“Surely it won’t come to that,” Councilwoman Idris called from the far side of the room. She huffed, crossing her arms. “If we cancel both Beltane and Solstice, we may as well prepare for a riot.”
“For gods’ sake, Alma,” snapped Beck, of Beck’s Enchanted Audio. “A man was murdered. Do youhearyourself?”
Idris’s chin lifted, unrepentant. “I hear the sound of thousands of constituents whose livelihoods depend on those festivals. If you’d prefer they riot in the streets, be my guest.”
Priya Mishra leaned forward. “Yes, Truckenham was murdered, but that’s no reason for everything to screech to a halt. We cannot let our beloved festivals fall to the wayside.”
“Beloved festivals?” Beck muttered, his black hoodie pulsing faintly with light in a frazzled, staccato rhythm. “That’s rich. Let’s not pretend this is about tradition—it’s about the Land Trust losing their holiday windfall.”
The room fractured into layered murmurs: outrage, calculation, veiled accusations. The air itself seemed to buzz, half fury, half opportunism.
Goldie’s gaze flicked to Tamsin. For the first time since she’d known her, her coven leader looked genuinely unsettled. She sharply clapped her hands, cutting through the noise that had started to build.
“Let’s stay focused,” she said, her voice brittle. “Our task is salvaging what we can. With any luck, we can combine Beltane with Solstice and position it as a community-healing double celebration.” She offered a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Think: midsummer fusion event. Maybe even branding.”
The meeting lurched into brainstorm-and-disaster-mitigation mode, but Goldie could barely follow. She just kept her head down, gripping her pen, and prayed no one could hear the frantic, hungry drumbeat of her own pulse.
“Can we reuse the ribbon charms?” Carmen Renfroe asked.
“Only the ones that haven’t absorbed any grief resonance,” Simone Mirth replied, not looking up from her scroll. “So… maybe three.”
“We’ve still got half a crate of those lemon poppyseed muffins in stasis,” Beck offered. “They technically don’t expire until mid-June.”
“We can probably re-charm the maypole, though I’ll need the binding cord cleared,” muttered Nadia from the Garden Society. “Last I checked, it had picked up something that reads as resentment-adjacent.”
Goldie sipped her lukewarm tea, letting her pen scratch steadily across the page. A low muttering across the table made her look up. Councilwoman Priya Mishra was leaning close to Councilman Darren Swale. “…should’ve defaulted to the rest of us,” she muttered. “That’s how we set it up. He agreed. No heirs, no holdup.”
“Exactly,” Swale whispered back, his tone thin and reedy. “It’s cut and dry. So why the hell are we being called into a closed-door meeting on Friday if it’s just procedural?”
Goldie set her tea down with practiced slowness, leaning forward just enough to appear absorbed in the broader, louder chatter across the table. She nudged Jonah’s elbow, ignoring the sizzle of lust that it sent ratcheting down her spine. When he glanced over, she flicked her eyes meaningfully toward Priya and Swale. He followed her gaze, his own brow furrowing as he caught the tail end of their furtive exchange.
“You’re sure the will didn’t change?” Priya pressed, her voice sharp with suspicion.
“I’m sure of nothing,” Swale hissed. “Not anymore.”
A moment later, Priya’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as if she’d felt the shift of their attention. Goldie looked away just in time, suddenly fascinated by the notes she was supposed to be taking. Her heart thudded once, high and hot in her throat.
“We cannot hang flame-warded banners next to reflective sigilcloth,” Simone snapped, her voice ringing with the trauma of past failures. “Not after what happened during the Equinox Equine Incident.”
“That was one horse,” Dwayne Quist protested wearily.
“It was three horses and a peacock!” Simone shot back. “The town barely recovered.”
“All right, all right,” Tamsin snapped. “Let’s table the banner discussions until we’ve all had a snack and a nap.”
A few people chuckled, the tension breaking slightly. Tamsin surveyed the room, her expression a careful mask of weary leadership. “Unless anyone has additional business, I suggest we adjourn. I know this is frustrating, but please remember, we’re navigating grief, civic tension, and magical ethics all at once. Be kind to one another.”
Councilmembers Priya and Swale rose together, their heads bent close as they swept toward the door, whispers darting like minnows between them. Others filed out more slowly. Carmen lingered just long enough to squeeze Goldie’s shoulder, murmuring something soft, before hurrying after the rest.
Jonah rose, slow and unhurried, sliding his notebook into his messenger bag. He offered Goldie a small, genuine smile, the kind that made her want to both relax and climb him like a tree.
“Glad to see you’re holding up,” he said gently. “I know what you walked into yesterday… that’s not easy. Trauma isn’t something you should keep bottled up. If you ever need a friendly ear, I’m no therapist, but I have been told I’m a good listener.” He hesitated, then added, “Would you like to grab a coffee with me sometime? Just to talk it out.”
Goldie’s body responded instantly.Yes, coffee. Coffee in bed. Coffee on top of a desk. Coffee with your shirt off and your belt somewhere on the floor.
“That would be… lovely,” she managed, her tone just this side of strangled. “How about tomorrow? I’ll probably still have a good cry left in me by then.”
His smile warmed, spreading slow and easy. “Four o’clock? Brimstone and Butter? I’ll text to confirm.”
