Page 22 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Idle. A waste of good blood, as the society pages said. But Cassia had learned to read the space people left behind them. Ark’s was not empty with laziness. It felt more like a fortress.

And she wanted to see inside.

She came out to open the gate when he reached the sidewalk.

“Thank you for the lily this morning,” he said, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Cassia grinned. “I like yours better. Shadowy ravens—very mysterious.”

“Yours looked prettier. And smelled better.”

Of course it did. Her Flora Notes always carried the essence of whatever she’d been baking. This morning, pumpkin loaves.

“Did you try some of the cakes the other night?” she asked, motioning him to follow her across the front yard, kicking a ball aside to clear their path.

“Some? We polished them off within minutes.”

Cassia blinked. “Oh.”

“There was magic in them,” he said, but the remark barely registered. Her focus had snagged on a different word he’d let slip.

We.

He hadn’t eaten them alone.

She recovered quickly, tilting her head. “You noticed the magic?”

Ark arched a brow. “Was I not supposed to?”

Cassia chuckled, pressing her hand on the entrance door as she paused. “Most of my customers have just enough magic to get by, or none at all. They know my food tastes good, makes them feel good—but they don’t recognize what’s behind it the way you do.” She glanced back and smiled. “You, however, actually tasted it.”

His own smile widened a touch. “It was delicious.”

She propped the door open for him, but he stopped half a step from the threshold. She’d expected him to want to get this over with. Instead, he stood there, gaze sweeping the frame and lintel as if reading text carved into the wood, his gloved fingers flexing at his sides.

“Are you waiting for a formal invitation?” she teased, leaning against the doorframe.

His mouth curved—a faint, practiced smile, but his eyes didn’t follow. They were still fixed on the threshold, sharp and searching, as if he expected the house itself to answer him.

“Let’s see if that helps,” he said.

She chuckled. He was certainly acting a little strange. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being around children and was nervous about meeting them.

“Fine. Arkenoth, please come in.”

With one smooth, effortless step, he crossed the threshold, the scents of cedar and spice brushing past hers as he entered. She closed the door and turned.

“Welcome to Starlight Orphanage,” she said, spreading her arms.

Ark’s gaze scanned the interior. The entry hall was warm—heat spilling from the large hearth in the sitting room where a merry fire crackled and hissed, casting long shadows across the wooden floors. The boards gleamed softly, polished by decades of tiny footsteps. A few coats were slung haphazardly on hooks by the door, and a pair of small, mud-caked boots sat abandoned beneath them.

She wondered what he was seeing. A place that would never suit an Echelon’s taste? A building held together by stubbornness and hope?

Starlight wasn’t grand. The furnishings didn’t match, and the light fixtures were decades out of fashion. But it was warm. It smelled of butter and cinnamon and something savoury simmering in the kitchen. It never lacked people who cared for each other.

And, most importantly, it was full of love.

“You’re in luck,” she told Ark. “The children are still at their lessons upstairs, so you’ll have a moment of quiet before they come barreling in.”