Page 32 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Rhodes grinned. “Excellent. I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

Caius’s lips curled. “Oh, I’m sure we all are. Come, I’ll drive.”

Ark stood and rolled his gloves between his fingers. Seeing Aura Cassia again hadn’t been on his agenda today. As he followed them to the door, he realized that was the problem: nothing about her had ever been on his agenda.

But somehow, the thought didn’t seem entirely unwelcome.

8

CASSIA

The hand pies in The Witching Flour’s oven were supposed to be golden by now; they were not.

Cassia sighed. Today had started wrong and just kept going in a worsening direction.

First, she’d overslept. The drizzle against her window had made staying in bed irresistible, and Anuck had curled against her chest, purring. The cat had felt so warm, so soft, she might’ve slept another hour if he hadn’t started kneading her belly—a pointed reminder she had kneading of her own to do.

Then there was the humidity, unusual for winter. She didn’t mind the cold, but damp air always did something strange to her curls. This morning, they’d been particularly riotous, an untamable red halo defying every ribbon and pin. She’d barely wrestled them into a loose knot before throwing on her cloak and rushing out. Just as she’d rounded the corner to The Witching Flour, a speeding car tore past, spraying her with icy street water.

But the real gem of the morning had been waiting in the bakery’s mailbox: another rejection letter, this time from The Willow Hearth—a coven she’d actually believed would give her a chance. Their literature spoke of nurturing young witches, fostering magical growth, upholding tradition without exclusions. Community-focused, welcoming to those with mixed heritage.

Like a fool, she’d let herself hope.

The letter shut that down neatly. ‘While you are welcome to participate in our special events, full membership requires a stronger lineage connection.’

Cassia had been rejected many times before, but this one stung.

Still, disappointment wouldn’t put pastries inside the bakery cases. She had exhaled and pushed forward, wishing—not for the first time—that she had the funds to hire help. But, as she moved through the space that had always been both a refuge and responsibility, she knew: as much as she wished she could’ve just spent the day in bed today, she needed the comfort of routine and familiarity.

A few years ago, she’d tried taking this day off to spend it curled under a blanket, assuming being at home would help.

It hadn’t.

But being in the bakery—cooking, baking, seeing her customers’ smiles . . . that helped.

Because The Witching Flour was more than a shop—it was a haven. No grandeur or opulence, and no staff—just warmth that made people linger. It smelled of sugar and spice, of hearth and home. A place to sit with tea, listen to the rain against the windows, and indulge in something warm and sweet. Soft golden light from enchanted lanterns glowed over sage-green walls and rustic wood floors. Ivy and flowering vines curled from the ceiling—wisteria, honeysuckle, wild roses—blooming all year round, a testament to the magic her mother had started. The same magic Cassia continued.

Beyond the pale-green counter, the open kitchen stretched in full view. Trays of pastries and glass jars of sugared treats caught the light. Fresh loaves lined the shelves, their crackling crusts dusted with flour; cakes and tarts rested beneath domed glass covers. The space hummed—pies cooling, teacups clinking, the low murmur of conversation blending with the occasional flutter of vines above.

Cassia sighed, grabbed a teapot, and drifted into the dining room, refilling cups at the cozy tables scattered throughout. It was lunchtime—her favourite part of the day. Little Mineola’s residents, from shopkeepers to passersby, gathered here for warm conversations over hearty soups and savoury pies. And today, more than ever, she needed them to distract her.

Alas, her regulars had already noticed her frown, and the letter peeking out of her apron pocket.

“Another rejection, dear?” Mrs. Potts asked, sympathy softening her gaze. “Don’t let it get to you. The right coven’s out there somewhere.”

“Any coven would be lucky to have you,” Mr. Potts chimed in from across the table, his words slightly muffled around a mouthful of pastry. He adjusted his spectacles and reached for another.

Mrs. Tilly, sitting at the table beside them, gave a firm shake of her head. “Your mother never needed a coven. She lived just fine without one.”

“Yes, well, Celestia had Cassia,” Mrs. Potts countered, lips pursing. “Cassia has no one.”

“She has us, doesn’t she?”

Mrs. Potts huffed. “Of course she does, but we’re old, Araminta. She needs people her own age. Witches she can connect with.” She waved a hand. “Network, I think they call it. Finding a nice witch gentleman to settle down with wouldn’t hurt either.”

Cassia’s chest tightened. Once, she thought she’d found a nice witch gentleman to settle down with. He turned out to be neither nice nor a gentleman.

She gave her customers a bright smile. “I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves.”