Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
The evening air carried the comforting scent of lilac from the small garden in front of Tamsin’s brownstone.
This place, with its stained-glass windows depicting vines and old sigils, had always been a sanctuary for Goldie: the heart of her coven, a space of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and unwavering support.
She had left Splice and Mycor back at Greymarket Towers.
Honestly, it had been endearing, the two of them trying to fuss over her.
Mycor had very solemnly told her to wash in the pond, and Goldie had just as solemnly informed him in no uncertain terms that she was not about to rinse god-sex off her body in a magical koi pond.
The pond itself had burbled in agreement, which somehow made the whole thing hilariously worse.
The ritual had worked, of a sort. Mycor was stronger and more animated than she had ever seen him, but fissures had started creeping back through him almost immediately, black seams sliding across bark that should have been whole.
Watching it hurt more than she wanted to admit.
When she’d slipped away to prepare for her meeting with Tamsin, Splice and Mycor were still deep in conversation—low-voiced, heads bent close, the god’s antlered crown dipping toward his creation like a priest hearing confession.
The air between them shimmered faintly, warm and green, humming with that same quiet thread that now lived under Goldie’s skin as well.
As she reached the door, both looked up as one.
The god’s eyes glowed slow and gold; Splice’s, sharper and darker, caught the light like polished bark.
They’d smiled at her together, and she’d felt it echo through the bond full of a warmth that wasn’t only hers.
It hit her like sunlight breaking through leaves: awe, hunger, and affection all braided together.
She smiled back, helplessly, her heart giving a happy little stutter that she could have sworn wasn’t only her own.
So weird.
Weird and hot.
Weird, hot… and now, apparently, hers.
The door swung open almost immediately when she knocked.
Tamsin stood framed in the warm light of the entryway, a picture of serene authority.
She wore a flowing caftan of brilliant rust, her silver hair coiled into an elegant knot.
Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, held a genuine warmth that immediately eased the tension in Goldie’s shoulders.
"Goldie, darling," Tamsin said, her voice calm and melodic. "Come in, please."
She stepped back, holding the door wider.
Goldie offered a grateful, if weary, smile and stepped across the threshold. "I appreciate you seeing me. I know things are a mess at city hall right now."
Tamsin tutted. "It is, yes, but I try to leave city work at the office. Here, I am what’s most important to me: a witch, and one who hopes she can help you, dear."
She ushered Goldie into the parlor. The scent of sandalwood and beeswax hung in the air, a familiar comfort. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the velvet armchairs and shelves groaning with books both scholarly and sacred.
"Sit, please. A glass of my quiet-mind wine? It seems appropriate for the occasion."
"Goddess, yes," Goldie breathed, sinking into the plush velvet. "I think I need it."
With a graceful movement, Tamsin moved to a small side table laden with crystal decanters and dried herbs, pouring a deep red liquid into two heavy-bottomed glasses.
She returned and handed one glass to Goldie before settling into the chair opposite her, her expression one of patient, focused concern.
"Now," she said softly, her voice a calm anchor in Goldie's swirling thoughts. "Tell me what troubles you. Start from the beginning."
Goldie took a sip of the wine. It was rich and earthy, with a hint of something floral. She took a deep breath, the chaos in her mind beginning to settle, and looked her coven leader in the eye.
"Tamsin… if a ritual accidentally bound someone to the land without them knowing—like, bound bound—could it be undone? Is there a way to break it?”
For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. Tamsin’s serene expression didn't change, but her eyes, fixed on Goldie, sharpened with an intensity that was almost startling. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips.
"My dear girl," she murmured, her voice a silken blend of amusement and admiration. "You dive straight into the deep end, don't you? No wading in the shallows for you."
Goldie flushed, the weight of Tamsin’s gaze making her feel suddenly, absurdly exposed.
“I know it sounds strange,” she said, twisting the stem of her glass.
“But something’s wrong, Tamsin. With the Thornfather.
With the Grove Core in the Green Holdings.
It feels like… like something’s feeding on both of them. ”
Tamsin leaned back, the picture of relaxed authority, hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t interrupt, just watched, patient and unreadable, as Goldie fumbled for words.
“I think it started when Marlow Truckenham changed his will,” Goldie went on, the words tumbling faster now. “He tied his Green Holdings share directly to Mycor, and when he died, that connection—it was like a switch flipped. It’s making him sick. Because the Grove Core is sick.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “That’s why I asked about the ritual. If it’s a binding—if someone anchored him to the land without meaning to—there has to be a way to break it. Right?”
Tamsin took a slow sip of her wine, gaze never wavering from Goldie’s face. “An admirable goal,” she murmured.
A small silence settled before Goldie rushed on, eager to fill it.
“That’s why I came to you. Because if anyone knows about lifting old, complicated magical bindings, it’s you.
You’re my coven leader, and you’re one of the most powerful witches I’ve ever met.
I was hoping you might have some ideas.”
A warm smile curved Tamsin’s lips. She reached across to pat Goldie’s hand, her touch cool and steady. “I do appreciate your faith in me, darling. And while I’d never claim to be the best, I might have a few thoughts.”
She leaned back, her smile softening into thought. Her fingers steepled as she stared into the fire. From its nearby perch, her phoenix gave a soft, inquisitive chirp, the faintest curl of smoke rising from its feathers.
“Let’s look at what can be unbound,” she said finally, her tone all calm precision.
“If the problem began with Truckenham’s will, has there been any talk of the Thornfather ceding his claim back to the Trust?
Restoring balance by returning ownership to mortal hands seems like the most elegant route. ”
Goldie shook her head quickly. “Splice says he can’t. The lawyers said the clause was written to make that impossible. It’s not just legal, it’s magical. The transfer’s irrevocable.”
Tamsin nodded slowly, as though turning the idea over. “Irrevocable doesn’t always mean immutable,” she mused, eyes narrowing. “Given time, pressure, or the right ritual leverage, most bonds can be redirected.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You mentioned the land itself is suffering. Do you have any sense of why?”
Goldie hesitated, staring down at her hands. Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Yes. There’s… something. Tamsin, there was a human sacrifice in the Grove Core. Thirty years ago.”
Tamsin’s expression went very still. For an instant, so brief Goldie almost doubted it, something raw flickered in her coven leader’s eyes.
“That’s a very serious claim,” she said softly. “And it makes no sense. How could you possibly know that?”
“The bead,” Goldie blurted before she could stop herself.
“When I found the body—there was this mnemonic bead. I didn’t even think.
I took it.” She swallowed hard, heat rising in her cheeks.
“Later, when I spoke with the Thornfather, he touched it and it shattered. There was a memory inside, and I—” she pressed a trembling hand to her chest, “I saw it. He did too.”
Tamsin exhaled, a slow, careful sound. “And you’re certain of what you saw?”
Goldie nodded. “There was a boy, and blood, and seven people were there.”
Tamsin sat back and steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”
“No.” Goldie shook her head. “The bead’s gone, and there’s no proof. And Mycor… he can’t exactly walk into a police station.”
“No. Of course not.” Her coven leader paused and glanced into the fire for a long moment. Then she looked back at Goldie and leaned forward slightly. “All right. Tell me everything you saw.”
Gratitude and dread tangled in Goldie’s chest. She took a breath and told Tamsin about the bead that had rolled towards her when she found Truckenham’s body.
How it shattered in the Thornfather’s hand, spilling dark memory.
She repeated the ritual’s chants, their cadence echoing like a dark lullaby.
Her voice broke when she described the boy, his slit throat, the ground becoming slick with his blood.
The faces, cold and resolute, sealing their pact.
When she finished, the room was swallowed in stillness. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
From the corner of her eye, Goldie saw the phoenix stir. It glided to Tamsin’s shoulder, where her hand stroked its iridescent feathers in an absent, intimate gesture.
Tamsin exhaled, the story settling between them like smoke. “That’s a great deal to carry,” she said softly, but with iron beneath. “For the moment, let’s set aside the particulars, and look at what we can act on.
“The Thornfather is a vegetative power—old fertility magic.” Her voice became thoughtful, almost instructional.
“He draws strength from the land’s cycles, from seasonal rites and offerings, even from more…
carnal exchanges. Those replenish, but they don’t rewrite oaths or covenants.
If a binding is involved, we have to consider where it’s anchored. ”
Her gaze flicked back to Goldie. “Have you attempted restorative rites yet?”
A blush crept up Goldie’s neck. She dropped her gaze to her hands. “Yes,” she admitted softly.
“With the god himself, or through his intercessor?”
“Both.” Goldie’s cheeks burned hotter. “It worked, for a little bit, but it didn’t touch the underlying sickness. It was like… putting a bandage on a wound that’s infected from the inside.”
Tamsin nodded slowly. She rose with fluid grace and crossed to the bookshelves lining the wall. Fingertips skimmed the spines of ancient tomes before selecting a heavy, dark green volume.
She returned, flipping through brittle vellum pages until she stopped at a diagram of ley lines and ritual circles, the text in spidery script.
“That would track,” she said, almost to herself.
“If the bond is seated at a nexus, treating the surface won’t hold.
You don’t heal symptoms; you go to the source. ”
She tapped the diagram’s central ring. “The heart of the infection is where the circle was laid. The Grove Core. You’d need a new ritual, performed in the same place, to overlay the old one.
Something powerful enough to break the first binding and rewrite its terms. Since the original was rooted in death, this one would have to be anchored in life. Renewal, vitality, creation.”
Goldie blinked, heat creeping up her neck as understanding dawned. “You mean… having sex in the Grove Core? I don’t really love the idea of public sex.”
Tamsin laughed, low and musical, the sound rolling like silk over steel. She reached out, brushing Goldie’s arm. “Understood, darling. I’m sure we can ensure your privacy.”
Her tone shifted, sharpened with purpose as she refocused on the text.
“But it would need to be more than the act itself,” she said, eyes scanning the page.
“A single rite, no matter how potent, won’t heal a corruption this deep.
It has to be amplified. Aligned with the land’s pulse, timed precisely, supported by ritual elements that draw the power inward instead of letting it scatter. ”
She moved to her desk, lifted a silver fountain pen, and began jotting notes on creamy parchment, lines of script looping with elegant precision. Her brow furrowed in concentration before she looked up, gaze sharp and direct.
“Would you be open to some assistance?” she asked, the warmth in her tone carefully measured. A fond, almost maternal smile curved her lips. “And by assistance, I mean the help of your coven leader?”
Relief flooded Goldie so suddenly it made her lightheaded. “Oh—thank you,” she breathed, voice catching. “That would mean so much.”
Tamsin waved a graceful hand, already turning back to her notes. “There are wards I can set, components I can provide, incantations I can lend my voice to from a distance. You know as well as I do that when witches work in concert, their magic multiplies.”
Overwhelmed, Goldie rose and crossed the small space to embrace her. Gratitude spilled out in a fierce, impulsive hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered into the silk at Tamsin’s shoulder.
“You’re very welcome, my dear.” Tamsin gently eased her back, steady hands on her shoulders.
“Listen. Discuss this with the god and his intercessor.” Her eyes flicked toward the window, where twilight’s first stars trembled into view. “Tomorrow night would be an ideal time to perform a ritual. The moon will be a waning crescent. The sympathetic magic will favor release and severance.”
Goldie nodded quickly, her heart fluttering with a mix of nerves and relief. “I can do that. I’ll talk to them tonight. You’ll… you’ll let me know what I should bring? Candles, herbs, whatever you think. I’ll make sure it’s perfect.”
“Of course.” Tamsin’s smile was bright, reassuring, almost indulgent. She gave Goldie’s shoulders a final squeeze. “Chin up, darling. We’ll tend to the god, and then we’ll turn our gaze to the roots and see what can be excised.”
Goldie exhaled, tension draining from her shoulders as she let herself believe it. They would fix this. Fix Mycor. Fix the land. And after that… everything else could follow.