Chapter 6 #3
Truckenham’s smile was that of a predator invited to guard the henhouse.
“As it happens, I do have a solution. The Greenhaus Collective—my new community vitality space on the Holdings border—offers a festival lawn that would be ideal. It’s usually reserved for private events, but given the circumstances, I’d be willing to open it. ”
“For a fee, of course,” Darren Swale sneered.
“Naturally,” Truckenham said, smooth as cream. “And it would be an excellent chance to showcase some of my other ventures. The Greenhaus juice kiosk, and perhaps a few of my artisanal food partners. Think of it as a synergistic branding opportunity. Very community-minded.”
“Marlow,” Simone snapped, her parchment blazing a violent fuchsia, “that would gut the vendor village. It diverts all foot traffic from the artisans who depend on this festival.”
Beside Goldie, Jonah had gone still, his pen scratching slow circles in the margin of his notebook. Goldie, curiosity pricking, laid her hand lightly on his wrist. His eyes flicked up and softened.
Truckenham spread his hands, dripping false humility. “If you’d read the reports, you’d see I’m offering an elegant solution. Preserve the Grove Core’s integrity and ensure the Ashenvale sale closes without a hitch. Everyone wins.”
“An elegant solution that just so happens to funnel money into your newest pet project,” Beck muttered darkly, his hoodie’s bass lines thudding in time with his scorn.
Councilman Swale slammed his hand on the table, the crack of palm against wood making Goldie jump. “Gods, Marlow, the contracts were signed months ago! You can’t seriously be telling me Ashenvale would consider backing out now?”
Truckenham smiled thinly. “I had some last-minute amendments to propose.”
“You’re kidding me, Marlow,” snapped Councilwoman Mishra, color rising in her cheeks. “We had this all buttoned up, and you’re still making changes at the eleventh hour?”
“Honestly, Priya?” Marlow purred. “I’m simply ensuring the entire Trust gets the best deal possible. I would think you’d be grateful.”
Her coffee cup hit the table with a dangerous thunk. “If you truly cared about the Trust, you’d have negotiated a higher percentage of the back-end profits for all of us, not just padding your own lump-sum payout!”
The room ignited. Voices layered and tangled into a cacophony of objections, logistical nightmares, and accusations of greed.
Beck’s hoodie pulsed hard enough to rattle the water glasses.
Swale was turning a dangerous shade of purple that clashed horribly with his tweed jacket.
Priya Mishra looked one incantation away from hexing Marlow’s obscenely expensive tie.
Goldie, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair and let her face settle into an expression of serene, scholarly interest. This was better than theater. She was already composing mental notes to recount to Nell later, complete with impersonations.
Just when it looked like Simone Mirth might actually lunge across the table, Tamsin clapped her hands once. “Enough! The Land Trust can have its little civil war on its own time. Beltane is in a week, and I will not have it jeopardized by this bickering. We are voting. Now.”
A heavy, resentful silence fell. Truckenham and Councilwoman Mishra kept glaring daggers across the table, but the fight had drained out of the room, replaced by the simmering tension of a battle postponed.
With much sighing, side-eye, and magical pressure thick enough to cut with a butter knife, the committee lurched toward actual order. Roll-call sigils flared in the air, glowing names tallying like a celestial scoreboard. Arguments collapsed into muttered grumbles and half-hearted objections.
In the end, it was decided that a temporary magical barrier would reinforce the Grove Core, pending further inspection.
The bonfire would remain in its traditional location—for now.
A note was added that the Greenhaus Collective would serve as a “viable alternative site” should further instability arise.
At the head of the table, Marlow rose, tugging his jacket into place with the smug air of a man convinced he’d salvaged a sinking ship. “Glad we could be productive,” he said, oozing false civility. “Looking forward to a safe, successful Beltane.”
He strode toward the doors without a backward glance. Karen Vesuvius scrambled after him, clutching her disheveled stack of documents, glasses sliding down her nose. She scurried to keep pace, a frantic shadow in his wake.
Chairs scraped, sigils dimmed, and someone muttered a spell that sounded suspiciously like a curse. The meeting was, mercifully, over.
Jonah rose and slipped his notepad into the inside pocket of his blazer. “Congratulations on surviving your first blast of civic planning, Goldie,” he said, offering a smile that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “Did we scare you off?”
“Hardly,” Goldie replied, standing with a flourish of her cloaklet. “I thrive on drama. It’s practically a vitamin.”
He chuckled, low and genuine. “Then you’re going to love Solstice planning. If you think this was dramatic, just wait until they start debating the legitimacy of the sun’s apogee and whether the ceremonial garland counts as a divinatory instrument.”
Goldie tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “You didn’t say a word through the whole thing.”
Jonah’s mouth quirked. “That’s because I’m only responsible for the boring stuff. Leave the theatrics to the ones who enjoy them.” He gestured faintly toward Carmen as she gathered her binder. “I’ll be buried in ordinances with her in a few hours. Oh, the joy.”
Goldie leaned in, conspiratorial. “Give me your phone.”
His brows lifted, amused, but he handed it over without hesitation.
With a deft flick of her fingers, she typed in her number, saved it under Goldie , and passed it back. “There. Now we can start a thread and make bets on the next meeting. Winner gets bragging rights and possibly more croissants.”
Jonah glanced down at the screen, tapping something in with quick precision. A second later, Goldie felt the soft buzz in her purse.
“There you go. Consider it the first thrilling installment of our civic correspondence.” His eyes flicked up, catching hers with a warmth that lingered just a second too long to be merely friendly.
He tucked his phone into his pocket, winked, and strode out with the kind of unhurried confidence that really should be illegal in government buildings.
Goldie pressed her lips together, fighting a grin as she dug for her phone. She saved his number and scrolled through her notifications.
A ping from the coven group chat lit up the screen.
Lita Baines
Protest’s getting rowdy. Someone hexed a hotdog cart. Call me if you want details.
Goldie snorted. She could already picture Lita’s crow familiar shrieking indignantly at the smell of charred mustard. Her thumb was hovering just over the reply box when the faintest shift in air told her she was no longer alone.
“That went well,” Goldie said dryly as Tamsin came to stand beside her.
“That went exactly as well as it always does,” Tamsin replied, brushing an invisible wrinkle from the front of her caftan. “You did beautifully, by the way. Your facial expressions alone carried the entire second half.”
Goldie tilted her head. “Is there anything I can do to help with Beltane?”
“Oh, we’ll figure it out like we always do.” Tamsin’s voice carried her usual confident dismissal. “Marlow pulled the same routine last year. Claimed the Grove Core was on the verge of cascade failure. In the end, nothing happened but a minor sparkquake and a rerouting of a foot path.”
She gave a soft laugh, then leaned in to brush Goldie’s arm as if sharing a secret. Tamsin’s eyes twinkled slyly. “I saw you sitting with Jonah Pell. Interesting. Do you know him well?”
Goldie blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, no. We just met at the library, actually. He’s nice. What do you know about him?”
Tamsin’s smile widened, faintly amused. “Jonah? He moved here a few years ago. Threw himself into every committee that would have him. Solid and dependable. Quite a dear.” Her tone softened, but her eyes sharpened.
“And yes, he’s single. Just in case you were wondering. You two looked very cozy together.”
Goldie sputtered, waving a hand. “Cozy? Please. I was just being welcoming. Courteous. Sparkly.”
Tamsin’s hum carried both indulgence and intrigue.
Before Goldie could reply, Simone Mirth appeared at her elbow, a slim velvet box in one hand and a clipboard in the other. “Authorization for the Archives,” she said briskly. “Congratulations, Herald.”
Goldie squealed before she could stop herself.
Simone arched a brow but opened the box to reveal a copper-and-glass bracelet, runes etched along its band.
“This will get you through the Archive wards. Access is limited to Tuesday through Friday, nine to five. Try not to trigger the warding failsafes, or the shelves will lock you in until closing.”
Goldie slipped the bracelet on, bouncing in her chair. “This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever been handed in a government building. I’ve already started my notes for the speech, and I’ve got costume sketches, and now—now I can actually pull from the originals!”
Tamsin watched her babbling with clear amusement, silver braid gleaming as she tilted her head. “Enthusiasm is half the battle,” she murmured.
Just then, the door creaked open and a harried clerk poked his head in. “Is the committee wrapped up? We need the room for a review session.”
A collective groan rose from those still lingering.
Goldie hopped to her feet, cloaklet swishing. “Well, I have to get back to work. But tomorrow—” she held up her new bracelet with a grin, “I’ll be digging in the archives. And I cannot wait.”
“Enjoy,” Tamsin said, leaning in to brush air kisses against both of Goldie’s cheeks. “We’ll speak soon, Herald.”
“Call me if something explodes,” Goldie quipped.
“Only if it’s dramatic enough for the Bellwether Bulletin,” Tamsin replied with a wink.
Goldie swept out, heels echoing down the polished corridor like punctuation marks.
Her phone buzzed.
Jonah Pell
Did you survive the tambourines?
Goldie grinned and tapped out a quick message. Guess who’s officially got Archive access. What research would you like me to pull, Mr. Pell?
The dots blinked for a beat, then his reply popped up. I’ll think about it. Something thrilling, I promise.
She snorted softly, tucking the phone away. Cute and research-focused. Exactly the kind of distraction she loved best.