Page 111 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“He gave me what I needed,” she said softly. “And made me feel like I mattered.”

The room went still. Lilibeth’s hand found her shoulder. Opalina met her eyes across the table.

“Good,” Opalina said, simply.

A beat of comfortable silence settled between them. Then Lilibeth asked, a little too casually, “And the logistics?”

Cassia blinked. “The logistics.”

“You know.” Lilibeth twirled the fork between her fingers. “Precautions. The kind of thing one thinks about after spending the night with a demon of considerable”—she cleared her throat—“potency.”

Cassia’s face burned. “I took an herbal potion this morning. It’s reliable.”

“For witches and humans, maybe. But you were with a pureblood Nocturne. Their biology doesn’t always play by the same rules as yours.”

Cassia’s stomach dipped. She hadn’t considered that.

Lilibeth must have read the flicker of panic on her face, because her voice softened. “Don’t worry. I can help.” She set her fork down and flexed her fingers, a faint shimmer of Amoret magic sparking at her fingertips. “I can place a seal on you—a contraceptive charm. It’s common among couples in demon society. Lasts about three months, completely reversible, and far more effective across mixed-magic pairings than any herbal remedy.”

Cassia stared at her. “You can do that?”

“I’m half Amoret, Cass. Desire, intimacy, fertility—it’s all the same thread of magic for my kind.” A faint blush coloured Lilibeth’s cheeks. “I may not use it for its . . . traditional applications. But the knowledge is still there.”

Opalina looked up from her plate. “You never mentioned you could do that.”

Lilibeth shrugged lightly. “None of us were exactly drowning in romantic entanglements.”

“Would it hurt?” Cassia asked.

“You’ll feel a warmth here”—Lilibeth pressed two fingers gently to her lower belly—“and then nothing.”

Cassia looked at her friend—this woman who substituted chocolate for the intimacy her magic was built for, who carried her own complicated relationship with desire like a rock in her pocket—and felt a rush of gratitude.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Please.”

Lilibeth’s fingers glowed faintly—a warm, rosy light that sank through the fabric of Cassia’s apron and settled deep. It lasted only a moment. A gentle pulse, like a sigh, and then—like her friend had said: nothing.

“Done,” Lilibeth said, withdrawing her hand. “You’re covered.”

“Thank you, Lili.”

Lilibeth shrugged as if she’d done nothing of note, but her tail gave a single, pleased flick. “What are friends for?”

Opalina raised her teacup. “To the most significant night in recent memory.”

“Don’t you start,” Cassia muttered, but she smiled and raised her cup anyway.

She wore the green scarf to Starlight that evening. The children were restless. Devlin had overheard the teachers murmuring something about the eviction, and was doing a poor job of pretending he hadn’t. The little ones picked up on the tension. Cassia spent the evening helping Imogen with her magic exercises and reading to the younger children, all while swallowing the dread that rose every time she looked at the walls she might not be able to protect much longer.

On the train home, she pressed her fingers absently to the mark beneath her scarf. The warmth had shifted over the course of the day—stronger when she was in Angelene, fainter during the train ride—as if the distance between them was something the mark could measure. She was still learning its rhythms, still startled by the intimacy of carrying a piece of someone else’s magic beneath her skin.

It should’ve felt intrusive. It didn’t. It felt like a hand resting on the small of her back in a crowded room—steadying, present, asking nothing in return.

She sent a white calla lily, its scent cutting through the cold air inside the train.

Devlin asked about you today. He wanted to know if the demon with no visible horns was coming back. I think he misses having someone to interrogate.

The raven arrived before she’d even left the station.