“I beg to differ,” muttered Carmen. “It threw a tantrum last week. Popped a root knot straight through a vendor booth. Madame Clementine is still pulling splinters from her corset.”
“That’s unrelated,” Nadia snapped. “She brought an open flame near an unblessed root line. That violates horticultural ordinanceandcommon sense.”
“Tell that to her lumbar region,” Carmen shot back.
Goldie leaned sideways, voice low. “Is this on our bingo card?”
Jonah didn’t look up from his notes. “Square three. Right next tonobody agrees on ley line etiquetteandsomeone accuses the land of sentience.”
“You started without me?” The voice came from behind her, all smooth offense coated in charm and expectation.
The back of Goldie’s neck prickled with recognition: some combination of civic pressure and the faintest whiff of an expensive cologne that probably came with a Latin motto and a secret society.
Marlow Truckenham. Late fifties, maybe early sixties, but aged like the leather chairs in his private office: expensive, creased, and smug about it. His suit was bone-colored and bespoke, stitched with a golden-threaded pinstripe that caught the light like a warning. His shirt collar was unbuttoned just enough to suggest that rules were for other people, and his cufflinks were tiny lion heads, glaring with metallic arrogance.
Goldie had never met him in person, but she knew the stories. Everyone did.
Marlow Truckenham had risen from above his working-class roots more than thirty years ago, reinventing himselfas Bellwether’s civic darling. Through masterful “public-private partnerships,” he’d built a legacy of renewal while quietly amassing a fortune, effectively selling Bellwether back to itself one rezoned acre at a time.
And as head of the Green Holdings Land Trust, Truckenham wielded power like few others. The trust controlled zoning permissions and the ritual protections that governed the ancient Green Holdings and its sacred Grove Core.
For decades, he had reshaped that wild relic into a meticulously managed, ritually-approved multiuse zone. Not only had the Holdings hosted the city’s largest festivals and rites, but they had also lined the Land Trust’s pockets for decades—Truckenham’s most of all.
Around the table, chairs shifted and glances darted. Priya Mishra’s mouth tightened; Alma Idris tilted her sharp chin in cool acknowledgment; Darren Swale gave a rumbling laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. Even Tamsin’s smile went just a shade thinner.
Truckenham smiled indulgently like he was walking into a room full of interns. Scurrying behind him was a woman in a functional navy jacket, a stack of files clutched to her chest as if to ward off a blow. Her dirty-blond hair was pulled into a tight, severe bun, but stray strands had escaped, framing a pale, anxious face. A pair of thick-framed glasses kept sliding down her nose, and she kept shoving them back up with a nervous, jerky movement.
“Well,” Truckenham boomed, his voice rich with false bonhomie, “let’s see if we can bring this circus to heel.”
He dropped into a chair at the head of the table and gave a sharp, impatient snap of his fingers. “Karen.”
The woman following him flinched, just a small, startled twitch, but enough that the stack of papers she carried lurched in her arms. One thick folder landed with a slap in front of himbefore the rest scattered, fluttering to the floor like wounded birds. Her face flushed crimson as she scrambled to gather them, movements quick and jerky, as though she could fold herself invisible if she tried hard enough.
“You’re late, Marlow,” Tamsin said stiffly. “Most of us have somewhere else to be after this.”
Truckenham adjusted his lion-headed cufflinks with theatrical care, ignoring the scrambling woman at his feet. “My apologies,” he said, tone smooth and unapologetic. “I was meeting with Alderman Breyer, and our conversation ran long. It was imperative we touch base after my meeting with Ashenvale Ventures this morning.”
The name landed like a coin dropped in water, sending ripples across the room. Priya Mishra muttered something into her coffee, while Alma Idris and Darren Swale exchanged a heated glance. Across the table, Carmen rolled her eyes so hard Goldie half-expected a spell to spark from her lashes.
Tamsin clapped her hands once, the sound sharp as a ward snapping shut. “All right, everyone. Beltane is in less than a week, and I refuse to preside over a ritual bonfire that ends in litigation or summoning.”
The group shuffled and straightened. Clipboards lifted like shields. Pens hovered in defensive positions.
Nadia Fromme cleared her throat and launched into a brisk scolding about invasive ornamentals choking the vendor pathway, her voice sharp as pruning shears.
Goldie leaned toward Jonah, lowering her voice. “Who’s the little mouse trailing after Marlow Truckenham? She looks like she’s one overdue sigh away from keeling over. Worst job in the city, guaranteed.”
“That’s Karen Vesuvius, his deputy,” Jonah murmured back as the woman finally settled into a chair, clutching her neatly re-stacked papers like a lifeline. “Don’t buy the mousy routine.She’s got a spine of steel and slips through tight spots better than anyone I’ve seen. The timid act? All for Truckenham’s benefit.” His mouth curled. “The man likes people to bow and scrape. Shocking, I know.”
Goldie gasped dramatically. “Truly, you could knock me over with a feather.”
Across from Councilman Swale, Simone Mirth, Bellwether’s lead caterer, was scribbling on a scroll of faintly glowing parchment. Every time someone said something she disagreed with, the parchment pulsed an irritable shade of peach.
“We’ll need a dedicated food-enchantment perimeter this year,” she said coolly, not looking up. “After last year’s fermented corn pudding incident, I refuse to take chances.”
“It was transformed,” muttered Beck, of Beck’s Enchanted Audio. The hood of his sweatshirt vibrated faintly, punctuating his words with a syncopated bass line. “It developed sentienceandrhythm. I fail to see the problem.”
“Because it tried to mount the punch bowl, Beck,” Tamsin cut in flatly.
