There were a few familiar faces clustered around the table. Nadia Fromme of the Bellwether Garden Society, mouth already turning down in disdain as she gesticulated at Dwayne Quist, owner of Quist’s Quality Landscaping. Carmen was standing against the far wall, cross-referencing a thick binder of city ordinances with a ridiculously long scroll of permits that was threatening to roll itself back up. Beck, of Beck’s Enchanted Audio, was halfway through pouring himself coffee and softlysinging a self-duet, accompanied by a low, lazy beat pulsing from his ever-present black hoodie.
And then, there were the council members. The heavyweights.
Councilwoman Priya Mishra sat poised in a crisp indigo sari jacket. Slightly plump, but in the kind of way that radiated confidence, Priya wore her figure like part of her authority. She’d pushed through half a dozen infrastructure ordinances in the past two years alone, and Bellwether had literally been rerouted under her watch.
Beside her, Councilwoman Alma Idris reclined with the kind of grace that came from knowing everyone in the room owed her a favor. She was all sharp angles: sharp gray eyes, sharp nose, sharp cheekbones, and a sharp tongue. A renowned restaurateur, she owned a constellation of cafés, wine bars, and bakeries that dotted Bellwether like chic little breadcrumbs.
Councilman Darren Swale commanded attention without trying. Tall and broad-shouldered, he sported a shock of white hair that looked as though he’d been lightly electrocuted. Somehow, the eccentric look only made him more formidable. He’d built his fortune in construction and wielded zoning regulations like a duelist’s sword. If anything in Bellwether was going up or coming down, Swale’s fingerprints were on it.
Goldie smoothed her cloaklet and sat a little straighter, her pulse ticking up.And here I am.The new Herald, cloak sparkling, bangles gleaming. Wait until they see what I can do.
Goldie glanced over at Carmen, who gave Goldie a quick, conspiratorial wink and a subtle wave as if to say:Here we go, witch.
Goldie offered a small, grateful smile in return. It was good to have an ally in a room buzzing with bureaucratic tension and simmering magical politics. She was just considering checkingher phone notifications when the door opened again and Jonah Pell walked in.
Her stomach did a delighted flip, the kind that made her toes curl inside her shoes. His sandy hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d run a hand through it on the walk over. His collared shirt was open at the throat, his khakis perfectly unremarkable, except that on him they were suddenly, inexplicably, very hot.
He scanned the room, then his gaze landed on her. “Goldie,” Jonah said, his voice a low caress. “Glad you survived the chaos at the entrance.”
She returned his greeting with a slow, sideways smile, the kind that promised both mischief and patience. She patted the empty chair beside her. “Saved you a seat. Close enough to hear the chanting, far enough to avoid being handed a tambourine.”
As he walked towards her, Goldie dipped into her bag and produced a small sachet with theatrical flourish. She slid it across the polished table with two fingers. “Here. As promised. One good-luck charm, hand-infused and only mildly questionable in the eyes of municipal code.”
Jonah took it reverently, rolling the pouch between his fingers as if weighing more than herbs and thread. “You remembered,” he said softly.
Goldie leaned in, just enough to catch his cedar-and-clean-linen scent. “I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful. You said there’d be drama. And there already is.”
His mouth curved, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “Gratitude looks very good on you.”
Heat flushed into her cheeks, and Goldie laughed brightly. Across the room, Carmen’s eyes flicked up from her binder, sharp and appraising. The smallest, slyest smirk tugged at her mouth before she turned back to her scroll.
Jonah settled into the chair beside her as Tamsin Donover wafted in, radiant in a forest green caftan. Her silver hair wasbraided into a crown, and a faint shimmer of citrus-and-clove perfume followed in her wake.
“All right, my fellow civic-minded compatriots,” Tamsin announced, clapping her hands. “Let’s make this look easy.”
A few chuckles rippled through the room as she made her way to the front.
“I’d like to introduce someone, though many of you likely know her already. This is Goldie Flynn, newly appointed Herald of the Solstice Flame.”
There were polite murmurs and nods.
“I’ve invited her to sit in today so she can get familiar with everyone and witness the exquisite chaos that always blooms right before Beltane. Consider it her welcome gift.”
More laughter this time. From the far side of the table, Alma Idris leaned toward Priya Mishra. Priya’s lips curved faintly, her cool, appraising gaze sliding over Goldie as though she were a particularly bold fashion choice at a funeral.
Goldie met their eyes head-on and smiled—bright, unruffled, determined to glitter. Underestimation was her favorite accessory.
“Thrilled to be here,” she said, lifting her hand in a small, regal wave. “I brought rhinestones and emotional resilience.”
That earned a few appreciative snorts before the room shifted gears. Tamsin tapped a slender wand against her clipboard and the overhead orbs brightened, casting the table in a glow that made everyone look a little more tired and a little more ready to fight.
“First item,” said Carmen, cracking her knuckles as she leaned forward. “Firewood for the Beltane pyre.”
“The Grove Core will provide,” said Nadia crisply. “It always does.”
Dwayne Quist frowned. “Yes, well, itusuallydoes, but given the recent fluctuations in that area, maybe we should confirm that the site is still cooperative.”
“Cooperative?” Nadia asked. “It’s land, not a civil servant.”
