She made a small, wry face, a gesture so subtle it was almost invisible. “As of this morning, the three surviving founders are in magically-induced comas. They’re receiving the best care money can provide at Bellwether General, but doctors aren’t optimistic that they’ll ever wake.”
She tapped her stylus once against the desk, a soft, resigned click. “Because of this, they are, for all intents and purposes, no longer active parties in the trust.”
She hesitated, glancing between Goldie and Splice.
“Which means, by the binding terms of the original charter and Marlow Truckenham’s will, the Thornfather is now the sole remaining active partner. And you, Splice…” She looked directly at Splice, saying his name with pointed intention. “As his declared extension, that makes you the sole holder of the Green Holdings.”
Goldie drew in a sharp, silent breath, the sound swallowed by the sudden ringing in her ears. Beside her, Splice flinched, a violent, full-body recoil as if Oseki’s words had been a physical blow.
“I don’t want it,” he said.
“Be that as it may, that’s where it stands,” Detective Oseki said. “The city’s legal counsel is still trying to unravel the implications, but it’s a knot that won’t be untied overnight.”
She offered a small, almost sympathetic shrug. “Fortunately, that also means you have time to think. With the other original founders incapacitated, there’s no one to challenge the succession. The Holdings are in a state of legal stasis.”
The detective leaned back, her focus shifting slightly as she moved on to the next item on her mental list. “On that front, there is some good news. Forensics and our magical consultants have finished their preliminary sweep of the Grove Core. The area has stabilized significantly since the incident.”
She paused, then added, “Elijah Pell’s remains have been recovered. We also located a surviving relative. A second cousin in Schenectady, of all places. Both his bones and his brother’s body have been released to her for a private burial.”
Goldie and Splice both nodded, the motions small and slow.
Detective Oseki slid the tablet across the desk, along with a stylus. “Anyway,” she said, her tone shifting back to brisk efficiency, “that about covers the major points. The rest is just paperwork.”
She gestured to the tablet, which now displayed a series of standard release forms and non-disclosure agreements, their dense legal text glowing with a soft, bureaucratic light.
“Standard procedure when magical incidents intersect with civic property and multiple fatalities. This just confirms your testimony and formally closes our investigation into your involvement. We have nothing else for you.”
Goldie took the stylus, her hand feeling strangely steady as she scrawled her signature on the indicated lines. She passed it to Splice, who signed with a short, sharp flick of his wrist, as if trying to get rid of something distasteful.
Oseki took the tablet back, her expression softening for the first time into something that might have been sympathy. She looked from Splice’s rigid posture to Goldie’s exhausted face.
“That’s all. You’re free to go,” she said calmly.
They walked backto 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 bestapartment managerpersona: 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.”
