Thirty-Five
Back at Greymarket Towers, on the floor of the secluded quiet of the atrium, Goldie spread out the folders and clippings Splice had lifted. Soft light filtered through stained glass, painting muted colors across the worn stone floor. Serenity surrounded her, but the storm in her head refused to quiet.
The Thornfather rested beside her, not sleeping and visibly uncomfortable. Roots twitched along the flagstones, restless. His massive head tilted with an unease that made the air thick with hurt.
After their dramatic exit from City Hall, Goldie had rifled through what Splice had grabbed. It was golden: Ashenvale contracts with frantic marginalia, Land Trust charters with names circled in red, even a provisional copy of Marlow Truckenham’s will.
She’d been ready to burst into song, or at least another screaming match, until she realized Splice was on the edge of falling apart in a nervous breakdown. Instead, she’d kissed his cheek and told him to rest.
Now he sat folded into one of the leafy corners of the atrium, half-shadowed among the climbing ferns. From where she worked, she could just glimpse him, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, the greenery curling toward him as if in comfort.
Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since arriving home.
MarlaGardner
OMG GOLDIE U ICON. “Kiss a cryptid” is TRENDING. Also I don’t want to talk about why but vines sound… appealing?
Nell Townsend-Samora
Are you TRYING to get arrested?? Call me if you need bail. Also, BOYFRIEND????
Mom
MARIGOLD HECTAE FLYNN. Your sister sent me a video of you raising hell. Who is this cryptid boyfriend, and when are we going to meet him?
Ezra Caulder
I saw your little shouting match, sunshine. You’re terrifying. It’s hot. Your cryptid’s a lucky guy.
The Thornfather shifted, a low, unsettling creak echoing through the Atrium. Goldie glanced up again.
“You okay, big guy?” she asked softly.
The god’s eyes slowly found hers. A sigh rumbled through him like wind through hollow wood.
“Hurts,” he said at last, the single word drawn out like it had been pulled from deep in his chest.
“I know, Mycor,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
A flicker of something passed through his gaze, but his mouth curved into the barest suggestion of a smile.
Goldie went back to work, poring over yellowed clippings that traced Marlow Truckenham’s steady rise from obscure civic clerk to powerbroker in under a decade. The coverage wasn’t flashy, but the through line was unmistakable. Every article was somehow tied to zoning maneuvers, shell companies, and the slow commercial chokehold on the Green Holdings.
She shifted a stack of memos, and something caught her eye: a folder tucked inside another, almost deliberately hidden. Its label had long since faded, and the paper was brittle at the edges. When she tugged it free, a smaller slip of parchment slid loose and fluttered to the floor.
Goldie bent and scooped it up. The handwriting was archaic, looping in ink that had bled nearly to illegibility
The Charter Custodians of the Green Holdings:
Marlow Truckenham
Priya Mishra
Alma Idris
Darren Swale
James Reed
