The thought of relying on her still twisted something uncomfortable in his chest, but beneath it, something else stirred. Something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.
A faint breeze stirred the leaves around him, and for just a moment, he could have sworn he heard laughter on the wind. Bright and reckless and utterly unrepentant.
Chapter
Nine
The noon sun had melted Bellwether into a patchwork of soft shadows and glittering reflections. The sidewalks shimmered with heat wards that fizzled faintly underfoot, and every storefront seemed to be trying harder than the last to catch the eye: a bakery with sugar-sigil croissants spinning lazily in the window, a record shop with vinyl sleeves fluttering like prayer flags, even a tax office whose gargoyle mascot had donned sequined sunglasses for Beltane week.
Goldie and Nell threaded their way through it all, coffee cups in hand, looking like two women on a mission. Goldie’s phone vibrated again in her bag, and she groaned.
“Let me guess,” Nell said, taking a sip of her iced chai. “That’s the coven group chat.”
Goldie fished the phone out and glanced at the screen. “They’re debating fireproof tablecloths. Fireproof. As if we’re hosting a picnic in hell.”
Nell smirked. “It is Beltane. Fire is literally the point.”
“Yes, but Solstice is where the real fun is,” Goldie sighed. She wiggled her wrist so her new Herald bracelet caught the sunlight. “I’m ready to graduate from hawthorn bundlesand ribbon warding to real planning. Big, sexy, ceremonial planning.”
“Don’t let Clara St. James hear you call Solstice sexy,” Nell teased. “She’ll start crocheting lingerie for the altar again.”
Goldie snorted and nearly spilled her latte. “Please. The gods are still recovering from last year’s lace thong sachets.”
Her phone buzzed again. She rolled her eyes so hard her bangles clinked in sympathy. “Oh, my gods. Now they’re arguing about whether the bonfire needs one circle of salt or two. Lita says three. Rosemary says it doesn’t matter, because salt is passé.”
“You love it.” Nell said, nudging her in the side.
“I love fire and drama,” Goldie corrected. “This drama, though? Not so much. But since they’re all tearing their hair out over the bonfire, I offered to peek at old festival layouts in the archive. Salt circles, warding permits, that kind of thing.” She grinned. “Total busywork, but it gets Tamsin off my back and earns me coven brownie points. Why not make lunch break a field trip?”
“Research as a treat,” Nell said solemnly.
“Exactly. Plus, I get to use my fancy new bracelet! And maybe I can sweet-talk them into letting you in, too.”
“Whatever,” Nell said, squinting into the sun. “I’m just glad to be outside. Planning that senior-group thing for next week is making me want to stab someone. Maybe it’s Beltane. Everything’s just… messy.”
The closer they got to City Hall, the less it felt like a lunch break and more like marching toward a fault line. The building’s marble steps were jammed with bodies, banners, and voices raised in ragged unison. The tambourine player had been joined by a drummer on an overturned bucket.
Goldie and Nell edged toward the fringe, coffees clutched like talismans. A broad, horned, ox-like protestor climbed the topstep and bellowed through a bullhorn until the sound buzzed against Goldie’s teeth.
“The land’s been crying out for months!” he shouted, face red, eyes wild. “You can’t turn sacred ground into a balance sheet and wonder why the roots fight back!!”
The crowd roared back, a sound too big for one plaza.
“How long do we let them keep profiting from what belongs to all of us?” yelled a sharp-faced woman waving a hand-painted sign. “This isn’t theirs to sell!”
A ripple passed through the protestors as a line of uniformed officers appeared at the square’s edge, ward-badges flickering in time with the chanting.
One officer lifted a crystal mic, his voice magically amplified and clipped with official cadence. “Clear the steps. This assembly is unlawful. Any threats directed at councilmembers will be investigated to the fullest extent.”
“Threats?” Nell whispered, her voice pitched higher than usual.
Goldie’s phone buzzed. She yanked it out, half-expecting another text about fireproof bunting. Instead, the coven chat was lit up in frantic blue bubbles:
Clara St. James
Did you SEE the news feed??
Maureen Murphy
