Page 84 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Cassia didn’t answer. The children spilled back onto the ice, energy unbroken, their cheers scattering like birds across the frozen air. The crowd’s attention shifted as quickly as it had gathered. That left the two of them, standing at the edge of the ice.

Ark carefully slid the glove back over his left hand. Cassia stepped closer—close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his. Her scarf had caught a stray spark of gold dust, winking in the night.

“You didn’t watch the fireworks,” he said quietly.

“No.”

A self-deprecating laugh bubbled in his throat. “They were that unimpressive?”

“They were beautiful.” She turned to meet his eyes. “But I’ve seen fireworks before.”

She looked at him with none of the calculation most people wore when facing him unglamoured. And Ark, who had spent most of his life behind illusion, felt suddenly, stupidly bare.

“You’ve never dropped your glamour like that in public, have you?” she asked, softer now.

“No.”

A beat passed.

“I figured I ought to see it properly,” she said. “The real you.”

His throat tightened, his gaze flicking sideways. “You already did. In my office.”

“That was different. You didn’t have a choice; you were already unconscious.” She paused. “Tonight . . . you allowed it to fall.”

Ark couldn’t refute her. He could excuse vulnerability when it was unconscious, unintentional, reflexive. But this—tonight—had been a decision. He’d stood in full view of strangers and children and let the mask slip away.

And not just for the sake of fireworks.

The children had been reluctant to leave, their cheeks pink and voices hoarse from laughter, but eventually they’d clambered back onto the bus in a tangle of scarves, skates, and sleepy satisfaction. The teachers—two from Starlight, along with Opalina and Lilibeth—herded them efficiently.

Opalina paused at the bus steps and looked back, “We’ll take them back to Starlight. So, you two just . . . relax.”

Lilibeth grinned. “I give you both permission to do anything we wouldn’t do.”

With a wink and an exaggerated wave, she disappeared into the bus. The doors hissed shut. The vehicle rumbled to life.

And then, they were alone.

The festive noise faded behind them as they left the creek behind, walking side by side beneath trees wrapped in ribbons of soft gold light. Ark kept his coat buttoned, his injured hand tucked away, and—significantly—his glamour down. Every step felt like a conscious choice to remain that way.

They walked in silence. Streetlights flickered past. A few blocks later, Cassia said, quietly, “You handled the crowd well.”

Ark glanced over, watching her profile etched in the lamplight. “That’s a polite way of saying I didn’t growl at anyone.”

Her unguarded smile tightened his chest. “I mean it. You were . . . magnificent.”

He shook his head. “You’re better at navigating people than I am.”

They passed a stretch of homes decked with garlands. The space between their arms, swinging as they walked, felt like a tangible thing. A fraction of an inch. Enough to make him keenly aware of the possibility of contact.

After a moment, she said, “You didn’t have to do the fireworks. The children would’ve been disappointed, but they would’ve forgotten.”

“I know.”

“Then, why?” Her voice was softer now. “You dropped your glamour. You used magic you must’ve been conserving to heal. You let an entire village see you.”

Ark looked ahead, the truth pressing against his ribs. He could lie. He could make a joke, change the subject entirely, but the night felt too raw for that.