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The phrase—and the memory of a half-drunk Nell slurring it—landed like a cymbal crash in her skull. Unbidden, the image bloomed: Mr. Lyle in his cardigan, clipboard in hand, draped with hooks and humming cheerfully while making minute adjustments to his restraint harness.
A laugh tore out of her, sharp and wrong, and ricocheted off the hallway walls.
Mr. Lyle raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow, and the eldritch weight in his gaze lifted, softening into something that could almost pass for ordinary human amusement.
"Touché, Ms. Flynn," he said mildly, as if she hadn't just laughed in the face of something older than recorded history.
Then, he turned his attention to Splice. Without preamble or explanation, the apartment manager crossed the space between them and placed two fingers against the hollow of Splice's throat. Mr. Lyle closed his eyes, his breathing slowing to an almost meditative rhythm. For a long moment, the hallway was suspended in crystalline quiet. Then, almost imperceptibly, Greymarket itself began to respond.
The corridor lights dimmed as if the building were drawing power inward. The floorboards beneath their feet hummed. The very air grew thick and expectant, heavy with intention.
Splice shuddered once, deeply. The restless vines at his throat steadied their frantic twitching, settling into something closer to natural movement. His breathing, which had been shallow and erratic, found a steadier rhythm. The tight lines around his eyes began to ease.
Finally, Mr. Lyle withdrew his hand. He brushed his fingers against the front of his cardigan with the same care he might use to remove a speck of lint.
Splice straightened in his makeshift chair, though his movements remained careful, testing. One hand rose shakily to adjust his collar. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady, carrying genuine gratitude. "Thank you."
The apartment manager inclined his head. “Of course. I wish I could do more, but unfortunately that is all I am permitted to do within my limits, and the limits of the building itself.”
"Noted," Splice replied.
A faint crackle began to skitter through the corridor walls. Plaster seams stretched and shifted, while a single light bulbflickered with uncertain rhythm. The building released a long, low groan.
Goldie winced, shooting a wary glance at the restless walls around them. "Uh. Is that... structural damage? Because if this ends up itemized on my rent statement?—"
"I’ll take care of it," Splice interrupted.
Mr. Lyle's eyebrows lifted with sharp interest."Youwill take care of it? Not the Thornfather?"
Splice gave a short, jerky nod.
The apartment manager adjusted his glasses with precise fingers and began writing on his clipboard. "Something certainly stirred the day Ms. Flynn found our former tenant," he murmured, tone as casual as someone noting the weather in a logbook.
"Former tenant?" Goldie blurted.
“Oh, yes. Marlow Truckenham resided at Greymarket Towers for a brief tenure. Apartment 8J. Thirty-some years ago.” Mr. Lyle’s pen continued moving. “He never fully attuned to the building, however. Particularly not after his sudden trajectory.”
Splice stiffened, but Mr. Lyle went on as if reading a maintenance report. “And now the Assistant insists on assuming responsibility for repairs himself. That is new. That is… singular.”
The apartment manager tore a sheet from his clipboard with crisp precision and handed it to Splice. “We operate on a thirty-day net for such matters. But if you require additional time due to complications, the building is not without flexibility.”
Splice gave a short nod.
“Assistant. Ms. Flynn.” Mr. Lyle acknowledged them both with a nod, and then turned neatly on his heel and strode down the corridor.
Splice and Goldie stared down at the sheet of paper in his hand. The air between them was thick, weighted with the echo ofMycor’s touch, the shard of Splice’s devotion bled into the god, and the sharp edge of Mr. Lyle’s calm.
Goldie’s voice came out sharper than she meant, breaking the silence.
“Truckenham was a Greymarket resident?”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
The printers in the Greymarket Towers business center sighed and leaked ink the color of twilight. The computers hummed in a low, three-part harmony, and the Wi-Fi was only reliable if you offered the router a piece of gossip. It was a space that tolerated commerce, but did not always respect it.
