The elevator dinged. Goldie flinched and darted inside the carriage.
As the doors rumbled shut, she burst into a nervous riff of “Fly Me to the Moon,” her voice shaky but on-key. Somewhere in the shaft, a bolt creaked a low, delighted bass note.
Goldie unlockedthe apartment door of 4C, which swung open with a soft creak and a sigh.
Her feline overlords, Maeve and Oberon, met her at the threshold like twin guardians of the underworld, come to weigh her heart against a feather and find her lacking.
Maeve, ginger-haired and unapologetically round, issued a long, drawn-outmurrrrrrrehof theatrical disappointment. She flopped dramatically onto her side and glowered.
Oberon, lithe and dark and with a permanent resting bitch face, emitted a sharprrrmph?and immediately began winding between Goldie’s ankles.
“Oh, you poor, maligned, mistreated, ignored creatures,” Goldie murmured, crouching down. She scratched Maeve behind one ear, eliciting a disdainful grumble,and let Oberon headbutt her square in the nose. He purred so hard that he hiccuped.
She’d adopted them shortly after her move to Bellwether almost four years ago. They were meant to be her familiars, but that had… not gone entirely to plan.
Maeve refused to do any magical labor on principle. When Goldie had tried to get her to participate in a moon rite, Maeve had hissed, turned around, and peed on the altar cloth that had cost Goldie more than a hundred dollars.
Oberon, meanwhile, would only lend hisspiritual influenceto workings he’d personally approved, and only if he could knock something off the offerings table first.
Still, familiars or not, they were hers, and she loved them fiercely.
Goldie kissed the top of Maeve’s head, then let Oberon climb halfway into her blouse.
“I know, I know,” she whispered. “Oberon, you are the sharpest claw and the softest menace in all the realm. Maeve, you are Queen of the Fae and Hairballs, long may you reign.”
Maeve flicked her tail with imperial disinterest. Oberon sneezed into Goldie’s face and bolted toward the kitchen.
Where Nell’s warmth had once clung to the corners of the apartment, Goldie’s presence now glowed, filling the space with intention and energy. The bones of the original floor plan remained, but the space had opened up around her. Walls had softened or vanished entirely, dissolving into flowing thresholds and archways.
The apartment had adapted to Maeve and Oberon as well, with small openings that appeared at random and went… someplace. Goldie never knew the destination, but the cats always returned looking smug, satisfied, and sleepy, so she, too, was content.
Goldie stepped out of her boots and padded into the kitchen to feed her fluffy tyrants. She pried the lid off a dented tin of sardine pâté and scooped it into a chipped, pentagram-shaped porcelain dish. Maeve glared until the last smear was scraped free. Oberon got a bowl of duck bits in gravy, and he chirped, delighted.
While her cats dined, Goldie brewed herself a mug of something sharp and floral. Then, she sighed and moved across the room, sinking into a velvet-lined window seat. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up and a small cascade of notifications spilled across it.
Two texts were inviting her to different pre-Beltane events: one a ritual drum circle by the river, the other a rooftop “manifestation rave” that promised cocktails and at least one shirtless fire dancer. Goldie thumbed them aside.
The next message was from her sister, wishing her a happy early Beltane and demanding to know where she’d found the sequin cauldron she’d posted on Instagram. The following was from her mother: a selfie with her latest boyfriend, both grinning in front of a vaguely haunted B&B somewhere along the Maine coast.
Goldie’s smile softened. She and her family weren’t what you’d call close, geographically or otherwise, but the love between them was stubborn, like ivy growing through brick. They all knew better than to try living in the same town—they’d end up on the six o’clock news—but scattered across states and time zones? It worked. Distance made the heart grow fonder, and the family group chatfarmore entertaining.
Before she could begin to reply, another notification pinged: a text from Ezra Caulder, handsome git-about-town, and Goldie’s on-again-off-again-what-the-hell-are-we-boyfriend she’d picked up when she’d first been introduced to Greymarket Towers.
Goldie stared at everything for a long moment. Then, with the same quiet precision she used to dress a candle altar or pick the right earrings for a breakup brunch, she moved through them: politely declining the river ritual and passing graciously on the manifestation rave (chakra fatigue,she typed, adding a sparkly emoji). She fired off warm, quick replies to her sister and mom—just enough to sayI see you, I love you, I’m still here.
She left Ezra’s message unread. She wasn’t in the mood for fire and ice tonight.
Goldie exhaled and let the back of her head thump lightly against the window frame. Her phone pinged once again. She glanced down at the screen and her shoulders dropped in relief as she saw the sender’s name.
Nell Townsend-Samora
Hey love! Sig’s heading to Ohio tomorrow to deal with a Doom that keeps trying to chew through timelines. I need to stay behind and be Anchor (ugh). Can you cover the front desk? Just morning shift. I owe you coffee.
Nell had grown into herself in a way that still made Goldie’s heart ache with pride. And Sig—well, Sig was a gem, even if he was a little apocalyptic around the edges. His comings and goings tended to follow eldritch logic and catastrophic weather patterns, but he was deeply in love with Nell and treated her like a goddess.
Goldie tried not to envy the ease between her friend and her mothman. Nell had earned her happiness tenfold. Still,sometimes Goldie caught herself wishing for something just as strange, solid, and true.
Shaking her head, Goldie tapped out a swift reply.Only if I get a chocolate croissant and you promise me a sleepover. Girly movies. No mothmen.
