Chapter 42 #2
“That’s all. You’re free to go,” she said calmly.
They walked back to Greymarket in a silence that was more full than uncomfortable. Goldie kept sneaking looks at Splice. He looked shell-shocked, eyes unfocused, the faint crease between his brows signaling the internal panic spiral she was starting to recognize.
With a small smile, she reached for his hand and squeezed. He started, just a tiny jolt, then looked at her. His expression softened, like her touch had tugged him back into his body. He squeezed back.
Greymarket Towers loomed ahead, its windows glinting in the midday sun. As they stepped inside, the lobby lights flickered once in greeting, and a ripple of cool air brushed over them like a sigh of recognition.
“Good morning, Assistant, Ms. Flynn.”
Mr. Lyle was striding toward them in his best apartment manager persona: crisp slacks, an olive-green sweater vest, a blandly patterned tie knotted with ominous precision, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his ever-present clipboard clutched in both hands like a holy text.
He stopped in front of them with a small, perfectly composed smile.
“I wish to let you know how pleased and relieved the building is now that the matter of your god has been settled,” he said calmly. His gaze flicked to Splice. “Everything resonates in tune again. It is… harmonious.”
He clicked his tongue, consulting his clipboard. “If only we could find a tenant for the still-vacant unit on thirteen. A persistent logistical inconvenience.”
There was a pause. A long one.
Goldie blinked. “Um… well. As you can see, Splice is awake now.” She gestured at him, vague and weirdly panicked. “And, uh. He’s kind of grown apart from Mycor? In a… metaphysical-divorce kind of way?”
“I see,” Mr. Lyle said pleasantly. “Are congratulations in order, then? Is this a wished-for complication?”
Splice looked like someone had asked a wintering apple tree to suddenly produce fruit. “Y…yes?” he said slowly.
“I mean,” Goldie said slowly, her stomach doing an uncomfortable flip, “maybe Splice could take that empty apartment? Just for now.”
She turned to him, already floundering. “Not that I’m saying you have to—obviously you can stay with me for as long as you want, I just didn’t want to assume anything, because you’re newly… un-god-tethered, and that’s a lot, and maybe you need space, and I don’t want to pressure you, and—”
She cut herself off, heart pounding. What she wanted to say was: Please stay.
Please stay with me. But she couldn’t force that on him.
He was just beginning to find out who he was, and he didn’t need to be tied to someone else the second he stepped into himself.
Even if, gods help her, she wanted to tie herself to him.
Mr. Lyle gave her a soft, inscrutable smile. “I don’t believe that will be necessary,” he said, and pulled a neatly folded document from his clipboard. With exaggerated care, he offered it to Goldie.
She took it slowly. “What is this?”
“The updated architectural plan for your apartment,” Mr. Lyle said, still smiling.
“As you’ll see, the second bedroom and adjoining bath are now complete.
There is also a new sitting room, a modest greenhouse with exceptional sunlight exposure, and a rather elegant balcony accessible via French doors.
” He paused slightly. “The building was insistent about the balcony, although it would not specify why.”
Goldie blinked. “A greenhouse?”
Mr. Lyle inclined his head. “A small one. It was deemed appropriate.”
Splice made a soft, startled sound.
Mr. Lyle tucked the clipboard under his arm. “I trust this arrangement is acceptable?”
Goldie looked at Splice. He was frozen, eyes wide, his entire body gone very still in that way she now recognized as Splice being emotionally overloaded but refusing to short-circuit in public. His expression was nearly blank, except for the flicker of something raw and bright beneath it.
“That is settled, then.” Mr. Lyle nodded, serene as ever. “Truly, the building and I are very pleased with how things have worked out. We look forward to what comes next.”
With an eerie, perfectly calibrated grace, he turned and strode toward the mail alcove, the polished heels of his loafers clicking in unwavering rhythm across the marble. Silence settled behind him.
Goldie and Splice looked at each other.
Both opened their mouths.
“Splice, I don’t want you to—”
“Goldie, I don’t mean—”
They cut off in unison, stared, then dropped their gazes to the schematic in her hands. Then back to each other. Then to the schematic again, like it might explain literally any part of this.
Splice cleared his throat. “Let’s go see,” he said softly. A weak, hopeful smile tugged at his mouth.
Goldie managed a nod. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s… yeah.”
They headed toward the elevator, the old one, whose brass trim gleamed faintly, and its outer cage gave a little creak of anticipation as they approached.
Goldie thumbed the call button, nerves bunching tight in her belly, and when the elevator doors rattled open, she blurted, without any conscious thought: “Happy birthday to you…”
Her voice wobbled embarrassingly, but the elevator didn’t groan or jolt or rattle in protest.
It hummed, soft and indulgent, like a grandparent patting her on the head, humoring her inability to choose a better song.
They rode up in tense silence, the elevator gliding smoothly to the fourth floor. The doors slid open with a gentle chime, as if trying to be encouraging.
They stepped out, walked down the hall, their footsteps slow and synced. At 4C, Goldie hesitated, her hand hovering over the knob. She took a breath. Then, heart thudding, she opened the door.
It was her apartment—every glittering charm, every teetering stack of books, every half-finished craft project exactly where she’d left them—but also not. The space had changed in that subtle, uncanny way only Greymarket could manage: familiar bones, but newly grown.
The wall that once separated the living room from the kitchen had eased back several feet, creating a wider, brighter space.
Her beloved window seat in the kitchen, where she’d spent afternoons curled up with tea and tarot, was now longer, stretched to comfortably fit two people without elbows touching.
Sunlight poured through the glass, pooling over soft new cushions that hadn’t existed yesterday.
Her tiny reading nook in the living area had become a proper sitting room, complete with a second overstuffed armchair that matched nothing else she owned, but somehow fit perfectly.
The mismatched shelves had rearranged themselves into cleaner lines, leaving room for…
more. More books, more plants, more life.
Beyond the main space, a new door stood where the old wall had been. A gentle, welcoming door. The second bedroom. The hallway to her own bedroom curved slightly now, just enough to reveal the French doors at the end. Sunlight spilled through the glass panes, soft and golden.
And tucked between her bedroom and the new one sat a small greenhouse with glass walls, hanging planters, and a sliver of green that pulsed faintly with contentment.
Goldie swallowed hard. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh.”
Beside her, Splice stood motionless, eyes wide, drinking in every shift, every curve of space that had been shaped with deliberate intention. He didn’t speak. He barely breathed.
Before she could process it further, her two feline overlords made their presence known. Maeve and Oberon trotted out from the newly expanded bedroom, their tails held high like tiny, furry flagpoles.
Maeve let out a long, operatic murrrrrreow of dramatic betrayal, flopping onto her side with a thud and displaying her fluffy belly. Fine. He can stay. But he needs to know this is my kingdom, and breakfast is not negotiable.
Oberon, ever the more direct of the two, sauntered up to Splice with the swagger of a furry interrogator.
He gave a sharp, suspicious rrrmph? and sniffed the cuff of Splice’s trousers.
Satisfied, he then rubbed his face against Splice’s leg, purring like a smug little engine.
I will sleep on your face now, he announced.
Goldie stared at the scene, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her chest. “Well, I guess it’s decided.”
She looked at Splice, who was looking around the altered space with a stunned, unreadable expression.
Overwhelmed by everything—the police, the trust, Mycor’s slumber, and now, her sentient, self-renovating apartment—she closed the small distance between them and kissed him. It was a brief, firm press of her lips to his, a kiss that said, I don’t know what’s happening, but you’re here.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Goldie asked softly. She gestured vaguely toward the apartment, the cats, and the glittering chaos of her life. “With all of this? With… me?”
Splice looked at her, and she saw it all in his leaf-green eyes—the fear, the wonder, the staggering weight of being alive in a way he’d never been before.
“Before, everything was simple,” he said, his voice rough with newness. “There was only one voice. Mycor’s. Now there are so many. The city. The noise in my own head.”
He reached out and his thumb brushed her cheek, slow and grounding. “But when I’m with you, it all goes quiet. You’re the only voice that makes sense.” He leaned his forehead against hers, a quiet surrender. “You anchor me, Goldie.”
The words landed in her chest like light breaking through. She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, the desire between them no longer frantic or strange, but steady. Rooted.
“Goldie,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skin. “Are you sure?”
She smiled. “I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”
For a moment, they stood there, two survivors standing in the soft wreckage of everything that came before. Goldie reached up, her fingers threading through his hair.