Page 119 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Cassia felt Ark’s tension ripple beside her. She spoke before he could—before she could think better of it. “I don’t have a pedigree, Daemaris. I have a bakery, an orphanage, and a stubborn streak that’s kept both running longer than anyone expected.”

Delphyne arched one flaxen brow. “Hm. A Kitchen Witch with backbone.”

Her gaze sharpened, and Cassia felt the pressure of it—the instinct to lower her eyes, to duck her head. But she remembered Lucindra’s advice: Don’t lower your gaze. So she didn’t. She met Delphyne’s stare head-on and held it. She felt the weight of years in that one stare—the generations of authority, the practiced scrutiny—but she didn’t waver. She’d faced eviction notices, empty ledgers, and the cold dismissal of people who’d decided she wasn’t worth their time. She could hold a stare.

To her surprise, Delphyne’s lips curved—just barely. She broke their gaze first, then turned and walked away without a word, her gown whispering against marble. The orchestra rushed to strike up another waltz.

Only when his mother joined the crowd did Ark exhale—a subtle release of tension Cassia felt in his arm.

“You made her smile,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “She hasn’t done that since her last political triumph.”

Cassia blinked. “That was a smile?”

“By her standards.” A pause, then he laughed. “It was practically a standing ovation.”

Relief flooded through her, almost dizzying. She hadn’t been thrown out. Hadn’t been publicly humiliated. The hardest part was over, and she was still standing.

She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been bracing—for the dismissal, the whispers, the moment Delphyne’s gaze would slide past her like she was nothing. It had happened before, many times, and though she knew how to survive it, tonight she’d wanted more than survival.

He offered his arm again. “Are you hungry? Let’s get you something to eat before someone accuses you of casting a spell on my mother.”

She looked at him, then at the buffet, then at the crowd—and back at him. The food smelled incredible. Her stomach gave a traitorous lurch. But the thought of standing in that crowd, smiling, pretending to enjoy herself while her pulse still raced, turned her stomach for entirely different reasons.

“Actually,” she said, “is there somewhere we can sit for a while? Just the two of us?”

He studied her for a beat, then nodded. “There’s a conservatory at the end of the east wing. It’s my favourite place in this mansion. Quiet. Peaceful. No one will disturb us there.”

Cool relief suffused her chest. “Sounds per⁠—”

A footman in deep-blue livery appeared beside them, his steps so silent Cassia hadn’t heard him approach. He bowed to Ark, his face carefully neutral, small charcoal horns curling back from his temples.

“My lord. The Daemaris requests your presence in the library.”

Ark’s frown deepened. “Now?”

“Her exact words were ‘at once,’ my lord.”

Cassia saw the refusal already at the tip of Ark’s tongue. She touched his hand, drawing his attention back to her. “Go. I’ll find the conservatory and save you a seat.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. He squeezed her hand once, warm and brief. “I won’t be long.”

As he followed the footman through the crowd, Cassia watched him go. What did the Daemaris want? Was it about her relationship with Arkenoth? Some delayed confrontation, perhaps—something his mother didn’t want to have in front of nosy guests.

She pushed the thought aside. She’d held her ground. She could wait in a conservatory.

The noise faded the farther she got from the ballroom in search of the east wing. The corridor was cool and quiet, portraits of his ancestors in gilt frames lining the walls. Marble busts watched from shadowed alcoves—stern-faced Varils, their carved eyes tracking her with the same cold scrutiny she’d just survived.

A beautiful mansion, she thought, but she understood why Ark had never called it home. It was more a museum—full of precious things, empty of the people who were supposed to fill it.

At the far end, she spotted a pair of arched glass doors—framed in white wood, slightly ajar—where lush greenery beckoned through the glass.

She slipped through⁠—

—and entered an entirely different world.

The air was cooler here, fragrant with the rich, damp scent of earth, citrus, and jasmine. Above, a glass dome soared, fogged with condensation that scattered the moonlight into a soft, aqueous glow.

For a moment, she simply stood there, soaking up the stillness and the green. Here, alone, she could finally lower her guard. Her palms had gone clammy again. Her jaw ached from smiling. Though she’d survived, she felt as though she’d run a gauntlet lined with velvet and thorns.