Page 87 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

An almost giddy laugh escaped her. She hid her smile by opening the oven door. A wave of heat and the rich aroma of herbed cream flooded the kitchen. The tart needed another eight minutes to turn properly golden.

Ark stepped in beside her and rolled up his sleeves. “What can I do?”

Cassia handed him a bundle of radishes. “Thin slices, please. Like petals.”

He took them from her fingers without breaking eye contact. “Understood.”

The way he occupied the kitchen felt intentional—close, watchful, attuned to her every move. He anticipated her without being asked, stepping back when she reached, shifting when she turned. She stirred the soup with one hand, her other resting lightly against the counter for balance, acutely aware of how close his arm was, how her belly fluttered every time his shirtsleeve brushed hers.

The ladle stirred by itself now, freeing her hands. She reached for plates, and as she did, her fingers grazed his—light and accidental. Her pulse jumped and, for a moment, she forgot about the food entirely.

Anuck, who seemed to always have great timing for everything, leapt onto the counter with a demanding trill.

“Don’t even think about it,” Cassia warned, tapping the cold pink nose. The cat looked at her with cool disdain, then turned to Ark and meowed sharply.

“I believe that was a request for tribute,” Ark said solemnly, his gaze fixed on the cat.

“He’s not allowed on the counters, but he does it anyway.”

“You have to give him what he wants now.” Ark looked at her, deadpan. “Otherwise, he’ll blame it on me.”

She snorted. “He’s a cat. He’ll blame you regardless.”

Ark studied the cat, who was now washing a paw with theatrical indifference. “He’s already plotting something. I can tell.”

Cassia laughed. She bent and poured Anuck a small dish of cream, the cat lapping it up happily.

The soup bubbled enticingly on the stovetop. She switched off the heat with a flick of her wrist and removed the tart from the oven in a cloud of sweet-savoury steam. The scent curled through the kitchen like a familiar charm. Ark set the table while she sliced the tart into neat wedges. The salad came together quickly—oil, vinegar, and a pinch of salt—then she carried everything to the table. The soup followed, velvety mushroom ladled into ceramic bowls she’d charmed to keep it warm.

When they finally sat, the table lit by candlelight and the shimmer of firelight from the living room, Cassia let herself exhale. It was a simple meal, but the domestic triviality felt deeply, dangerously intimate.

They ate in easy silence at first—the kind that didn’t press or stretch. The tart flaked at the edge of their forks, the goat cheese melted by just enough honeyed heat, the soup rich with savoury depth.

Cassia watched him from the corner of her eye. This wasn’t the first time he’d tasted her cooking, but something about tonight made her more aware of the way he ate—how he lingered between bites, how he didn’t rush the meal like it was a means to an end.

When she ladled another serving of soup into his bowl, he looked up and met her eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

She shrugged. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t collapse again.”

His mouth curved faintly. “If this is your version of preventative care, I hope I stay injured for weeks.”

Cassia fixed her eyes on her soup, but warmth bloomed in her chest anyway. They continued eating in comfortable silence for a while.

Ark looked up, his gaze finding hers. “I received a message earlier—at the skating rink. It’s about Starlight.”

Cassia went still.

“I had someone looking into the building this week,” he said.

“Rhodes? Caius?”

He shook his head. “My brother. Oromon. He studied architecture and moved to Valien. Restoring magical properties is his specialty. We use him often. He offered to look into Starlight’s records: ownership filings, deed history, permit applications. Anything that might give us a foothold.”

“Did he find something?”

“He found . . . an odd detail.” He paused, pursing his lips before he continued, “The building’s over a hundred years old. It had a few minor repairs in the early decades—windows, plumbing. But for the last fifty years? Nothing. No maintenance, no ward renewals, no structural work. The place should be showing age, if not falling apart.” He met her eyes. “But, as you know . . .”

“It’s in pristine condition,” Cassia finished.