Page 86 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She watched him—a creature who belonged to the shadows more than the light. She’d seen plenty of men try to look dangerous. Ark didn’t even have to try.

When he returned, she was still standing on the porch, arms folded loosely, shoulder leaning against the doorframe.

“All clear?” she asked.

“For now,” he said. His eyes lingered on the windows above.

She arched a brow. “Wouldn’t you rather eat a tart than inspect my shutters?”

That earned her a flicker of a smile. “Let’s go inside.”

Cassia couldn’t be more relieved that she’d tidied the house before leaving this morning. Anuck greeted them at the door with a meow that was more demanding than welcoming. He padded across the patterned rug in the foyer. At the sight of Ark entering the house, the cat paused mid-stride, eyes narrowed.

“We have a visitor,” she told him. “Be nice.”

She barely had time to slip off her coat before Anuck curled dramatically around her ankles, tail twitching in lazy arcs, then turned his full attention to Ark. He meowed pointedly, as if to ask why she returned this late, and with company. Again.

Ark let Anuck circle him like a miniature guard patrol. The cat sniffed his socks, his legs, his coat. Then, with the grace of an emperor declining an audience, he turned and walked away, tail held high.

She gave Ark an apologetic smile. “Don’t take it personally. He does this to everyone. Including me.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of criticizing him for anything.”

Inside, the cottage’s warmth wrapped around them. She’d lit the hearth charm earlier, and it had done its work well, casting flickering gold light across the timber beams and robin’s egg walls.

The memory of his office flared up—spare, balanced, intentional. Every line clean. Every artifact in its rightful place. Energy flowed through it like wind through a reed flute—unimpeded, focused.

Her house was . . . the opposite.

It was layered. Books stacked two deep on each shelf. Dried flowers in old tea tins lined the edges. Herbs hung from ceiling hooks, and mismatched tea mugs crowded the kitchen cupboards. Magic flickered in the corners—old, warm, threaded into the wood. The remnants of her mother’s magic, earthy and quiet, sprawling through the house like climbing vines.

She caught Ark’s gaze moving across the room. Her pulse fluttered. “Do you . . . hate it?”

He turned to her, one brow raised. “Hate it? Why would I?”

“I mean”—she gestured broadly at everything—“you work in a place where magic flows in perfect circles. This is more like . . . spirals. Loops. Organized chaos, at best.”

He was quiet for a moment, eyes taking in her home. “It’s a different kind of magic, yours.”

“Does it weaken you? Being in it?”

“No.” His gaze found hers again. “But it asks something different.”

“Different how?”

“In my space, energy listens and obeys. Here . . .” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Here, it wants to talk back.”

She chuckled. “Yes, well. This has been a witch’s house for thirty years. I think it has opinions.”

“I’m not surprised.”

She led him into the kitchen. This was her domain. Her sanctuary, where the alchemy of flour and butter could solve any problem. Her temple, where the simmer of soup on the stove was a daily prayer. Her office, where the sharp, clean lines of her knife on a cutting board brought more clarity than any spreadsheet ever could. And now, Ark was in it. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his quiet energy displacing the air, making the room feel both too small and more alive than it had in years.

The mushroom soup that she’d spelled to reheat about twenty minutes before they arrived gently simmered on the stove, and the tart (the tart) was already warming in the oven, its scent of caramelized onions and goat cheese beginning to perfume the air.

“It’s only soup and tart tonight,” she said, pulling two bowls from the cupboard. “But I’ll throw in a salad and dessert.”

“Only soup, a tart, salad, and dessert?” He looked at her. “You keep setting the bar higher. I’m not complaining.”