The air thickened and tasted of loam. Wheels sucked at the ground, leaving wet pockets that filled and closed behind them. Goldie tried humming something breezy and show-tune-y, but the sound died half-a-pace ahead, swallowed whole.
Goldie shivered.Probably destabilization weirdness,she told herself. The path curved again, and finally, she emerged, not to the familiar central clearing, but to a wall of hedge, dense as braided iron.
She halted.That’s new.The Core had layers, sure, but never a double lock. She laid her palm against the brambles and again breathed the key phrase:“By root and rind, by spark and spine, grant me passage through the green.”
The hedge quivered, every twig sharpening like quills.
“By root and rind,” she coaxed, pressing harder.“By spark and spine–”
A low groan slid through the thicket as the branches grudgingly parted, opening a slit just wide enough to squeeze through.
Goldie grunted, shoving her weight against the cart as she pushed it through the narrow gap. The leaves felt cool and waxy against her skin, the familiar scent of damp earth and chlorophyll filling the air.
A single, thorny vine, thicker than the others and possessing an almost serpentine grace, uncoiled from the hedge wall. Before she could react, its tip, sharp as a needle, dragged across her forearm.
A startlingly bright line of crimson welled up instantly, far too much for such a minor scratch. She hissed, clapping a hand to her arm, but the blood was shockingly warm and slick, already seeping between her fingers.
Several drops splattered onto the moss at her feet. She watched, horrified, as they vanished, absorbed into the verdant green in a heartbeat. On the vine, the glistening smear of her blood pulsed once, then was drawn into the dark, woody surface, leaving it clean. A faint, earthy scent, like crushed moss and thunderstorms, rose from the spot.
“What the hells?” she breathed, staring at the clean vine and the unstained moss.
The hedge gave a wet rustle in response. A low pulse, like a buried drum, rolled under her boots, syncing with the sudden, frantic rush of her own heartbeat.
It tasted me,she realized, the thought like a shard of ice in her gut.
Frantically, she dabbed at the scratch on her arm with her sleeve, the crimson staining the fabric.Definitely picking up hydrogen peroxide on the way home.
For all the blood, the stinging had already faded, and the initial shock was giving way to a stubborn, nettled resolve. Ofcoursethe Grove Core was acting up. Ofcourseit scratched her. Typical Beltane madness. She shook her head hard, as if to rattle the weirdness loose, and set her shoulder to the cart. It lurched forward with a squeal.
As she rounded the final bend, there it stood: the uncanny heap of wood that arrived for Beltane every year. No volunteer ever claimed it, no committee scheduled its construction. One dusk it just wasn’t there; the next dawn, it loomed in the clearing as though the forest had exhaled and the logs had landed in perfect, chaotic order.
This year’s pile felt taller than usual, a wild lattice of birch and hawthorn and old oak, its heart humming with a faint inner glow. Goldie always imagined it was the trees, recognizing their own bones and warming them from the inside.
She pushed her cart to the perimeter and let her breath fog into the hush. Time to dress the fire.
One by one, she lifted the charm bundles, and began placing them strategically among the logs. Fertility charms filled with citrine chips, wildflower petals, and fibers snipped from a toddler’s sweater. Protection wards, filled with black salt, rosemary, and orange cat hairs. Luck bundles, knotted tight with coins and scraps of old receipts; love charms, fragrant with dried apple peel and tied in red ribbon; healing sachets filled with bandages and willow bark.
Outside the dense hedge walls, the Beltane festival was a thoroughly modern civic celebration, rooted in old traditions but tamed for public consumption. But here, in the Grove Core, the old ways still held sway. The bundles of herbs and flowers tucked into the heart of the bonfire would hum as they burned, their ancient enchantments weaving through the crowd to bless every heartbeat, every skipped breath, every kiss stolen in the shadows of the ancient trees.
Goldie ducked beneath a drooping branch at the rear of the pyre, clutching the final packet, and stopped at the sight of someone laying on the grass.
“Sorry,” she chirped, instinctively polite. “Didn’t realize anyone was back here.”
No answer. The figure curled on its side, one arm tucked beneath the head, the other draped across the chest.
No one was supposed to be inside the Core this early. Warders and council reps were badged in only on festival day. Maybe the council had posted an overnight guard? With the destabilization and the whole Ashenvale sale thing, it would almost make sense.
Goldie set the charm beside the southern arc of the pile, then edged closer, unease winding tight in her gut.
“Hey,” she tried again. “You okay?”
Silence.
Goldie knelt. The head lolled forward, chin pressed almost to chest, as though in prayer. The hair was neatly combed, the jacket well-fitted, shoes shined, pants still sharply creased. Dressed in its finest, as if the individual had meant to attend a meeting and simply laid down.
“Sir?” Goldie’s fingertips curled around the figure’s shoulder, and she gave it the gentlest shake.
The body rolled onto its back.
