Page 82 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She went to him just as the bus door opened. He watched her approach, a tiny smile on his lips. She wondered—if she let herself wear his mark, even just for a little while, what would that feel like? A constant hum at the edge of her awareness, a thread tethering her to him even when they were apart.

But she’d learned the hard way that threads could be cut. And when this arrangement ended—and it would end—she’d be left with nothing but the ghost of a connection she’d never truly owned. She’d have to unlearn the shape of him.

That was the part that scared her most. The un-marking.

“I was worried the children would kidnap you,” she said, smiling up at him.

His mouth twitched. “I’d be lying if I said they didn’t try. But I have excellent evasion skills.”

They stood off to the side, watching the children pile into the bus. She was about to say something else—another jab, maybe a thank you, and quickly send him on his way—when his posture shifted. His head angled, attention drawn elsewhere.

Cassia followed his line of sight, her smile faltering. A single bird—a magpie—perched on the wrought iron railing across the street. At a glance, it might have passed for ordinary. But it was too still, too focused. Its feathers didn’t quite catch the light the way they should—they glinted with a metallic sharpness that no living bird possessed.

Ark turned back, leaning in slightly, voice low. “Don’t stare.”

“What is that?” she asked, forcing her gaze back to him, her heart drumming a frantic rhythm.

“A Construct. It bears a striking resemblance to the one on Agmon’s family crest.”

The air left her lungs. Alderrath. Here. Watching Starlight. The children’s laughter suddenly felt fragile, the world around them thin and dangerous.

Options ran through her mind. Should she cancel the trip? The children would be so disappointed. They’d been looking forward to this event for weeks! She slipped her hand into her pocket and fingered the now-familiar drawstring of the little green bag she kept there. The memory of tucking a lock of near-black hair into the bag drifted into her mind, and she glanced up at the demon it belonged to. The words hovered at the tip of her tongue.

She’d been terrified moments ago—of the hole he’d leave behind when this was all over. And now, here she was, about to ask him to stay. His charm, damn it. She was a woman who could hold a grudge through winter and bake her feelings into bread, and still, one look from him and all her carefully laid boundaries turned to dust.

“Will you come with us?” she asked.

His gaze widened.

“If you’re feeling up to it,” she added quickly, her eyes flicking to his bandaged hand. “If he’s watching, let him see you there. Let him see Starlight is under your protection.” A pause. Her cheeks were warm, but she held his gaze. “And . . . I’d feel safer with you there.”

He held her gaze for a long moment.

“Call it fresh air,” he agreed.

20

ARK

The ice at Thimble Creek gleamed beneath the lantern light, glossy and pale. Ark sensed the spells woven into it—reinforcement charms, likely drawn from village archives, meant to keep the sheet stable this early in the season. He stood at the edge of the rink, watching the Starlight children spiral past—scarves trailing, cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. Their laughter cut through the sharp winter air, rolling across the frozen surface.

Cassia stood beside him, her shawl slipping off one shoulder, her breath clouding in the dusk. Lilibeth and Opalina were already on the ice, herding the younger ones away from the bonfires that crackled along the banks. The smell of mulled spices and hot chocolate drifted from somewhere down the creek, curling through the lantern-lit dark.

Ark flexed his right hand beneath his glove. The ache was still there—a dull throb, familiar and ignorable. But aside from that, he felt . . . at ease. Unexpectedly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been bracing until now—waiting to feel out of place. But no one looked twice at him here. To them, he was just a tall stranger trailing a woman with cinnamon in her hair, children orbiting her like moons.

They found an empty bench by the edge. Cassia patted his arm. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone steal my spot!”

She slipped away before he could answer. He watched her go, noting the sway of her shawl, the way she ducked under a low-hanging garland, the easy nod she gave to a passing family. Then he scanned the tree line, the rooftops, the iron railings across the creek, the bridge.

No bird Construct.

He was just beginning to fully relax when his phone chimed. Ark pulled it from his pocket and scanned the message. His forehead furrowed. He read it the second time before slipping it back into his coat.

Cassia returned with two cups, steam rising from their rims. She handed him one. “Little Mineola’s best hot chocolate. Mr. Adamson, the owner, has been coming to the bakery for decades. He asked if you were a friend of the orphanage.”

“What did you say?”

“That you’re helping out.” She smiled. “Technically true.”