Page 42 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She turned so red he began to feel guilty.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “It’s very popular.”

But before she could shrink further, she suddenly straightened, eyes brightening with unexpected enthusiasm. “Did you know Cassia makes the best chocolate creations?”

Caius chuckled. “We’re about to find out.”

Rhodes smirked. “One bite of her spiced honey cakes, and as they say, the rest was history.”

“Now that we’ve answered your questions about what we do,” Opalina said, “what do you do?”

Ark exchanged looks with Caius and Rhodes. They’d cultivated their indolent personas for so long, most people wouldn’t even ask. No one wanted to face an awkward moment of having to find a supportive response to ‘nothing.’

“We do just enough to keep ourselves out of trouble,” Ark finally said.

Her jade eyes stared at him innocently. “Forgive me, I was under the impression you were an unemployed aristocrat.”

Ark held her gaze, but didn’t answer. Cassia’s elf friend presented herself with effortlessly cool composure, as if butter wouldn’t even melt in her mouth. He suspected she could cut through nonsense sharper than most.

Caius cut in, “I’ve been wondering since I sat down.” He pointed toward a framed plaque mounted on the wall in front of their table. “What is that all about?”

Ark turned in his seat to look.

Mystic Misfits Society Rules:

1. All magical debates must be conducted over a cup of tea; heated arguments are best served with a side of scones.

2. Thou shalt not cast spells while under the influence of caffeine; levitating teacups lead to messy mishaps.

3. Laughter is the best potion. If in doubt, add extra sugar and stir with a smile.

Five more points were listed and Ark read through the rest, the corners of his mouth pulling up by the time he finished.

Caius chuckled, pointing at the fifth point. “That one is my favourite: ‘No hexes shall be cast before breakfast; hangriness is not a valid excuse for magical misconduct.’ How perfectly sensible.” He sipped his tea. “It is a rule we must all abide by.”

Rhodes raised a brow. “Are these guidelines for a . . . dessert-based cult?”

“Not a cult,” Lilibeth corrected quickly. “A society. We call ourselves ‘Mystic Misfits.’”

Rhodes looked interested. “What exactly does the Mystic Misfits Society do?”

She shrugged. “Mostly sit around, drink tea, and eat cakes.”

“Sounds like a productive afternoon to me,” Rhodes said. “Are you accepting new members?”

Both women exchanged a wary glance, then turned to Rhodes as if evaluating the sheer volume of pastries he could consume in one sitting.

Opalina, still watching them, explained, “We formed the Mystic Misfits Society when Cassia continued getting rejection letters from every witch coven in Angelene.”

Ark’s eyes snapped to her. “Rejection?”

Solemnly, Lilibeth nodded. “She just got another letter today.”

His fingers curled around his cup. Every door in Meredith was open to him, and he had chosen, again and again, not to walk through them. Cassia had every door slammed in her face and still, she kept trying.

His gaze flicked back to the plaque. The absurd rules, the playful wording—it was ridiculous, theatrical. Now, he recognized what lay beneath the humour: a way to take rejection and spin it into something that belonged to her, rather than something that had been done to her.

Instead of pleading for a place at a table that wouldn’t welcome her, she built her own table. And kept adding chairs.