“Green be slow,” he whispered. “Green be deep. Green be still.”
He did not understand what had seized him below, the jagged rush in his heartwood, the too-quick breath. But here, among his siblings, among those who grew without question or shame, he felt it ease, unknotted, until only stillness remained.
The soft sound of footsteps drew his attention.
A neat figure in a dove-grey cardigan and sharply creased slacks stood at the end of the garden path, a clipboard tucked under one arm, glasses perched halfway down his nose. His shoes gleamed. His hair was combed. Every inch of him radiated mild-mannered bureaucratic competency.
Splice knew that cardigan. Knew the glasses. It was the outfit the being sometimes wore when he wanted to be perceived as “helpful” in a tenant-facing sort of way. But nothing could hide the way shadows bent subtly around his outline.
“Mr. Lyle,” Splice said in a low voice. “You’re looking… human.”
The apartment manager inclined his head in a mild, almost courtly gesture. “Greetings, Assistant. Yes, this form was necessary. A viewing was scheduled for Mr. Samora’s old apartment on Floor 14.”
He moved to sit beside Splice, placing the clipboard neatly between them on the bench. “The building still has not decided. There is a discomfort in the foundation. This is highly irregular.”
“The building does not often take this long to find a new tenant,” Splice said, watching the light shift across the garden path.
“No,” Mr. Lyle agreed. “It has been unusually long.”
He turned to look at Splice, and just for a moment, Splice saw through the mildness to the eldritch entity below.
“As long as our newest resident has resided in our building,” the apartment manager said, glasses glinting. “And as long as your god has been awake, coincidentally.”
The building shifted, and a subtle creak ran through the bench beneath them, echoed by a faint shiver in the bricks.
The sensation bloomed in Splice’s chest again, hot and wild. “I…” The word caught, sharp and unfinished, in his throat.
“Some things are best spoken aloud,” Mr. Lyle observed calmly. “It gives them weight.”
Splice swallowed, closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose. The growing sensation whined in complaint and curled up, receding to the deep soil of his mind.
“I do not know what to do,” he finally said.
Mr. Lyle’s hum was low and metallic, a sound like wind through hollow pipes. The bricks at their feet hissed faintly in response.
“Beltane approaches,” the apartment manager said. “Things always shift as the threshold draws near. But this time… it feels different. The roots themselves quiver, as though something is rotting beneath the soil. Orell has been weaving in circles. Thess reported a swarm of keys outside their door, none of which fit any lock. And your god does not slumber.”
He looked at Splice, and his eyes flashed silver. As Splice watched, the pupils spread across the sclera until the apartment manager’s gaze was black as obsidian.
“The building has begun to whisper of our newest resident,” he added, voice mild. “It murmurs she may reach where others cannot. She can step into stacks even your god’s roots cannot touch.”
Splice’s mouth tightened. He looked away, toward the wall of glowing moss and humming vines. “Yes. I have… noticed her.”
“It may be worthwhile to speak with her,” Mr. Lyle said softly. He rose, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves of his cardigan and cocked his head slightly.
“I do not know why Greymarket watches Marigold Flynn so closely. But I do know this: the building chose her. It could have filled 4C with any tenant, but it waited. Watched. Until she pressed her palm to the wall and whispered that she wished to be truly seen. Greymarket heard that wish, Assistant. And it answered.”
He turned to go, his footsteps soft against the mossy stone. At the threshold of the courtyard, he added, “Perhaps the answer you seek lies there.”
Splice said nothing as Mr. Lyle disappeared into the green-shadowed corridor.
He remained on the bench as the garden settled back into its rhythm, but his mind was anything but still.
She can step into stacks even your god's roots cannot touch.
What did that mean? What secrets was Goldie Flynn meant to unearth? And why did the building watch her so closely, rearranging itself around her presence like a flower turning toward the sun?
Splice stood, decision crystallizing like frost on leaves. He would swallow his discomfort of her glittering chaos. He would ask her for help. Not yet. But soon.
