives held everything from weather-warped almanacs to cryptid field guides to a first edition of Practical Hexes for Passive-Aggressive Situations, which she’d once cited in a staff meeting just to see who would flinch.
The desk bell chimed with a sharp ping, and Goldie looked up from her book to find Carmen Renfroe from Parks and Paranatural Resources at the counter.
She wore her high-visibility vest like she’d just wrestled a kelpie off a bike path and hadn’t had time to change.
Mid-forties, plump, with blonde hair yanked into a no-nonsense ponytail, Carmen radiated the kind of brisk practicality that could mediate a boundary dispute between two rival oak spirits and still make it home in time to baste a roast.
Goldie had met her at a pop-up warding workshop the summer before and had liked her ever since.
Carmen had the best gossip in Bellwether: sharp, funny, and laced with just enough scandal to make it delicious.
She always seemed to know who was feuding, who was quietly dating, and which neighborhood hedge had started sprouting suspicious blossoms.
“Morning, Marigold,” Carmen said, dropping a neat stack of books on the counter with a decisive thud. “What are you doing up here in the land of flesh-and-blood people? Did you lose a bet? You’re normally communing with the dustier spirits.”
Goldie grinned. “Hi, Carmen! Well, I’m wearing my new shawl and I thought it would be wasted in the archives.
” She flicked the edge, and it rippled with a shimmer of glamour, scattering tiny sparks like champagne bubbles.
“Besides, I’ve been told this is the prime spot for catching gossip—and lo and behold, the city’s most reliable source has arrived. ”
She leaned across the counter, chin propped on her hand. “So, what’s the word? Who’s feuding, who’s canoodling, who got caught in the wrong bed with the wrong familiar?”
Carmen snorted. “Where do you want me to start? City Hall’s a circus this week.
I had to get out before I started throwing staplers.
Those damn protestors have been parked out front every day, waving their placards like the fate of the world depends on it.
Yesterday I almost got beaned by a sign that said Hands Off Our Holdings.
And of course the Mayor refuses to say a word—probably hoping it all blows over before the Beltane parade. ”
She rubbed her temple. “I swear, you couldn’t pay me enough to sit through one more budget meeting with a drum circle outside the window.”
Goldie made a sympathetic noise as she began checking in Carmen’s books. As always, they were pristine, returned early, spines uncreased.
“Honestly? Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she said, shrugging. “The space really is underutilized. Imagine if they put in something useful. Like a proper amphitheater, or an outdoor reading garden with fairy lights. Do they have a suggestion box?”
Carmen gave her a look. “Marigold, they’re not talking about fairy lights. They’re talking about condos and corporate plazas. Ashenvale Ventures doesn’t do cozy.”
Goldie winced but fluttered her shawl as if to wave away the seriousness. “Still. An amphitheater would be spectacular.”
“I’ll just be glad when Beltane is over so we can move on to the next civic drama.
” Carmen’s tone was dry, but the corner of her mouth twitched.
As she tucked her books into her tote, she leaned in conspiratorially.
“Speaking of civic drama—I saw Tamsin this morning, and she told me she’d officially tapped you as the new Herald of the Solstice Flame. Exciting! You’ll be brilliant.”
Goldie pressed a hand to her chest, fluttering her lashes. “You’re too kind.”
“Well, I didn’t say it would be easy.” Carmen’s look shifted to weary amusement. “You know the paperwork I have to file for ritualized chaos. Just promise me that for Solstice, you’ll try to keep the reputational ruin to a minimum.”
Goldie gasped, hand flying to her pearls—well, bangles.
“Please. You should’ve heard my coven last night.
They’re already in a full-blown panic about Beltane, and that’s still weeks away.
You’d think it was going to end in fire, frogs, and a strongly worded letter from City Council.
And here I thought I was supposed to be the dramatic one. ”
Carmen chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. City Council saves their strongest words for zoning disputes. Trust me, the Green Holdings mess makes frogs look positively charming.”
She gave a knowing snort. “Sure, the destabilization’s stronger than usual, but between you, me, and the fencepost, I think the Grove Core’s just pissy we’re not doing the full torch procession for Beltane this year.”
Goldie leaned across the counter. “Wait—does the land actually get pissy?”
Carmen waved a hand. “Oh, you know me, I say that about every patch of green I babysit for the Parks Department. It’s nothing like when Sunhollow Park got offended and sprouted a maze overnight. I had to hire a hedge-witch to coax three Little League teams back out. That was a week.”
She laughed, then shrugged. “No, I can’t say the Holdings—or the Grove Core, for that matter—shares its feelings.
But Ashenvale Ventures sniffing around, plus Mercury being in retrograde and a solar flare?
Things are bound to get wonky. Remember last Beltane?
North Stage leyline flipped sideways, half the Parks Department forgot their own names for an afternoon, and we had to re-consecrate the hot dog stand.
Things wobble, then they go back to Bellwether-normal. ”
“Exactly!” Goldie agreed. “A mild collective identity crisis is just a regular Tuesday around here.”
“You get it.” With a brisk nod, Carmen hitched her tote bag higher. “All right, I’ve got to run. Meeting with the Department of Portalways and Public Passage. Wish me luck, Herald. See you at the planning meeting in a few days.”
With a final, knowing wave, Carmen was out the door, her tote bag bouncing against her hip like a badge of office. Goldie watched her go, a small smile on her face. It was good to have friends in high places, especially when those high places came with official city letterhead.
She turned back to the desk, propping her chin in one hand as she gazed at the dusty book she’d pulled from the deep archives. If she was going to be Herald, she wanted to show up to Thursday’s meeting prepared.
She skimmed a section on torch processions, a faint thrill bubbling in her chest at the thought of getting into the city archives proper. There had to be more detail there: maps, records, maybe even firsthand accounts of past Heralds she could crib from.
A blur of motion darted across the open page. A tiny, whiskered creature—hamster-sized, with spectacles fashioned from twist-ties and a tail like a feather quill—paused squarely in the gutter of the book. It peered up at her with glittering eyes.
“Page ninety-three is lying,” it squeaked, voice pitched like a gossip at confession.
Goldie arched a brow. “Thanks for the heads-up,” she whispered back.
The creature bobbed its head in solemn agreement, then scampered off toward the stacks, vanishing between M–O.
Goldie flipped to page ninety-three. The text looked perfectly ordinary: a neat little essay on historic binding rituals, tracing how communities once wove flame and blood into seasonal rites. Opposite the text was a woodcut of seven solemn figures in ceremonial robes, torches aloft.
She frowned, scanning for smudges, errors, or hidden marginalia. Nothing obvious.
“Sure, it’s lying,” she scoffed, closing the book with a soft thump. “Opinionated little patrons, every last one.”
The bell above the library door gave its usual half-hearted ding—less an alert, more a sigh.
Goldie didn’t look up right away. Wednesday mornings weren’t known for thrilling foot traffic, and the last visitor before Carmen had been Mr. Gorse, who mostly came in to read obituaries and sneak butterscotch candies that were not, technically, allowed.
But then the new arrival cleared his throat, and the tone of the room shifted. Goldie glanced up.
He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties.
Sandy hair, sun-lightened and greying neatly at the temples, cropped in a style that suggested both a practical mind and a decent barber.
His face was open, tanned in a way that said he spent more time outdoors than behind a desk.
Trim without being wiry. Dockers, a well-fitting navy polo, and—ah—wire-framed glasses perched on a slightly crooked nose.
Not crooked enough to be a flaw; just enough to feel lived-in.
And his eyes. Faded blue, soft like denim left in the sun. When he smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, they crinkled in a way that made her stomach do something undignified.