Page 159 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Cassia instinctively stepped back when a towering demon appeared in the archway—broad shouldered, dust in his black curls, a thick flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, a toolbelt slung low across heavy trousers. He filled the doorframe with his solid, slightly chaotic presence, like a thundercloud in work boots.

He caught sight of her and froze.

Then, slowly, his expression changed. He took in her face, her posture, the nervous grip she still had on her coat. His brows arched—slow and knowing.

She stared at the same sharp jaw, the same golden eyes—Ark’s features rendered larger, broader, unchecked. If Ark was a dagger, this man was a battering ram. When his expression softened into a smile, her breath snagged. That devastating Varil smile. They both had it, and she was willing to bet Kassenor had once worn it too.

“Well,” he said, voice deep and gruff, but not unkind. “You must be the witch.”

Cassia blinked. “I—pardon?”

“The one my brother’s been turning into a tyrant over.” The grin widened. “I’m Oromon. Restoration contractor. Brother. And, most recently, sanity check.”

He offered a sawdust-rough hand without hesitation, and she took it—her fingers nearly disappearing into his warm, calloused grasp.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he said, and the look in his eyes held something like fondness, as if he’d already decided he liked her. As if he knew exactly why his brother was acting the way he was, and couldn’t help being a little charmed by it.

“Good luck in there,” he added with a low chuckle as he strode past her. “And don’t let him bully you about the doorknobs. He’s been obsessed with them for three days.”

Then he clomped down the steps, shaking his head, muttering about difficult clients.

“Ah, Mother,” he said behind her, his tone brighter. “Come to take your favourite son out to tea, have you? Perfect timing—I’m absolutely starving.”

A pause—the kind that hinted at a withering look exchanged just out of sight.

Then Delphyne’s voice, cool as ever: “What about Ark and Cassia?”

Oromon chuckled. “I have a strong suspicion they’ll be . . . otherwise occupied.”

Just like that, they disappeared into the carriage, and the vehicle glided away.

Silence returned. In the distance, workers drifted toward a cluster of benches beneath a great oak tree—tea break, thermoses and sandwich papers in hand. The timing felt almost orchestrated. Having met Oromon, it probably was.

Cassia stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a soft thud, sealing her into warmth.

The air smelled of beeswax polish and old cedar. Pale light spilled across honey-hued floors that had been recently sanded. The walls were bare but clean—fresh plaster smoothing over old scars. Above, the vaulted ceiling arched. Someone had begun restoring the carved cornices; Cassia glimpsed intricate vines and moons emerging from beneath old layers. Pale beams caught the sunlight. Magic hummed faintly in the walls—old protection wards and hearth-keeping spells layered like pressed herbs between floorboards and foundation stones. She could feel them as a tickle on her skin, a whisper just under her breath.

Even unfurnished, even half-finished—there was something kind here. Something that wanted to be filled with voices and laughter. With warmth and love. With children. Life.

Cassia stepped deeper into the hall, one hand brushing the smooth banister of the wide staircase leading to the second floor. A prickle at the back of her neck—so faint now, after so many days without the bond being nourished—snagged her attention. She turned.

And stilled.

Inside the room by the stairway, a man stood, his back to her.

Arkenoth.

He stood before a vast, empty wall, his entire being focused on the single task. In one hand, he held a creased photograph she couldn’t quite see. On the wall itself, a single, empty picture frame hung, suspended by a thin, shimmering line of conjured chalk. He adjusted the frame a fraction of an inch, trying to place it in the centre. His shoulders tensed. He shifted it again, a low, frustrated murmur escaping him.

From the threshold, her heart hammering against her ribs, she found her voice.

“A little more to the left.”

He froze. The chalk line flickered and dissolved into a shower of white dust.

Cassia took one step into the sun-warmed room. “Just a little,” she breathed.

Wordlessly, he obeyed, his fingers twitching to guide the frame.