Chapter 6 #2
Jonah settled into the chair beside her as Tamsin Donover wafted in, radiant in a forest green caftan. Her silver hair was braided into a crown, and a faint shimmer of citrus-and-clove perfume followed in her wake.
“All right, my fellow civic-minded compatriots,” Tamsin announced, clapping her hands. “Let’s make this look easy.”
A few chuckles rippled through the room as she made her way to the front.
“I’d like to introduce someone, though many of you likely know her already. This is Goldie Flynn, newly appointed Herald of the Solstice Flame.”
There were polite murmurs and nods.
“I’ve invited her to sit in today so she can get familiar with everyone and witness the exquisite chaos that always blooms right before Beltane. Consider it her welcome gift.”
More laughter this time. From the far side of the table, Alma Idris leaned toward Priya Mishra. Priya’s lips curved faintly, her cool, appraising gaze sliding over Goldie as though she were a particularly bold fashion choice at a funeral.
Goldie met their eyes head-on and smiled—bright, unruffled, determined to glitter. Underestimation was her favorite accessory.
“Thrilled to be here,” she said, lifting her hand in a small, regal wave. “I brought rhinestones and emotional resilience.”
That earned a few appreciative snorts before the room shifted gears. Tamsin tapped a slender wand against her clipboard and the overhead orbs brightened, casting the table in a glow that made everyone look a little more tired and a little more ready to fight.
“First item,” said Carmen, cracking her knuckles as she leaned forward. “Firewood for the Beltane pyre.”
“The Grove Core will provide,” said Nadia crisply. “It always does.”
Dwayne Quist frowned. “Yes, well, it usually does, but given the recent fluctuations in that area, maybe we should confirm that the site is still cooperative.”
“Cooperative?” Nadia asked. “It’s land, not a civil servant.”
“I beg to differ,” muttered Carmen. “It threw a tantrum last week. Popped a root knot straight through a vendor booth. Madame Clementine is still pulling splinters from her corset.”
“That’s unrelated,” Nadia snapped. “She brought an open flame near an unblessed root line. That violates horticultural ordinance and common sense.”
“Tell that to her lumbar region,” Carmen shot back.
Goldie leaned sideways, voice low. “Is this on our bingo card?”
Jonah didn’t look up from his notes. “Square three. Right next to nobody agrees on ley line etiquette and someone accuses the land of sentience.”
“You started without me?” The voice came from behind her, all smooth offense coated in charm and expectation.
The back of Goldie’s neck prickled with recognition: some combination of civic pressure and the faintest whiff of an expensive cologne that probably came with a Latin motto and a secret society.
Marlow Truckenham. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, but aged like the leather chairs in his private office: expensive, creased, and smug about it.
His suit was bone-colored and bespoke, stitched with a golden-threaded pinstripe that caught the light like a warning.
His shirt collar was unbuttoned just enough to suggest that rules were for other people, and his cufflinks were tiny lion heads, glaring with metallic arrogance.
Goldie had never met him in person, but she knew the stories. Everyone did.
Marlow Truckenham had risen from above his working-class roots more than thirty years ago, reinventing himself as Bellwether’s civic darling.
Through masterful “public-private partnerships,” he’d built a legacy of renewal while quietly amassing a fortune, effectively selling Bellwether back to itself one rezoned acre at a time.
And as head of the Green Holdings Land Trust, Truckenham wielded power like few others. The trust controlled zoning permissions and the ritual protections that governed the ancient Green Holdings and its sacred Grove Core.
For decades, he had reshaped that wild relic into a meticulously managed, ritually-approved multiuse zone. Not only had the Holdings hosted the city’s largest festivals and rites, but they had also lined the Land Trust’s pockets for decades—Truckenham’s most of all.
Around the table, chairs shifted and glances darted. Priya Mishra’s mouth tightened; Alma Idris tilted her sharp chin in cool acknowledgment; Darren Swale gave a rumbling laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. Even Tamsin’s smile went just a shade thinner.
Truckenham smiled indulgently like he was walking into a room full of interns.
Scurrying behind him was a woman in a functional navy jacket, a stack of files clutched to her chest as if to ward off a blow.
Her dirty-blond hair was pulled into a tight, severe bun, but stray strands had escaped, framing a pale, anxious face.
A pair of thick-framed glasses kept sliding down her nose, and she kept shoving them back up with a nervous, jerky movement.
“Well,” Truckenham boomed, his voice rich with false bonhomie, “let’s see if we can bring this circus to heel.”
He dropped into a chair at the head of the table and gave a sharp, impatient snap of his fingers. “Karen.”
The woman following him flinched, just a small, startled twitch, but enough that the stack of papers she carried lurched in her arms. One thick folder landed with a slap in front of him before the rest scattered, fluttering to the floor like wounded birds.
Her face flushed crimson as she scrambled to gather them, movements quick and jerky, as though she could fold herself invisible if she tried hard enough.
“You’re late, Marlow,” Tamsin said stiffly. “Most of us have somewhere else to be after this.”
Truckenham adjusted his lion-headed cufflinks with theatrical care, ignoring the scrambling woman at his feet.
“My apologies,” he said, tone smooth and unapologetic.
“I was meeting with Alderman Breyer, and our conversation ran long. It was imperative we touch base after my meeting with Ashenvale Ventures this morning.”
The name landed like a coin dropped in water, sending ripples across the room. Priya Mishra muttered something into her coffee, while Alma Idris and Darren Swale exchanged a heated glance. Across the table, Carmen rolled her eyes so hard Goldie half-expected a spell to spark from her lashes.
Tamsin clapped her hands once, the sound sharp as a ward snapping shut. “All right, everyone. Beltane is in less than a week, and I refuse to preside over a ritual bonfire that ends in litigation or summoning.”
The group shuffled and straightened. Clipboards lifted like shields. Pens hovered in defensive positions.
Nadia Fromme cleared her throat and launched into a brisk scolding about invasive ornamentals choking the vendor pathway, her voice sharp as pruning shears.
Goldie leaned toward Jonah, lowering her voice. “Who’s the little mouse trailing after Marlow Truckenham? She looks like she’s one overdue sigh away from keeling over. Worst job in the city, guaranteed.”
“That’s Karen Vesuvius, his deputy,” Jonah murmured back as the woman finally settled into a chair, clutching her neatly re-stacked papers like a lifeline.
“Don’t buy the mousy routine. She’s got a spine of steel and slips through tight spots better than anyone I’ve seen.
The timid act? All for Truckenham’s benefit.
” His mouth curled. “The man likes people to bow and scrape. Shocking, I know.”
Goldie gasped dramatically. “Truly, you could knock me over with a feather.”
Across from Councilman Swale, Simone Mirth, Bellwether’s lead caterer, was scribbling on a scroll of faintly glowing parchment. Every time someone said something she disagreed with, the parchment pulsed an irritable shade of peach.
“We’ll need a dedicated food-enchantment perimeter this year,” she said coolly, not looking up. “After last year’s fermented corn pudding incident, I refuse to take chances.”
“It was transformed,” muttered Beck, of Beck’s Enchanted Audio. The hood of his sweatshirt vibrated faintly, punctuating his words with a syncopated bass line. “It developed sentience and rhythm. I fail to see the problem.”
“Because it tried to mount the punch bowl, Beck,” Tamsin cut in flatly.
Jonah leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Goldie’s. “This is what civic magic looks like.”
Goldie grinned, eyes sparkling. “You weren’t kidding about the glory.”
Truckenham cleared his throat, and the room’s scattered conversations faltered to silence.
“As head of the Green Holdings Land Trust,” he began, folding his hands like a man delivering bad news he secretly enjoyed, “I must report that our latest spatial review raises serious concerns. This year’s Beltane celebration risks further destabilizing the Grove Core.
And with Ashenvale Ventures’ acquisition nearing its final stage, appearances matter. ”
His gaze swept the table, smug as a cat with cream.
“Ashenvale knows about the destabilization, of course, and they’ve planned for it.
But they’re not just buying land; they’re buying opportunity.
If Beltane limps along under half-stable wards, it undermines everything.
Relocating to a site better suited for spectacle ensures safety and shows Ashenvale what Bellwether does best.”
A few heads turned. Simone’s enchanted parchment flared a bright, agitated coral.
“We don’t really have another option,” she said, voice taut, the parchment twitching beneath her hand. “Vendor count is up thirty percent this year, Marlow. The layout’s been finalized for months—”
“—months ago,” Truckenham cut in smoothly, “the destabilization wasn’t this severe. For the sake of a smooth transaction, the bonfire must be relocated.”
“And where would you suggest?” Tamsin asked, her voice pure, weaponized sugar.