Page 85 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“It wasn’t for the village,” he admitted.

He felt her gaze on him; he didn’t turn. If he looked at her now, he’d say too much.

“Who was it for?”

Exasperation clawed at his chest. Did she really not know? He stopped walking, and she stopped beside him. He turned to face her fully. He had no choice. If she asked, he would answer—without the shield of deflection.

Snow drifted down, catching in her hair, and he had to force himself not to reach out and brush it away.

“You were frustrated,” he said. His voice sounded distant, scraped raw. “You wanted the children to have something magical. You wanted to give them light.”

He let the implication hang in the cold air: It was for you. Everything tonight has been for you.

Cassia’s breath misted between them. She searched his face, her eyes wide, and in the quiet, he could hear her heartbeat—or perhaps it was his own, hammering against his sternum.

She didn’t thank him. Instead, she reached out and brushed a stray spark of gold dust from his sleeve. Her fingertips grazed the wool, sliding down until, for a heart-stopping second, she grazed his bare wrist where his glove ended.

The touch was fleeting, but it burned.

“You realize this means you’ve officially earned it now,” she said.

He blinked. “Earned what?”

She shot him a look—sideways, her lips twitching. “The tart.”

A beat passed. Ark’s lips curved. “I was beginning to think the tart was a metaphor.”

“Oh, it absolutely is. For trust. Or patience. Or something equally inconvenient.”

“And if it’s earned?” he asked.

They had started walking again, and her gate was just ahead. She paused, her hand on the latch, and turned to face him.

“Then maybe it’s time to find out if it was worth the trouble.”

He took a half-step closer, the space between them undeniably intimate. “I don’t take tarts lightly,” he said, his voice low.

She looked from his eyes to his mouth and back again. “Neither do I.”

The gate creaked softly between them. Ark held her gaze—the weight of the night, his vulnerability, his hope, all lingering in the silence. He could kiss her now. He wanted to. The desire was a physical ache. But this—she—felt too important to rush.

“Then, let’s not keep it waiting,” he murmured.

21

CASSIA

She had barely opened the gate when Ark stepped past her, eyes sweeping the garden beds.

“Let me check around first,” he murmured.

Cassia blinked. “Check what?”

“For the magpie,” he replied over his shoulder. “House Agmon doesn’t conjure a Construct for no reason.”

He moved quickly up the front steps, along the porch, toward the narrow path that wrapped around the side of the house. The wind caught the hem of his coat, the pointed ends of his horns still visible in the porch light.

Cassia hesitated in the doorway, one hand still resting on the knob. Her heart gave an odd little kick. He hadn’t even stepped inside. Yet, somehow, she felt less alone.