She turned to him, already floundering. “Not that I’m saying you have to—obviously you can stay with me for as long as you want, I just didn’t want to assume anything, because you’re newly… un-god-tethered, and that’s alot, and maybe you need space, and I don’t want to pressure you, and?—”
She cut herself off, heart pounding. What she wanted to say was:Please stay. Please stay with me.But she couldn’t force that on him. He was just beginning to find out who he was, and he didn’t need to be tied to someone else the second he stepped into himself. Even if, gods help her, she wanted to tie herself to him.
Mr. Lyle gave her a soft, inscrutable smile. “I don’t believe that will be necessary,” he said, and pulled a neatly folded document from his clipboard. With exaggerated care, he offered it to Goldie.
She took it slowly. “What is this?”
“The updated architectural plan for your apartment,” Mr. Lyle said, still smiling. “As you’ll see, the second bedroom andadjoining bath are now complete. There is also a new sitting room, a modest greenhouse with exceptional sunlight exposure, and a rather elegant balcony accessible via French doors.” He paused slightly. “The building was insistent about the balcony, although it would not specify why.”
Goldie blinked. “A greenhouse?”
Mr. Lyle inclined his head. “A small one. It was deemed appropriate.”
Splice made a soft, startled sound.
Mr. Lyle tucked the clipboard under his arm. “I trust this arrangement is acceptable?”
Goldie looked at Splice. He was frozen, eyes wide, his entire body gone very still in that way she now recognized asSplice being emotionally overloaded but refusing to short-circuit in public.His expression was nearly blank, except for the flicker of something raw and bright beneath it.
“That is settled, then.” Mr. Lyle nodded, serene as ever. “Truly, the building and I are very pleased with how things have worked out. We look forward to what comes next.”
With an eerie, perfectly calibrated grace, he turned and strode toward the mail alcove, the polished heels of his loafers clicking in unwavering rhythm across the marble. Silence settled behind him.
Goldie and Splice looked at each other.
Both opened their mouths.
“Splice, I don’t want you to?—”
“Goldie, I don’t mean?—”
They cut off in unison, stared, then dropped their gazes to the schematic in her hands. Then back to each other. Then to the schematic again, like it might explain literally any part of this.
Splice cleared his throat. “Let’s go see,” he said softly. A weak, hopeful smile tugged at his mouth.
Goldie managed a nod. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s… yeah.”
They headed toward the elevator, the old one, whose brass trim gleamed faintly, and its outer cage gave a little creak of anticipation as they approached. Goldie thumbed the call button, nerves bunching tight in her belly, and when the elevator doors rattled open, she blurted, without any conscious thought: “Happy birthday to you…”
Her voice wobbled embarrassingly, but the elevator didn’t groan or jolt or rattle in protest.
It hummed, soft and indulgent, like a grandparent patting her on the head, humoring her inability to choose a better song.
They rode up in tense silence, the elevator gliding smoothly to the fourth floor. The doors slid open with a gentle chime, as if trying to be encouraging.
They stepped out, walked down the hall, their footsteps slow and synced. At 4C, Goldie hesitated, her hand hovering over the knob. She took a breath. Then, heart thudding, she opened the door.
It was her apartment—every glittering charm, every teetering stack of books, every half-finished craft project exactly where she’d left them—but also not. The space had changed in that subtle, uncanny way only Greymarket could manage: familiar bones, but newly grown.
The wall that once separated the living room from the kitchen had eased back several feet, creating a wider, brighter space. Her beloved window seat in the kitchen, where she’d spent afternoons curled up with tea and tarot, was now longer, stretched to comfortably fit two people without elbows touching. Sunlight poured through the glass, pooling over soft new cushions that hadn’t existed yesterday.
Her tiny reading nook in the living area had become a proper sitting room, complete with a second overstuffed armchair that matched nothing else she owned, but somehow fit perfectly. The mismatched shelves had rearranged themselves into cleanerlines, leaving room for… more. More books, more plants, more life.
Beyond the main space, a new door stood where the old wall had been. A gentle, welcoming door. The second bedroom. The hallway to her own bedroom curved slightly now, just enough to reveal the French doors at the end. Sunlight spilled through the glass panes, soft and golden.
And tucked between her bedroom and the new one sat a small greenhouse with glass walls, hanging planters, and a sliver of green that pulsed faintly with contentment.
Goldie swallowed hard. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh.”
