Page 1 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

1

CASSIA

Dear Miss Aura Cassia,

Thank you for your application to The Grapevine Witch Society.

Regrettably, your status as ‘Sanguis Incertus’ makes you ineligible for a membership, which requires either a verifiable magical bloodline or sponsorship from an established witch family.

While your roles as Steward of Starlight Orphanage and Proprietor of The Witching Flour bakery are noted, they cannot override the Society’s basic requirements.

Sincerely,

The Membership Board

The Grapevine Witch Society of Angelene

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Cassia reread the letter once, twice, as if each pass would change the words. They were the same—polite and practiced, precise enough to sting. Another door shut in her face, just when she and Starlight needed every one open.

She slipped the paper into her apron pocket and drew a deep breath. There was no time for grief. The letter was just paper; the real threat was much more serious.

Cassia pushed a stray red curl from her face and hefted the teapot, making her rounds through the orphanage’s dining room. Children of various ages, as young as five and old as twelve, gathered around the long wooden table. Chairs scraped. Enchanted lanterns flickered. The scents of chamomile and honey mingled with that of buttered bread—a fragile cocoon against the winter chill seeping through the stone walls.

Walls which, according to their new landlord, Peter Glendale, would not be theirs for much longer.

She should’ve known the moment he’d invited Angelene’s most prominent real estate developers to tour the building. She’d naively hoped it would be for renovations—that maybe someone would finally see the value in Starlight, in keeping it standing. But she’d been far off the mark.

‘I’m selling the building to Agmon Group, Miss Aura,’ he’d told her two weeks ago, quite irritated that she kept pestering him for a lease renewal. ‘They’ve offered a large sum. I can’t give you an extension.’

Her gaze swept over the children, fingers tightening around the teapot. One month. That was all the time they were given. Nausea churned. Where will the children go?

“Did you just get rejected again?”

Tea sloshed against the porcelain. Devlin, her oldest charge, leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes homing in on the apron pocket where she’d hidden the letter.

“What makes you say that?” Cassia asked.

He shrugged. “You had the same look last time.”

Before she could answer, Imogen wriggled close, the letter already grasped in fingers sticky with apricot jam.

“Imogen!” Cassia plucked it back. The girl blinked up at her, eyes wide.

“What’s San . . . Sanguis In . . . certus?” she asked.

The room fell silent. Cassia looked up to find that every child had stopped eating, their eyes fixed on her. She took a steadying breath and set the teapot down.

“It’s . . . a fancy term for being Untethered,” she said. When Imogen still stared with a furrowed brow, she explained, gently, “It means I wasn’t born into a family with a lineage that can be traced back through generations.” She tucked the letter back into her pocket. “And some people think that matters more than it should.”

Another boy, Jonah, frowned. “But . . . we don’t even have families. Does that mean we’re Untethered too?”

Chest squeezing tight, she crouched beside him, brushing crumbs from his cheek. “We may not have a family in a traditional sense, but we belong to each other. That’s family too.”

Devlin snorted, folding his arms tight across his chest. “Try telling that to all of Meredith. They’d sooner eat their Book of Names than admit we’re worth half a damn.”

She shot him a stern look. “Language, please.”