Chapter 34
Chapter
Thirty-Four
The morning light caught in Goldie’s hair as they walked to City Hall.
Splice kept catching himself looking at her.
She wore a dress the color of a sunset, printed with flowers that did not grow in this realm, and boots the shade of a dandelion.
On her wrists, a collection of silver bangles chimed a quiet, metallic song with every step.
“It's a good thing my boss has the foresight to not schedule me when she senses impending drama," Goldie said, breaking the silence.
A faint smile touched Splice's lips. "For someone who’s supposedly employed, you certainly don’t seem to work much," he noted, his tone laced with fond amusement.
"Hey," she shot back, pointing a finger at him, the gesture light and familiar. "Don't shame me for maintaining a healthy work-life-magical-conspiracy balance."
Her usual bubbly chatter was gone, replaced by a focused quiet that was far more compelling. It made her more real and more beautiful than ever.
The thought pulled another memory to the surface, unbidden and hot.
The scent of her skin, the taste of her lips, the way she had fallen apart for him during the ritual, crying out his name as magic and pleasure crested together.
The memory made something deep in his heartwood ache with a fierce, possessive warmth.
“Where do you get your clean clothes?”
The question was so unexpected it took him a moment to process. He followed her gaze down to his own attire.
“The same place you do,” he replied, turning his attention back to the street they were crossing. “A closet.”
“A closet,” she repeated, her voice incredulous. “You’re telling me that the Thornfather’s space in the atrium has a closet? Is there a shower in there, too?”
He considered this. “No. There’s a pond.”
Goldie stopped walking for a half-second, staring at him with wide, baffled eyes before shaking her head and starting to move again. “This is so weird,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. He did not disagree.
The protestors were still outside City Hall, technically.
A dozen or so held drooping signs. Someone’s speaker was playing a distorted folk remix of “Which Side Are You On?” at half-volume.
One woman had turned her placard into a sunshade.
Another was selling homemade hex charms from a collapsible card table.
The police watched from the perimeter, looking equally wilted. A low-grade civic dampening ward shimmered faintly above the plaza like heat off asphalt, humming just enough to keep tempers low, voices quiet, and everyone politely miserable.
It was, Splice thought, the most Bellwether thing imaginable: a protest still ongoing mostly out of spite and civic duty.
He and Goldie opened the doors and stepped inside. The air was thick with a low-grade panic, a frantic hum that vibrated from the very stone of the building. People hurried through the corridors, clutching folders and whispering in tight, anxious knots.
"What's going on?" Goldie muttered, her eyes scanning the chaos.
"Goldie?" The voice cut through the franticness of the hall, calm and steady. She turned, and Splice turned with her, his gaze falling upon the man who had spoken.
He approached with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged in such spaces. His sandy hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and the corners of his blue eyes crinkled. He wore a simple, well-fitting dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up, and was as steady as an anchor in the swirling chaos.
A flicker of something crossed Goldie’s face—not quite guilt, but a pang of regret, sharp and fleeting.
“Jonah!” she exclaimed, her voice cheery with just a trace of too-brightness. She crossed the small space and squeezed his arm.
Splice watched, silent. The man smiled at her, easy and unguarded, and she returned it in kind. Something tightened in Splice’s chest before he smoothed it away.
“What’s happening?” Goldie asked, her voice laced with concern.
Jonah’s expression grew serious. “You haven’t heard?”
“No, that’s why I’m asking,” she said, swatting his arm playfully, though the gesture fell flat in the tense air. “It’s chaos in here. Did one of the archive gremlins get into the ceremonial mead again?”
Jonah didn't smile. “They didn’t call you. Of course they wouldn’t have; they’ve been running around like panicked pixies all morning.
Something happened last night. There was a magical surge in the Green Holdings, and it seems that everyone on the Land Trust was hit with some kind of magical whiplash. "
The world seemed to narrow around his words, the background noise of the hall fading to a dull roar.
A mask of theatrical horror snapped into place on Goldie's features. She gasped, a hand flying to her chest in a gesture that was just a little too dramatic, a little too practiced. Her eyes, wide and panicked, flicked to Splice’s for a fraction of a second before darting back to Jonah.
“Oh, gods, that’s horrible,” Goldie breathed, the words sounding genuine to anyone who didn't know her. "Who? Do they know who it is?"
“Councilman Swale, and Councilwomen Mishra and Idris are all in comas,” Jonah said, voice low and grim.
“Everyone else is in varying stages of sickness, though it doesn’t sound like it’s anything quite as serious.
No one knows how unstable the whole situation is, though, so the Solstice planning session’s been hijacked for crisis management. ”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I should’ve texted you, but I didn’t think of it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Goldie said, her voice a little too airy. “Sounds like you’ve all had your hands full.”
An awkward silence descended, thick with the enormity of the news and the strangeness of their meeting. Goldie, ever the gracious hostess even in a crisis, broke it with a smooth, practiced gesture.
"Oh, Jonah, where are my manners? This is my... associate, Splice. Splice, this is Jonah Pell. He’s on the solstice planning committee with me.”
Splice inclined his head coldly.
Jonah’s gaze flicked to Splice, and he extended a hand. "A pleasure."
Splice met the gesture, taking Jonah's hand in his own. He registered the firm grip of a hand that knew both physical work and the weight of a pen. He applied a neutral pressure in return.
"Likewise.” He held Jonah's gaze for a beat longer than was strictly necessary.
Jonah’s hand fell away, but his eyes remained on Splice, his gaze slow and appraising. It was the look of a man assessing a strange new piece on a familiar game board.
“You’re the Thornfather’s representative, aren't you?” Jonah asked. “I’m surprised they didn’t call you, since your boss is the primary stakeholder of the land now. How’s he doing, by the way?”
“Oh, he’s better than ever,” Splice replied, his own voice smooth and cool.
“That’s great,” Jonah said, though his tone didn’t match the words. “Were you planning on attending the Solstice meeting, then? A bit of a coincidence that you’re here.”
Splice met his gaze. “No,” he said, dropping his voice slightly to become more intimate. “I spent the night with Goldie. I decided to walk her here.”
Beside him, Goldie made a small, strangled sound, which she quickly disguised as a cough. Splice didn’t look at her, but he felt the wave of her mortification wash over him, and found it unexpectedly amusing.
“I see,” Jonah said, voice impressively even. “Well. Goldie’s a remarkable woman.”
“Yes,” Splice replied, solemn in a way the moment absolutely did not require.
“Well, I suppose I should—” Goldie began, her words a hurried tumble.
“Right. I need to get going,” Jonah said, already turning. Then he glanced back, his expression softening. “I’ll see you at the next meeting.”
He offered Goldie a small, conspiratorial wink that made Splice’s jaw tighten. He watched the man’s retreating back, every muscle in his own body coiled and still. The urge to extend a vine and trip him was brief, but vivid.
Goldie smacked his arm, breaking the spell. “Was that really necessary?” she whispered, her voice a furious mix of exasperation and disbelief.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Splice’s mouth. "Was that not true?"
Goldie’s mouth opened. Then closed. She made a small, frustrated sound in the back of her throat and pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes squeezed shut as if she could physically block out the conversation.
"I sort of hoped that we might have been able to have an actual conversation about this whole thing before we started announcing it to the world,” she mumbled, her voice muffled by her hand.
Splice’s heartwood gave a distinct, joyful leap at the phrase announcing it to the world. He contained his pleasure, schooling his features back into their usual serious cast. "A formal declaration would be more appropriate, I agree. Perhaps we should draft a statement—"
With a groan that was equal parts exasperation and surrender, Goldie’s hand fisted the front of his coat, yanked him down to her level, and silenced him with her mouth.
The kiss was not gentle. It was an urgent, full-bodied collision of unspoken things and undeniable heat, right there in the middle of the chaotic hallway.
For a moment his control frayed, the urge to let vines spill out and claim her overwhelming. He forced it back, settling his hands on the curve of her waist instead, anchoring them both.
When she broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to breathe, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.
He couldn't resist. He murmured, his voice low, “And why did you wait to do that until after Pell left?”
“Splice,” Goldie whispered, a smile playing on her lips. “Please shut up.”
He shut up.
“Goldie? Oh, thank the gods.” The sharp, panicked voice sliced through the crowded hallway.
A plump woman with blonde hair pulled into a loose, untidy chignon was hurrying toward them, wearing the unmistakable high-visibility vest of Parks and Paranatural Resources.