Page 39 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

But he respected them for it.

Across the table, Rhodes and Caius chattered like they’d entertained three human grandparents every Thursday for years—discussing Yulefrost festivities, winter weather, and the rising price of fresh citrus. Rhodes lounged comfortably despite his too-small chair, nodding sagely as Mrs. Potts lamented the cost of good blood oranges. Caius, ever poised, agreed that nothing compared to a proper mulled wine made with the right zest and spice.

Cassia, of course, hadn’t come out from the storage room to save them.

The small talk didn’t last long before Mrs. Tilly—a small but spry human woman with pure silver hair—decided to cut through to the heart of the matter.

“So, Arkenoth, how long have you been courting our Cassia?”

Not just Cassia, but our Cassia.

Mr. Potts narrowed his eyes. “It can’t be that long. Cassia never mentioned a word about a suitor.”

“Not long at all,” Ark admitted. “We only just met four days ago.”

Mrs. Tilly let out a thoughtful hum. “Ah. Love at first sight, then?”

He smiled. “Something like that.”

Rhodes, who should’ve had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, didn’t. “Caius and I haven’t even heard the tale of their meeting. We’re like brothers to him, and he didn’t tell us. Can you believe that?”

Caius, serenely, added, “It must’ve been a magnificent encounter for him to propose on the spot.”

The storage room door creaked open. Cassia stepped into view, her friends trailing behind her. All three paused at the threshold as if sensing the shift in the air.

Ark turned toward her, and their eyes met. Flour-dusted fingerprints smudged the sleeves of her cardigan, as if she’d been gripping them too tightly moments before.

He thought of The Ivory Club. That night. The moment that had changed everything.

Without taking his eyes off her, he said, “The first time I saw her, she was standing in The Ivory Club’s lobby, chin high, eyes burning, daring Agmon Alderrath to deny her petition. She was alone, outnumbered, armed with nothing but sheer conviction.”

He let the words settle, drawing a slow breath.

“And I knew,” he continued, his voice quieter now, “that if I was ever going to fall, it would be for her.”

The air in the bakery held still. The silence stretched, thick and golden. Cassia’s fingers curled against the fabric of her apron, a sharp inhale catching just at the edge of her breath. He caught the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the flicker of uncertainty in her gaze—the way her mind scrambled for something to say.

Mr. and Mrs. Potts exchanged a glance. Mrs. Tilly was grinning—actually grinning—as if he’d just passed the test.

Caius and Rhodes, for once, had gone still. No smirks. No dry remarks. They were both staring at him, eyebrows arched. His friends knew him best. They’d seen him lie, scheme, charm, deflect.

But this . . . this was none of those things. And they could see it.

Ark exhaled slowly, pursed his lips. He had only spoken the truth. That night outside The Ivory Club, he had been struck by her. By her audacity, her fire.

And now, he had only done what they’d agreed upon—spun the illusion so close to the truth that it couldn’t be unraveled. Yet, as Cassia stood there staring, his insides trembled.

What had he just done?

Cassia cleared her throat, and the room’s attention shifted away from him—a small mercy. His lungs found air again.

“That’s a great story,” she said, her eyebrows arched. Her voice was light—too light, as if she was baiting him. “But sweetheart, you’ve forgotten the best part.”

“Have I?” Ark smiled, playing along, though the word ‘sweetheart’ coiled around his spine in a way he wasn’t expecting. “For me, that is the best part—” After a beat, he added, “Starling.”

She inched closer. Slow, deliberate, like a dancer who knew precisely how to command the room without even trying. His gaze tracked the subtle sway of her hips, the measured grace in each step. He didn’t often find himself wondering about things like loose curls and unbound hair, but now—gods help him—he did. He thought about the way her fiery waves might look if freed from that haphazard knot, falling over her shoulders, catching the light in wild, untamed ribbons.

By the time she reached the edge of the table, leaning close, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him like a spell. Butter. Sugar. Cinnamon. It wasn’t just a scent—it was a memory, an emotion.