But beneath that memory, something quieter flickered. A warmth that wasn’t desire so much as presence. The Thornfather? The Grove Core? Splice himself? She couldn’t quite name it. Whatever it was, it soothed her, though beneath that comfort lurked a faint, sour tang she couldn’t ignore.
She sighed, tilting her head against the window. She saw the sacrificed boy’s face, contorted in the vision’s strange light. There was something about his expression, a flicker of… not just fear, but recognition. It felt familiar, like a half-remembereddream, and the inability to place it was an itch she couldn’t scratch.
Frustrated, she reached for a tarot deck. The cards wouldn't tell her the future, not really, but their archetypal language helped her think. She needed to lay it all out, to see the shape of the story so far.
She shuffled and laid the cards out in a neat row on the low table before her. A story stared back at her, sharp in its outlines but blurred where it mattered most. Goldie let out a sharp breath, irritation prickling under her skin. The path was there, ink and card stock spelling out patterns, but the final pieces still hovered just out of reach.
The soft click of the bedroom door pulled Goldie from her spiraling thoughts. Splice stood framed in the doorway, one hand raking through his vine-dark hair, loose pajama pants slung low on his hips. The simple cotton shirt he wore did absolutely nothing to hide the strong line of his shoulders or the way his chest stretched the fabric when he breathed.
Something warm and wicked fluttered in Goldie’s stomach before she managed a small, hesitant smile. “Morning.”
Splice gave a slow nod in return, his gaze taking in the apartment, her cats, the cards on the table, before finally settling on her. There was a beat of silence, the quiet of two people trying to remember the shape of the space between them.
He moved into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water from the tap with a languid grace that seemed at odds with the slight stiffness in his posture.
"How is he?" Goldie asked, her voice quiet. The question felt safer thanHow are we?
Splice paused, his back to her. He rested a hand on the edge of the counter as he took a sip of water. For a heartbeat, the air grew still, Greymarket’s ambient hum seeming to quiet in deference.
"Quiet," Splice said, his voice a low thrum. "Resting." He turned to face her, his green eyes clear and focused. "He feels the wound of the sacrifice more acutely now that we’ve seen its origin."
"Good," she breathed, a knot of tension loosening in her chest. Then, catching his meaning, she amended, "I mean, it's good that he's resting. Not that he's wounded."
A ghost of a smile touched Splice’s lips. He turned towards her, his gaze dropping to the tarot cards on the table. "Looking for answers?"
"Looking for a place to start," she admitted.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stepped over to the window seat, close enough that she could feel the soft warmth of him. He lifted a hand, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face before letting his palm settle against her cheek. She leaned into the touch without thinking.
Then he bent and captured her lips in a slow, deep kiss that was both a reassurance and a renewal of the promise from the night before.
The kiss left Goldie warm and steadied, but the quiet that followed felt like stepping onto an unfamiliar stage without a script. She pushed abruptly to her feet, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her pajama pants, and made a beeline to the kitchen cabinets. She pulled one open, then another, not really looking for anything so much as generating activity.
“Right. So,” she said brightly, far too brightly. “Coffee? Tea? Do you… need dirt or something? A spritz of fertilizer?”
Behind her, she heard a soft huff of amusement.
“Goldie,” Splice said, and when she glanced over her shoulder, he was rubbing a hand over his face. “Must you insist on treating me like a houseplant?”
“Oh yeah?” She leaned back against the counter, arms folding in a familiar defensive-flirt gesture. “So what’s on the menu for you, then? What do you eat?”
There was a distinct pause. Splice drifted after her without seeming to decide to, the way vines lean toward warmth. When he reached the counter, he rested his fingertips lightly beside the glass he’d left there earlier, eyes fixed on her as he appeared to give the question genuine consideration.
“Sunlight,” he said at last, tone utterly matter-of-fact.
Goldie slapped a hand on the counter with a triumphant thud. “Yes! Iknewit!”
“I’m still not a plant,” he said, in the tone of someone who had clearly lost this argument before it even started.
Goldie waved off his protest with a breezy flick of her hand. “Of course not,” she said, eyes bright with mischief. She reached a hand toward him, fingers wiggling in acome-ongesture. “Let’s get my sweet, sexy, non-carnivorous Audrey II some chlorophyll.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m assuming you’re mocking me,” he said, tone dry as he placed his hand in hers without hesitation.
“Only a little,” she said, tugging him gently as she guided him back onto the window seat. Morning sun poured across the velvet cushions in a brilliant gold sweep, and he sank into it with a quiet exhale. As the light hit him, the dark strands of his hair took on a richer sheen. He closed his eyes, a low, almost inaudible sound slipping from him.
The peaceful, sun-drenched calm shattered with the aggressive buzz of Goldie’s phone. She scooped it up. It wasn't a call or a text. It was a calendar reminder, stark and impersonal in the morning light.
SOLSTICE PLANNING COMMITTEE - 12:00 PM - City Hall
