Page 19 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

He took the cup into his study. Morning light filtered through the arched window, casting long beams across the dark wood. Beyond the terrace railing, Angelene stretched beneath the pale sky, the city stirring to life.

He sat at his desk and took a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote:

Good morning, Cassia.

Since we are newly engaged, it seems only proper that I begin learning your habits—your preferences, your whims, the little things that make you . . . you. Unfortunately, I must start with an important revelation about myself: I am, regrettably, a morning person.

Ark paused for a moment, quill hovering over the parchment, lips twitching.

Which means you may suffer the occasional early missive, such as this one.

My sincerest condolences.

—Ark

He hesitated before he sent the message. He never reached out first, especially not in the morning, not unless he needed to convey important matters of business to Rhodes or Caius. His days were always structured, his time his own. He rarely entertained distractions, and certainly not before breakfast.

Yet here he was, sending the first correspondence.

With a flick of his fingers, the ink quivered, then lifted off the paper. The script unraveled into dark tendrils, twisting and coiling before coalescing into the sleek, translucent shape of a raven—a little flourish his friends had fondly dubbed ‘Shadow Quill.’ The raven tilted its head, its body nothing more than liquid shadow, then flared its wings and vanished, darting off in search of her.

Magic missives required the recipient’s magical signature—an imprint as distinct as a fingerprint. He’d secured Cassia’s the moment their bargain was sealed, when a thread of her magic had snapped into place between them. A necessary step for any future coordination, he’d told himself. Strategic. Nothing more.

Ark leaned back in his chair. Now, he must wait. She would sense the incoming message, feel the brush of his magical signature, and choose to welcome it or let it dissipate into nothing.

He was on his way to the shower when he felt a soft pulse at the edge of his senses. Her response had arrived. He stopped and let it in. The scent of pumpkin rolls and icing sugar flooded his townhouse, warm and sweet. He followed it back to his desk.

A single long-stemmed calla lily lay there. Before his widened eyes, an elegant, flowing script began to write itself across the snow-white petal.

Joke’s on you, Sir. Your Chosen is a baker who wakes up before dawn. I was elbow-deep in bread dough before you even fluttered your lashes.

He turned the flower between his fingers, watching more ink settle into the delicate petal—a second message.

You are free to message me as early as you want. I welcome the company as I work.

—Cassia

His lips curved. Bold. He dipped his quill once more.

Do you often invite a besotted Chosen to intrude upon your mornings?

The ink shimmered on the parchment, vanishing in a blur of black feathers as the message took flight. He waited, turning the lily between his fingers, and soon, another line inscribed itself along the petal’s edge.

Only the ones I’ve utterly bewitched.

Ark chuckled. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the desk. Then, after a moment’s thought, he set the quill to paper again.

Consider me bewitched indeed.

That aside, I’ve been thinking . . . To make our grand love story convincing, we should keep it as close to the truth as possible. Which means, naturally, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you standing in The Ivory Club’s lobby.

A few minutes later, another line traced itself along the petal’s edge.

How romantic. But I distinctly recall walking away. You chased after me. Rescued me even, like a proper knight in shining armour. That was the moment I fell in love with you.

His smirk deepened as he wrote another missive.

I prefer to think of it as ensuring you didn’t get yourself arrested. A gallant act, nonetheless.