Jonah leaned closer, his shoulder brushing Goldie’s. “This is what civic magic looks like.”
Goldie grinned, eyes sparkling. “You weren’t kidding about the glory.”
Truckenham cleared his throat, and the room’s scattered conversations faltered to silence.
“As head of the Green Holdings Land Trust,” he began, folding his hands like a man delivering bad news he secretly enjoyed, “I must report that our latest spatial review raises serious concerns. This year’s Beltane celebration risks further destabilizing the Grove Core. And with Ashenvale Ventures’ acquisition nearing its final stage, appearances matter.”
His gaze swept the table, smug as a cat with cream. “Ashenvale knows about the destabilization, of course, andthey’ve planned for it. But they’re not just buying land; they’re buyingopportunity. If Beltane limps along under half-stable wards, it undermines everything. Relocating to a site better suited for spectacle ensures safetyandshows Ashenvale what Bellwether does best.”
A few heads turned. Simone’s enchanted parchment flared a bright, agitated coral.
“We don’t really have another option,” she said, voice taut, the parchment twitching beneath her hand. “Vendor count is up thirty percent this year, Marlow. The layout’s been finalized for months?—”
“—months ago,” Truckenham cut in smoothly, “the destabilization wasn’t this severe. For the sake of a smooth transaction, the bonfire must be relocated.”
“And where would you suggest?” Tamsin asked, her voice pure, weaponized sugar.
Truckenham’s smile was that of a predator invited to guard the henhouse. “As it happens, I do have a solution. The Greenhaus Collective—my new community vitality space on the Holdings border—offers a festival lawn that would be ideal. It’s usually reserved for private events, but given the circumstances, I’d be willing to open it.”
“For a fee, of course,” Darren Swale sneered.
“Naturally,” Truckenham said, smooth as cream. “And it would be an excellent chance to showcase some of my other ventures. The Greenhaus juice kiosk, and perhaps a few of my artisanal food partners. Think of it as a synergistic branding opportunity. Very community-minded.”
“Marlow,” Simone snapped, her parchment blazing a violent fuchsia, “that would gut the vendor village. It diverts all foot traffic from the artisans who depend on this festival.”
Beside Goldie, Jonah had gone still, his pen scratching slow circles in the margin of his notebook. Goldie, curiosity pricking,laid her hand lightly on his wrist. His eyes flicked up and softened.
Truckenham spread his hands, dripping false humility. “If you’d read the reports, you’d see I’m offering an elegant solution. Preserve the Grove Core’s integrity and ensure the Ashenvale sale closes without a hitch. Everyone wins.”
“An elegant solution that just so happens to funnel money into your newest pet project,” Beck muttered darkly, his hoodie’s bass lines thudding in time with his scorn.
Councilman Swale slammed his hand on the table, the crack of palm against wood making Goldie jump. “Gods, Marlow, the contracts were signed months ago! You can’t seriously be telling me Ashenvale would consider backing out now?”
Truckenham smiled thinly. “I had some last-minute amendments to propose.”
“You’rekiddingme, Marlow,” snapped Councilwoman Mishra, color rising in her cheeks. “We had this all buttoned up, and you’re still making changes at the eleventh hour?”
“Honestly, Priya?” Marlow purred. “I’m simply ensuring the entire Trust gets the best deal possible. I would think you’d be grateful.”
Her coffee cup hit the table with a dangerous thunk. “If you truly cared about the Trust, you’d have negotiated a higher percentage of the back-end profits forall of us, not just padding your own lump-sum payout!”
The room ignited. Voices layered and tangled into a cacophony of objections, logistical nightmares, and accusations of greed. Beck’s hoodie pulsed hard enough to rattle the water glasses. Swale was turning a dangerous shade of purple that clashed horribly with his tweed jacket. Priya Mishra looked one incantation away from hexing Marlow’s obscenely expensive tie.
Goldie, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair and let her face settle into an expression of serene, scholarly interest. This wasbetter than theater. She was already composing mental notes to recount to Nell later, complete with impersonations.
Just when it looked like Simone Mirth might actually lunge across the table, Tamsin clapped her hands once. “Enough! The Land Trust can have its little civil war on its own time. Beltane is in a week, and I will not have it jeopardized by this bickering. We are voting. Now.”
A heavy, resentful silence fell. Truckenham and Councilwoman Mishra kept glaring daggers across the table, but the fight had drained out of the room, replaced by the simmering tension of a battle postponed.
With much sighing, side-eye, and magical pressure thick enough to cut with a butter knife, the committee lurched toward actual order. Roll-call sigils flared in the air, glowing names tallying like a celestial scoreboard. Arguments collapsed into muttered grumbles and half-hearted objections.
In the end, it was decided that a temporary magical barrier would reinforce the Grove Core, pending further inspection. The bonfire would remain in its traditional location—for now. A note was added that the Greenhaus Collective would serve as a “viable alternative site” should further instability arise.
At the head of the table, Marlow rose, tugging his jacket into place with the smug air of a man convinced he’d salvaged a sinking ship. “Glad we could be productive,” he said, oozing false civility. “Looking forward to a safe, successful Beltane.”
He strode toward the doors without a backward glance. Karen Vesuvius scrambled after him, clutching her disheveled stack of documents, glasses sliding down her nose. She scurried to keep pace, a frantic shadow in his wake.
Chairs scraped, sigils dimmed, and someone muttered a spell that sounded suspiciously like a curse. The meeting was, mercifully, over.
