Jem, her neighbor from 4A, wife to Hollis, thrower of legendary dinner parties, and current cockblock, stood on the threshold with a bottle of wine in one hand, a bag of cookies in the other, and a look of fierce determination on her small, dark, round face. Her shirt was patterned with crescent moons and cinnamon buns. Her tight curls bounced about her ears as she swept in like she owned the room.
“Oh my gods, you poor thing,” she cried, dropping everything on the nearest surface and flinging her arms around Goldie. “Are you okay? No, of course you’re not okay, you found a deadbody and—ugh, look at you, you’re all flushed and—oh, Goldie, sweetie?—”
She pulled back and cupped Goldie’s cheeks, staring up at her with wide, worried eyes. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
Goldie opened her mouth and, to her shame, hot, stinging tears started rolling down her cheeks.
Jem made a soft, horrified sound and pulled her close again. “Oh, baby, there, there, I’ve got you,” she cooed. “It’s going to be okay.”
Goldie collapsed into her. “It’s all awful,” she sobbed.
And it was—every word of it, true. The horror of Truckenham’s body, the shattering recoil from Splice. It all tangled together in one unbearable knot, and she let Jem mistake one kind of heartbreak for another.
Jem made a sympathetic humming noise, stroking her hair. “I know, babe, I know. Cookies. Wine. Me. You’re going to be okay. Oh! Hi, there! Are you one of Goldie’s friends?”
Goldie’s stomach dropped as she looked up from Jem’s shoulder. Splice had turned from the window. His hands were clasped behind his back like he didn’t trust himself to move. His gaze dropped quickly to the floor when Goldie looked at him.
Jem’s dark face brightened with a grin. “Oh my gods, I know you! You’re the Thornfather’s Assistant, right?”
Splice inclined his head with precise, mechanical grace. “Yes.”
Jem’s face lit up. She released Goldie, crossing the room swiftly and, without asking, without hesitating, without readinganyof the room, threw her arms around Splice in a full-body hug. “I don’t know why you’re here, butthank youfor being with Goldie so she wasn’t alone.”
Splice went rigid. His arms stayed locked behind his back, his eyes flaring with barely contained panic. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the carpet and die.
Goldie cleared her throat, trying not to choke. “Um… Splice—I mean, the Assistant—he was there with me when I found the b-b-b?—”
“Body,” Splice supplied, his voice only slightly strangled.
Goldie groaned softly and covered her face with both hands, hoping Jem would interpret the gesture as grief. Not… whatever the hells else it might be.
Jem winced and gave Splice’s shoulder a hearty pat. “Well, thank you. It makes me feel less guilty that Goldie had someone to keep her sane until I could get here.”
Without waiting for a response, she spun around and zeroed back in on Goldie. “Okay, babe. It’s okay. I’m here now. You just sit right there, and I’m going to get you a big-ass glass of wine.”
Flighty as a sparrow, she planted a kiss on Goldie’s hot cheek and vanished into the kitchen.
Goldie peeked through her fingers. Splice was still standing there, stiff and stricken, like some sort of chastised altar boy who’d just been hugged by the wrong parishioner. Their eyes met for half a second, and then his gaze dropped away. Heat and horror tangled in her stomach all over again.
Maeve appeared from under the couch, shot Goldie a look of withering feline disapproval, and stalked into the kitchen, tail high, chirruping in the hopeful cadence of someone who clearly expected emotional reparations in the form of fish.
Splice coughed. “Well,” he said stiffly. “Your friend is here.”
Goldie’s throat closed up. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to shake him. She wanted to demand to know what had gone so horrifically wrong. But her body was still buzzing, her heart was cracked, and there was a rapidly forming bruise on her pride.
You came on his vines, and now he’s acting like you murdered his god.
She swallowed hard. Her voice wobbled. “Um. Yes. Thanks for… I mean…”
Oh gods and goddesses, set me on fire.
He nodded once, sharply. Then turned and headed for the front door. Goldie folded her arms tightly across her chest, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.
Jem’s voice floated from the kitchen in cheerful singsong. “Do you still like that cherry wine from Ethel’s? Because I brought two bottles—one for crying, and one for rage!”
Goldie tried to focus on it. Tried to let the sound of her friend’s comforting chaos anchor her.
But all she could hear was the click of the front door opening and the final, irrevocable sound of it closing behind Splice.
