Page 46 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“You’ll see.”

She tilted her head. “What kind of event requires that level of secrecy? Should I be preparing for a dinner? Theatre? Poetry reading?”

A slow smile touched Ark’s lips—the first truly unguarded expression she’d seen from him all afternoon. It made him look younger, almost mischievous.

“Consider it a surprise.” He leaned over the counter, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. “Wear the dress. Bring your wit. The rest . . .” He pulled back, that same devastating smile curving his mouth. “I’ll handle the rest.”

Cassia closed the bakery early. After Arkenoth and his friends left, there hadn’t been much left to sell anyway. Rhodes had seen to that with a terrifying level of efficiency. And with a high-society event looming on the horizon, she needed time to go home and brace herself.

Her home—a single-story cottage tucked just around the corner from The Witching Flour—was all soft lamplight and creaky charm. Creeping ivy framed the front windows, and the faint scent of cinnamon, dried lavender, and old books lingered in the air like a signature fragrance.

Inside, it was chaos.

Her bedroom had been overtaken by silk and satin. Every available surface was draped in fabric or occupied by shoes, accessories, and ribbon swatches in colours Cassia couldn’t even name.

Anuck lounged in the centre of the bed, entirely undisturbed by the chaos unfolding around him. He blinked once in their direction—mild interest, at best—then resumed his posture of feline indifference, tail flicking in a slow, judgmental rhythm.

Opalina emerged triumphantly from Cassia’s closet, holding aloft a dress wrapped in gauze and protective spells. Even through the wrapping, Cassia recognized the twilight-blue fabric—and her stomach clenched.

“I knew this would come in handy one day,” Opalina said, the pride evident in her voice.

Cassia, seated in front of the mirror, gave a flat look. “You mean the dress I insisted we burn?”

Opalina didn’t flinch. “And I, with my eternal wisdom, said no.”

Cassia stared at her reflection as Lilibeth gently towel-dried her hair from behind, soft curls springing back into place with each pass. Her eyes found the dress again in the mirror.

“I still wonder why we didn’t,” Cassia murmured.

Lilibeth’s hands settled gently on her shoulders. “It didn’t work for what we planned back then. But that doesn’t mean the dress doesn’t deserve its moment now.”

A pang twisted in Cassia’s chest. The dress was beautiful—achingly so. Then again, everything Opalina made seemed touched by magic.

What had once been a forgotten twilight-blue tea-length gown buried in the back of her closet slowly went through a transformation. Opalina preserved its bones and nothing else—she’d kept the shape and built something entirely new atop it. With a bowl of crushed lavender and rose petals, a shimmer of elf magic, and her steady, precise hands, she rendered the fabric a soft, luminous purple.

The off-shoulder neckline formed a silhouette both elegant and demure, while the bodice hugged her frame. From the dropped waist, layers of silk organza spilled in airy folds to midcalf, catching the lamplight with every shift. Iridescent pearls and crystals traced the neck and waistline like dew, and fine embroidery wove delicate silver-and-gold vines across the fabric, clusters of lilacs blooming quietly in their wake.

It was feminine without being precious. Sophisticated, but full of wonder. No one could look at it and not see that it had been made by an elf’s hands—and by an artist.

Her wild curls had been tamed under Lilibeth’s careful hands—pressed smooth with heated combs, then braided into a sleek plait coiled neatly at the back of her head. Sprigs of dried lavender had been threaded between the twists, subtle and fragrant.

Cassia looked at her reflection in the mirror and swallowed around the tightness in her throat.

It felt strange, standing here in something so beautiful. Unfair, almost. Like she’d put on someone else’s life for the night—someone who had no reason to mourn, who didn’t carry the weight of this particular day in her chest like a broken glass wrapped in silk.

But with Opalina and Lilibeth’s steady presence behind her, with the gown clinging like it belonged on her body and the pearls resting cool against her skin, Cassia looked at herself and saw someone she might have been. On another night. In another life.

Her parents would have loved her in this dress.

For once, just this once, maybe she could do something different.

Even if it hurt.

11

CASSIA

An hour later, after her friends left, Cassia stood by the front window, smoothing her hands down her skirt for the third time, trying not to fidget. Her friends had warned her—threatened her, really—not to touch anything. Not to take anything off. Not to ruin their work before anyone had even seen it.