“Okay then.” She stood, energy crackling through her exhaustion. “You’re brilliant and amazing. Let’s go to City Hall. I’ll have my meeting, and you can use your fancy legal standing to get a hold of records and be close by without raising suspicion. Between the two of us…” Her grin widened. “We’ll get it. We’ll figure this out.”
He exhaled, a small surrender in the sound. "You're very optimistic," he murmured with obvious fondness in his voice.
She winked. "That's me in a nutshell."
Her phone buzzed against the table. The calendar reminder again.
"Okay," she said, already moving toward her bedroom. "Let's get dressed. We've got bureaucracy to meddle in."
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 shehad 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 throughthe 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.
