Page 88 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Starlight’s building was modest, and she wouldn’t comment about its décor or furnishings. They did their best with dwindling donations, but they’d never had to deal with any issues, not even a leak during the heaviest rainy season.

“This morning, he sent one of his agents to do a scan on the outer walls. It’s wonderfully preserved. Structurally sound, magically intact, more stable than buildings half its age.”

Her gaze drifted to the photograph on the refrigerator. Her mother, younger than Cassia was now, held her as a baby on her hip—mischief and warmth in that familiar smile. “Fifty years since the last large-scale repair, you said?”

Ark looked at her. “Does that number mean anything?”

“My mother would’ve turned fifty this year.” Her chest fluttered with uneasiness. “She grew up in that building. First a ward, then a steward. It was her domain. She ran it for most of her life, all while managing the bakery.”

She paused. “She used to say the building was stubborn. Like it wanted to stay standing. Like it knew it must, to protect the children inside.”

Ark studied her, his gaze so intent it felt like a physical weight. “Maybe she wasn’t wrong.”

“But what does it mean? Was it just luck? Higher construction standards? Or . . .” She trailed off as Ark’s eyes dropped to his bandaged hand. He flexed his fingers slowly, stiffly—a reminder of Starlight’s basement.

“We know something’s there,” he said. “Even if it’s not malicious, it’s present. Watching.” His eyes found hers again. “Protecting.”

She exhaled slowly. The warm glow from the hearth suddenly felt heavier, pressing in. Her mind still circled around her mother—fifty years ago, just born, maybe already loved by something unseen.

If that was true, nothing was as simple as it seemed. The building wasn’t just brick and mortar. Wood and nails.

Cold dread wound through her. “What are we truly dealing with? What’s holding Starlight together? And . . . how did it get there?”

Ark didn’t answer.

But she saw the same question staring back at her.

Ark washed the dishes while she made dessert. By the time she finished—two ramekins of warm custard dusted with cinnamon and candied ginger—he had settled on the couch. Anuck had positioned himself on his pillow in front of the hearth, staring at Ark.

She handed him a spoon, then curled up on the opposite end, feet tucked beneath her. They ate in silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of spoons against ceramic. Candlelight traced the edge of his jaw, and when he turned his head, she caught the shape of his throat as he swallowed.

When he set his spoon down, his voice was lower, careful.

“Earlier in the courtyard,” he said. “I caught the tail end of your conversation with your friends.”

She went still, her spoon stopped mid-scrape. The bond mark. He’d heard . . . All of it? Enough of it? She bit her lower lip.

“You heard that?” She croaked.

“I caught the words ‘bond mark’ and filled in the rest.” He met her gaze. “Opalina and Lilibeth . . . are not wrong. If we want people to believe this engagement, you should carry my mark. My mother will surely question its absence.”

Cassia’s breath caught, but she gave a small nod. “I understand.”

“There are places it could be hidden,” he continued. “But . . . if the goal is credibility, something more visible will send a clearer message.”

He hesitated, then shifted to face her fully, his voice gentler now. “But what do you think?”

Cassia’s throat worked around a reply. How could she tell him the thought of bearing his mark had lingered in the back of her mind all evening? That the idea of his mouth on her skin—lingering, claiming—had wrapped itself around her spine and stayed there, humming?

She cleared her throat. “If it’s in the name of the mission, then I suppose⁠—”

“It would be careless not to prepare.”

“Foolish, even,” she agreed. “We wouldn’t want to come this far only to be thwarted by an overlooked detail.”

Ark’s mouth twitched. “Perish the thought.”

The firelight caught his eyes—gold, steady, fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room. They moved slowly, deliberately, tracing her jaw, her throat, settling on the pulse fluttering at her collarbone.