Goldie sniffed and delicately wiped her nose. “Thanks, Sig.”
He made a comforting sound—probably something likeof coursein moth-speak—and gently guided her toward a seat. The chair looked like it had once belonged in a Gothic reading nook, all velvet and brass scrollwork, but a crochet throw depicting a constellation map had been draped across the back to soften the vibe.
“Remain,” Sig said firmly as he rustled towards the kitchen with a purposeful swish of wings.
Goldie sniffed again and looked around. The apartment was, as always, disorientingly serene. Bookshelves stretched up the far wall. Some were crammed with vintage occult volumes,and others were sparsely filled with curated objects: a nest of thimbles, an antique tarot deck in a locked glass box, a moth sculpture made of scrap metal and beads.
Gods and goddesses, she needed to get a grip. She pressed her palms to her knees.
“I am grounded, I am safe, I am not going to lose it on my best friend’s nice vintage chair,” she muttered under her breath, half-mantra, half-threat.
But the images from the police station flashed through her mind. That awful, uncanny footage. Her own body, drifting barefoot through the Grove Core. Eyes open, but not seeing. Hands brushing branches that leaned toward her. A slow, dreadful smile blooming on her lips, like something elsewas wearing her face.
Footsteps approached, soft and deliberate. Goldie straightened as Sig reappeared, carrying an enormous, goblet-adjacent glass that was filled nearly to the brim with pale gold liquid.
“We have no cake,” he announced solemnly, “but we do have the wine that lives in a box that you consume in volumes inadvisable to humans. I determined it would serve better than tea.”
Goldie gave him a limp glare with no real heat behind it. “Hey,” she mumbled, accepting the glass. “Don’t judge my vices, mothboy.”
“I do not judge.” Sig tilted his head. "White wine is filed under comfort. Red wine is filed under grief. Nell prefers the latter, but I do not serve it when someone is unraveling. It makes humans feel too much, and then they cry in loops that never quite end.”
Goldie blinked at him, then took a long, bracing sip. Boxed sauvignon blanc. Two ice cubes. He remembered. The kindness made more tears spring into her eyes.
Sig settled into the chair across from her, folding into stillness like a statue that had chosen a new pose. He could be still better than anyone she knew. Better even than furniture.
Goldie cradled her wine glass in both hands. She took another sip, then stared into the pale liquid as if it might hold a reflection that made sense.
After a long silence, Sig spoke in a soft, unhurried voice.
“You do not have to speak if you do not wish. But you did not come to our home without cause.” He cocked his head, and his antennae shifted faintly. “Something has affected you. Deeply. I do not know its name. Still, I will help you find the shape of it, if I can.”
Goldie took a deep, steadying breath. “I really don’t know what’s going on, Sig,” she said slowly. “Everything’s been fucky since that day I went to set things up for Beltane.”
She paused and held up her forearm, where the skin looked angry and surprisingly vivid for what had only been a shallow scrape. “I got scratched by the hedge, and then I laid the offerings, even though the whole scene felt weird. And then I found the body. And then the Thornfather’s Assistant found me.” She cleared her throat. “And… uh…”
Goldie stared into the middle distance. The wine glass rotated between her hands like a charm she wasn’t sure she wanted to activate.
“I mean, he’s… it’s not like I planned to…” She twitched. Winced. “It’s just that everything got all overwhelming, and I’m sure that I’m emotionally compromised and projecting, but now, everything’s…”
A strangled sound escaped her throat. “Gods, I’m sorry. You’re my best friend’s partner, and you have wings and insight, and probably know more about primal attachment than most therapists, but I also don’t want to be gross and inappropriate.”
She took a huge gulp of wine. “Please tell me if this is gross and inappropriate.”
Sig regarded her with solemn intensity. “I do not know what you are even attempting to say right now,” he said, utterly serious.
Goldie barked a sharp, helpless laugh. “Neither do I,” she wheezed.
The front door opened with a jingle of keys and a burst of early-evening air. Sig straightened. His antennae twitched once.
“Beloved,” he said simply.
A patter of footsteps activated an energy shift, and then Nell Townsend, librarian, Dyad-half, wearer of soft cardigans and thrifted sundresses and accidental power, stepped into view. She dropped her keys and her purse the moment she saw Goldie.
“Sweetie? What’s wrong?”
Goldie took one look at her best friend and burst into tears.
Without a word, Nell rushed across the room and crouched beside the chair, flinging her arms around Goldie. Goldie hugged her like a lifeline.
