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.
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
Goldie sailed through the grand, wrought-iron doors of Greymarket Towers. The building itself seemed to share her elation. The usual dim, moody lighting in the lobby had warmed to a soft, golden glow, and the ivy that snaked along the walls rustled in a pleased, welcoming way.
She bypassed the newer, sleeker elevator for the old, cantankerous one with the scuffed brass doors and arthritic groan. As the doors rumbled shut, she slipped into a low, smoky rendition of “Boogie Shoes.”
Tonight, the elevator was particularly appreciative. Its groans and creaks harmonized into a bass line that thrummed through the floor and up her legs. The lights flickered in rhythm with her voice, casting playful shadows that made the cab feel alive, conspiratorial. By the time it chimed at the fourth floor, Goldie felt as though she’d just finished a duet with the building itself.
She practically skipped down the hallway, heart soaring, so caught up in her joyous momentum that she didn’t see him until she nearly collided with him.
