Page 20 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

The shadow raven darted off. Then, a new script curled along the lily’s petal.

I do hope you’re not the type to embellish stories. That would be terribly untrustworthy in a Chosen.

He couldn’t help but laugh, his quill dancing over the parchment once more.

I never embellish. I simply craft narratives with better flourish. A necessary skill, don’t you think?

The lily’s petal was running out of room. Her reply appeared in smaller, stubbornly neat script along the stem.

Convenient excuse. But I’ll allow it.

Ark leaned back, tension gradually leaving his shoulders. He hadn’t expected this to be so enjoyable.

May I visit the orphanage this afternoon? I would like to see it for myself.

The reply came quicker than he’d expected.

You ask as though I could stop you.

A smile ghosted over his lips. He scratched another message.

You could.

But would you?

A pause, longer this time. Then, a single word appeared along the stem just beneath the last message:

No.

Ark adjusted his gloves against the cold, his boots crunching over the frost-laced cobblestones of Eldryn Gardens. His glamour held—no horns, no markings—and other pedestrians passed him without a backward glance. The path stretched toward the Human District where Starlight Orphanage waited. The late afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the park.

He pulled out his phone—one of the many human inventions he found genuinely useful. Magic missives were more personal, but their creation took energy that might be better spent on other tasks. He dialled a number and held it to his ear. The call barely rang twice.

“I knew you’d call today,” Oromon answered, his voice underscored by the low buzz of a saw and faint hammering. “How did the cleansing go?”

“The new sigil is in place and holding steady.” Ark watched his breath mist in the air. “We’ll give it a few weeks to settle, but I wanted to check your schedule. We’re looking at a restoration early next year.”

A thoughtful pause. Tools clinked in the background. “You want me to do the job?”

“You’re the best. Of course I want you to do the job.”

Any contractor could gut a building and make it look new, but Oromon could feel the pulse of a property and read the layers of Land and Memory Magic woven into its bones. More than that, he knew how to preserve them, knew which structural elements could be replaced and which anchored the energy. Most contractors wouldn’t even know to look. Oromon would understand the house before he lifted a hammer.

“Damn right I’m the best.” A faint thunk sounded, as if he were tossing something onto a worktable. “Alright. I’ll send someone to look at the building. Full restoration?”

“Top to bottom.”

“Figured. It’s always the worst ones with you three.” A faint rustle, then the sound of a door closing, muffling the workshop noise. “Listen. Yulefrost is around the corner. We’re slammed this year, so I can’t be there to run interference with Mother. Come stay with me in Valien. We’ll spend it together. Just you and me.”

Ark’s steps slowed slightly. How tempting it was. Oromon’s home was everything Angelene was not—a place of half-finished projects and warm, unpolished comfort, far from the city’s endless power plays.

“I wish I could.” And he meant it. “But I made a commitment to help someone. Don’t worry about Mother’s ball. I have a plan.”

Oromon made a thoughtful noise. “A plan, huh? Now I’m intrigued. What kind of a scheme are you running?”

“It’s not a scheme. Just an arrangement.”

He gave the short version while Oromon listened in silence. Then, after a long pause—“So, let me get this straight. You’re getting into a fake engagement to get Mother off your back? That’s . . . a lot of work.”