Nell’s response came back almost instantly.Deal. Love you, mean it
Goldie set the phone aside, smiling. She leaned forward, lit the stub of beeswax nestled in her altar bowl, kissed her fingers, and pressed them to the wall. The building sighed again, this time softer and somewhat chiding.
“Gods, this is like spiritual Pilates,” Goldie groaned, tipping her head back. “But, fine. This is what we do.”
She grabbed her tarot deck and shuffled it with practiced grace. This wasn’t a formal spread; just something Goldie had cobbled together for herself in the quiet hours, when the kettle was cooling and the cats were sprawled on the floor like sentient throw rugs.
The first card,the Root, was the hidden thing. Sometimes it named her mood before she could, and sometimes it gave her nothing but static and shadows, which usually meant that nothing, or perhaps something, was on the horizon.
The second card,the Bloom,was what reached for the light, longing to unfurl. It might hint at a conversation that was on the verge of happening, a spell that was forming in the back of her mind, or just the general vibe of Bellwether trying to catch her attention.
Together, they helped her orient herself in the swirl of magic and mess that was daily life for Goldie Flynn. It worked better than journaling for settling her mind and getting her chakras aligned for the following day.
She shuffled slowly, eyes half-lidded, letting her fingers move by feel alone. The cards were worn at the edges, softened from years of use, and the deck knew her well enough not to fuss.
She drew the Root and laid it gently to her left.
The Moon, reversed.
Goldie tilted her head, regarding the familiar image: silver beams bent over a dark lake, twin towers looming on either side like sentinels. In reverse, the whole image felt tilted, uneasy. The illustration shimmered in the light, like secrets buried just under the surface were stirring, trying to claw their way to the surface.
Goldie inhaled, then pulled the Bloom card.
The Tower.
Lightning split the sky in violent gold, striking the crown from a stone tower as figures tumbled from its heights. A card of change, catastrophe, and clarity, if the viewer was brave enough to stand in the rubble and look around.
Goldie stared at the spread, brows raised. Her hand drifted to push a copper curl from her face.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Rude.”
From deep inside the walls, the radiator let out a low, hissing sigh, as if the building were clearing its throat in warning.
Chapter
Four
The next morning, Goldie found herself at the front desk of the Bellwether Center for Alternative Literacy, doing her best impression of a very responsible member of society.
Her official title, Head of Special Research & Magical Archives, usually kept her below ground and knee-deep in crumbling tomes, unindexed grimoires, and ‘zines from the 1980s.
But since Nell was holding down the fort, literally—being the Anchor meant staying put and steadying the thread that bound Sig to this plane so he could chase whatever Doom needed stopping—Goldie was taking one for the team.
Still, whether on the front desk, in her zone, or sweeping floors, Goldie loved this place.
She’d found the job entirely by accident, not long after moving to Bellwether in the smoldering aftermath of what she still referred to, without sarcasm, as the World’s Worst Breakup in the History of the World, Ever. She’d wandered in looking for somewhere quiet to cry that wasn’t a coffee shop or her car, andended up walking out with an application and a vague promise that someone namedSuzhanni Kephrawould be in touch.
The pay was decent. The company? Delightfully strange. And the books—oh, the books—were a revelation. The archives held everything from weather-warped almanacs to cryptid field guides to a first edition ofPractical Hexes for Passive-Aggressive Situations,which she’d once cited in a staff meeting just to see who would flinch.
The desk bell chimed with a sharp ping, and Goldie looked up from her book to find Carmen Renfroe from Parks and Paranatural Resources at the counter. She wore her high-visibility vest like she’d just wrestled a kelpie off a bike path and hadn’t had time to change. Mid-forties, plump, with blonde hair yanked into a no-nonsense ponytail, Carmen radiated the kind of brisk practicality that could mediate a boundary dispute between two rival oak spirits and still make it home in time to baste a roast.
Goldie had met her at a pop-up warding workshop the summer before and had liked her ever since. Carmen had the best gossip in Bellwether: sharp, funny, and laced with just enough scandal to make it delicious. She always seemed to know who was feuding, who was quietly dating, and which neighborhood hedge had started sprouting suspicious blossoms.
“Morning, Marigold,” Carmen said, dropping a neat stack of books on the counter with a decisive thud. “What are you doing up here in the land of flesh-and-blood people? Did you lose a bet? You’re normally communing with the dustier spirits.”
Goldie grinned. “Hi, Carmen! Well, I’m wearing my new shawl and I thought it would be wasted in the archives.” She flicked the edge, and it rippled with a shimmer of glamour, scattering tiny sparks like champagne bubbles. “Besides, I’ve been told this is the prime spot for catching gossip—and lo and behold, the city’s most reliable source has arrived.”
She leaned across the counter, chin propped on her hand. “So, what’s the word? Who’s feuding, who’s canoodling, who got caught in the wrong bed with the wrong familiar?”
