Page 172 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Delphyne’s response had been immediate, if typically evasive.

‘Well, now that my Yulefrost soirée is over, I suppose I’ll need something to entertain me.’

But the very next morning, she’d marched in with introductions already lined up, a ream of paper for notes, and a leather-bound address book full of colour-coded donor profiles.

Cassia was quietly amazed.

She’d wanted to thank Delphyne—for breathing new life into Starlight, for casting light on the children. But she knew the demon would only wave her off, claiming it was nothing more than a distraction.

And yet, whenever Cassia caught her poring over donor agreements, riffling through her contacts with that sharp, relentless gleam in her eyes, she didn’t see a woman killing time. She saw a stubborn demon matriarch who knew exactly how to extort the world toward compassion.

She saw her mother.

That same unshakable resolve. That same fire to protect what mattered—whatever the cost.

Kassenor’s voice cut neatly through the warmth of the room, and her thoughts.

“Cassia. Might I trouble you to escort me to my study?”

She blinked, then straightened. “Yes! Of course.”

Ark said, “I can do it⁠—”

“You can, but I didn’t ask you, did I?” Kassenor said, giving his son a pointed look over one shoulder.

Ark stepped back without another word while Cassia smothered a chuckle. Despite the success of the transplant, the doctors had been firm: Kassenor was not to strain himself. No sudden exertion. No long walks. No stairs, gods forbid. And certainly, no duelling with magic, which he’d grumbled about more than once, to no one in particular.

So, for now, he remained in the wheelchair—elegant and custom-made, with dark wood armrests and silver trim polished to a gleam. Cassia stepped behind it, hands settling on the handles.

The journey down the corridor was short, but silent. She pushed open the doors to the study and exhaled softly at the sight.

It was a cavern of leather and oak and quiet gravity. Every surface gleamed. The air smelled of aged parchment—faint, comforting. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with books bound in leather worn soft by time: spines in deep emerald, ink black, oxblood red. Some bore crests she didn’t recognize. Others were handwritten—the kind of volumes scribes hadn’t produced in over a century.

It reminded her just then of the magnitude of the family she was entering: one of the oldest in Meredith, if not the oldest.

“May I ask something?” she said.

Kassenor didn’t glance at her, but she caught the lift of one brow in profile. “I suspect you will regardless.”

“Why did you send the Daemaris to disrupt the house sale? Why did you allow Ark to court me?”

He slowed the chair, halting just inside the study. “I didn’t ‘allow’ anything. Ark didn’t ask. Neither did you.”

He turned to her then, eyes catching the light with an old, thoughtful sharpness. “But I didn’t stop it either. That is what you truly want to know.”

Cassia nodded.

He wheeled forward to the desk and reached into a drawer with visible effort. Cassia instinctively stepped forward, but he waved her off.

“Stop fussing. I am not a relic yet.”

There was no heat to the words, only dry amusement. Still, she flushed and stepped back.

He retrieved a small velvet case and opened it, revealing a series of carefully preserved photographs—glossy with enchantment, resistant to time’s wear.

He passed her the first one.

Cassia stared. A dark-haired man mid-dance, one hand at a woman’s waist, his expression soft with wonder.