Page 64 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Thank you again, for last night.

She tapped the note once. It shimmered and vanished in a soft spiral of golden ink and a trail of cinnamon sugar. Cassia watched it flicker out of sight, then turned back to the counter.

She had things to do. Things that didn’t involve watching the window or obsessing over whether she’d overstepped with the message.

When a raven shimmered into existence a few minutes later, landing on the edge of her kitchen shelf with a rustle of inky feathers, her breath caught.

She ran to it. At the gentle tap of her finger to its beak, the raven dissolved into a ribbon of curling letters.

The hand is still intact, albeit mildly resentful.

You were a gentle healer. Thank you for tending it, and for the rest.

P.S. If cinnamon-scented flowers become a pattern, we may need to discuss appropriate compensation for the sudden hunger you cause. Preferably edible.

She stared at the words—the floating, curling spell-smoke in the air, carrying that same dry charm that made it so damn difficult to keep her distance. A small smile tugged at her lips before she caught herself.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a message—a polite acknowledgment, a bit of banter, nothing worth getting excited about.

But the way he’d said thank you, like he actually meant it, stayed with her longer than it should have. She couldn’t quite shake it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine why.

She hadn’t expected kindness, certainly not from someone like Ark. It had been easier when he was just a mysterious demon with a mysterious reputation—someone she met for cold, awkward, perfunctory events purely for the sake of the arrangement.

But now, he was also the man who’d noticed her pain and didn’t push for answers. Who’d let silence sit between them without trying to fill it.

A flutter rose in her chest, but she squashed it down.

A message that smelled of woodsmoke wasn’t affection. It was charm, a skill she knew he possessed in abundance. The kindness in it was a luxury, one she lapped up like a stray in the rain, but she couldn’t afford to mistake it for a permanent home. It was smoke and mirrors. An illusion.

And illusions, no matter how convincing, always dissolved.

She knew that.

She just had to make sure her heart knew too.

16

ARK

Ark sat alone in the offices of Aegis & Ash. The sun was barely up over East Angelene, its light pale and watery through the frosted windows. It caught the edges of maps, the broken seals on old correspondence, the spines of books he’d read and reread this morning and still couldn’t make sense of.

He cradled a mug of pine brew and sipped absentmindedly, barely registering the liquid was lukewarm at best. His other hand hovered over the white tiger lily beside him—today’s Flora Note from Cassia, still smelling like butter and cinnamon sugar.

He’d retraced her words twice before writing his response. Then, another flower had arrived—a blooming magnolia, its pale petals pink and dusted with frost, smelling like caramel. He caught it before it drifted too far, his thumb grazing the soft bloom as it unfurled a message in gold script:

Compensation may be arranged. Terms include patience, praise, and possibly a tart. Don’t get used to the gratitude. People say I can be difficult on some days.

He chuckled and picked up his quill.

I’ve wrestled with curses and tamed artifacts that bite when provoked. I think I can handle one stubborn baker. But I’ll reserve judgment until I taste the tart.

Not long after, a gloriously large orchid arrived—dusky violet, cradled in a wisp of gingerbread-scented mist. He caught it midair as it hovered near his shoulder, petals curling open as if responding to his touch.

Lucky for you, I enjoy a challenge. The tart will be earned, not promised.

Ark tapped the flower absentmindedly, then set it down beside his inkwell. Earned, not promised. Were they talking about a tart, or . . . trust?

He picked up his quill again.