Page 3 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Sometimes she wondered which was more impressive.

The phone’s screen lit up, but not with the response she needed. Just another email reminder from Peter Glendale that she must find another arrangement for the children as soon as possible.

When old Mr. John Glendale was alive, Starlight’s future had felt secure. But then his son inherited the building and struck a deal with Agmon Group, one of Meredith’s largest real estate developers, and no amount of pleading could change his mind.

Hence, the coven applications.

She still held out hope for a few others she hadn’t heard back from. Part of her—the part she didn’t want to examine too closely—simply wanted to belong somewhere. To walk into a room and be recognized not as Sanguis Incertus, but as one of them. Thirty years old already, and she’d never had that. The orphanage was her second home, the children her family, but there was a particular ache in being without an anchor to a larger world.

And if coven acceptance also meant access to leaders with government connections—people who might intervene on Starlight’s behalf—she wouldn’t be too proud to want both.

She shook her head and returned to dinner preparations. Outside, snowflakes had begun to fall. She already knew the children would be famished tonight—the little ones always ate more in the winter.

They might not have much, but full bellies were non-negotiable. Her mother had held that line during her years as Starlight’s steward, and Cassia had no intention of letting it slip.

To a Kitchen Witch, food was more than comfort. It was shelter. Certainty.

Love.

Cassia was almost done cleaning up the counter when footsteps skidded to a halt at the door. She lifted her gaze and found Devlin, his cheeks still flushed from the cold.

“Miss Aura!” he panted. “They’re back.”

Her hand froze. “Who?”

“The Agmon people! There’s an agent outside with a whole group!”

She exchanged a panicked glance with Opalina and Lilibeth, and rushed out.

The cold hit her the moment she stepped through the front door—raw, wet, carrying the smell of exhaust and frozen mud. In the courtyard, a cluster of men stood in dark coats that looked like they cost more than a month of Starlight’s groceries. They spoke in low voices over clipboards and rolled-up blueprints. One man was photographing the building’s façade. At the centre stood Mr. Revus, the company’s agent.

Cassia approached and coldly greeted, “Mr. Revus. I thought I made it clear—no visits until we hear back from Agmon’s management.”

The man sighed, adjusting his coat’s lapel. He looked genuinely reluctant, as if he didn’t enjoy this confrontation any more than she did.

“Miss Aura, I understand your frustration, but I’m afraid you’re out of options. We have earmarked the land for development, and the deal is very close to being completed.”

Panic surged, but she forced it down.

“I am not out of options.” The words came out thinner, higher, betraying her. “The High Registry has not issued a new Certificate of Ownership, and we still have the lease for another month. That means right now, you are trespassing.”

Mr. Revus lifted his hands. “Miss Aura, I’m merely doing my job. My employer sent me to show the site so the survey crew can get ready.”

Cassia’s breath caught, the ground tilting beneath her feet. Survey crew. They certainly couldn’t wait to get started.

“Regardless, you’ll need to leave,” she insisted. “We are still the legal tenant, and we’ve received no formal notice of your visit. If you want a survey, make an appointment.”

For a moment, she thought he’d argue. Instead, Revus sighed and murmured to his men before herding them off the grounds.

Cassia didn’t let herself sag until the gate clicked shut behind them. She turned and walked back inside, the front door groaning shut behind her. She pressed her back against the foyer wall and let the children’s coats swallow her—wool and cotton and the faint smell of playground dirt. Her cheeks were still burning. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

How dare they. How dare they bring a survey crew in broad daylight, when the children could see them.

She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks, held them there until the heat faded, then walked back into the dining room. Every head turned.

“Go on,” she told them. “Finish your tea and cake. Then you can play outside.”

The smile she gave them was easy, practiced. They didn’t need to see her unravel.