Page 28 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“No major illnesses so far, thank goodness. The worst we’ve had were runny noses during the rainy and snowy months, and the occasional scraped knee. Maybe a few fevers.” She paused, watching him. “Why?”

Ark lifted the plates carefully. “Curiosity.”

Her gaze lingered before she picked up a tray of dirty dishes. “You don’t have to help, you know.”

“I know.”

He followed her into the kitchen where Mrs. Thimble and Matilde were deep in preparation for the children’s supper. Behind them, the hearth burned steadily, flames licking around the blackened logs with a warmth that felt . . . different.

He’d sensed it earlier when he first stepped into the kitchen, yet he didn’t comment. Now, he watched Mrs. Thimble haul a large pot and hang it over the fire, the iron hook settling with a faint creak. The flames flared momentarily, casting a golden sheen against the brick surrounding before they settled.

“That’s a beautiful hearth,” he remarked, keeping his voice light. “Has it always been here?”

Cassia, standing on the other side of the counter, glanced at it. “It came with the building. Starlight’s been around for sixty years, but the building is a hundred years old. That hearth still works as well as ever, though.”

He waited until all three women had their backs turned, then flexed his fingers, drawing just enough power to test a theory. A flick of his will—a subtle, careful weave of energy—smothered the fire with shadows.

The flames sputtered, then died.

But before Ark could let the moment settle, a soft crackle sounded. A curl of smoke ghosted up from the blackened wood. The fire flickered back to life with a slow, deliberate lick of flame, as if taunting him.

Ark froze. His magic wasn’t weak—far from it, which meant this fire wasn’t ordinary.

And neither was the force keeping it burning.

“I have to discuss next week’s menu with Mrs. Thimble, but you can wander around and have a look,” Cassia said, gathering a notebook and some pens from a nearby sideboard. “The library and entertainment room are on the other side of the entrance hall. Upstairs are the children’s classrooms, bathrooms, and bedrooms. Storage is in the basement.”

Ark inclined his head. “I won’t be long. And I won’t be disruptive.”

“The children are playing outside anyway, so take your time.”

She grinned before turning back to Mrs. Thimble, already launching a discussion about pantry inventory and upcoming meals.

Ark left the kitchen. Instead of heading directly to the library, he made his way toward the staircase, placing a hand lightly on the wooden railing, feeling its glossy, slippery surface against his palm. Not a single crack or rough spot could be found. It was as though it was sanded and varnished a week ago.

The second floor was dimmer, lit only by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns spaced along the corridor. He moved quickly through the rooms—classrooms with long wooden desks, chalkboards still marked with half-erased lessons, dormitories with rows of neatly made beds. The quilts were patchwork, some frayed at the edges, a few books tucked beneath pillows. Everything was simple and warm.

And, for a hundred-year-old building, remarkably intact.

The floorboards held firm beneath his weight—no creaks, no give, the joists solid and evenly spaced. The walls were straight, the load-bearing corners true, the plaster smooth and free of hairline stress cracks. Even the window frames sat square in their casings, no warping or gaps where the winter air could seep through. Had Starlight, with its dwindling donors and empty donation boxes, always had a healthy budget for renovations? He knew government support went to pureblood institutions first—the Untethereds got what was left, which was usually nothing.

He returned downstairs. His gaze flicked toward another stairwell leading down to the basement. As he approached it, the air changed. A subtle weight settled against his skin, pressing like unseen hands. The closer he got, the thicker it became.

Ark slowed his steps. Shadows pooled along the narrow stairwell, the lantern light above stretching long, warped silhouettes over the walls. He wasn’t afraid of shadows. Shadows were his friends, the source of his power. Part of his essence. He was no stranger to old buildings, either—the Varil manor was over four hundred years old, built right after the Great Convergence.

But something about this place made his skin prickle.

He reached for the handle.

The brass doorknob flared with a heat that had nothing to do with fire—a searing, purifying energy that felt like a direct rejection of his very essence. His own power reacted on instinct, a swirl of inky shadows erupting to face the threat. For a split second, the two forces warred—a hiss of conflicting energies, like water hitting a white-hot iron. Then, his shadows disintegrated, burned away by the sheer purity of whatever lurked behind that door.

He snatched his hand back. Thin tendrils of smoke curled from his palm, smelling of burnt flesh and scorched magic. He clenched his jaw, cradling the injured hand against his chest in the dark, narrow space.

The scuff of a boot on the stairs had him turning, just in time to see Cassia’s silhouette in the dim light. Her attention was not on him, thankfully, but on the door he’d been examining.

In that single, distracted glance, he pulled his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. The leather’s soft hide was a relief against his throbbing palm—a small wall between himself and the world. He smoothed his expression, ironing out every flicker of pain until the mask was back in place.

Cassia’s voice came light, curious. “Would you like to see our basement?” Her gaze found his face and lingered. She’d see nothing he hadn’t put there.