Page 136 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“No.” Cassia met their gazes. “I don’t trust him. One day, he’ll find a way to take it back, and I won’t let anything of his touch these children.”

Their faces paled. Lilibeth began to speak. “Then . . . what⁠—”

She tried to smile. “Don’t worry. I still have one last idea to keep them together. But we don’t have much time. He gave us only fourteen days to move out.”

The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum that sucked the air from the room. And in that silence, she heard it—the tiny, hitched breath of a child trying not to cry. The sound was a needle to her heart. She’d once made that same sound.

“So . . . that’s it, then?”

Cassia turned. Devlin stood just inside the kitchen, arms crossed, jaw set. The sleeves of his too-small hoodie were pushed to his elbows. His gaze, always too perceptive, was locked on her. A few smaller children huddled behind him, eyes wide.

“Starlight is gone?” Devlin repeated. His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he didn’t flinch. He just stood there—almost thirteen and furious and afraid, trying not to show either.

Cassia stood slowly. Her throat tightened, but she kept her voice even.

“No,” she said. “It’s not gone.”

“Really?” Devlin asked, tone clipped. “Because it sounds like we’re being thrown out.”

Lilibeth started to rise, but Cassia gently lifted a hand.

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s not over. Starlight was never just this building. It’s not walls or windows or a kitchen that smells like bread and cinnamon.” Her voice wavered, but she steadied it. “It’s all of you. It’s all of us. Starlight exists wherever we choose to stay together.”

Silence settled for a beat—fragile and expectant.

Then Imogen stepped forward, her small hand still curled around the edge of Devlin’s sweater. “But how can we stay together . . . if we don’t have anywhere to live?”

Another voice followed, higher-pitched and nervous. “I don’t want to go to a different house.”

Someone else whispered, “I don’t want to be alone again.”

The fear in their voices struck her—because she remembered it, knew it intimately. She’d once stood in their shoes, uncertain of the future, praying some miracle would keep her family together.

Before she could speak, her knees were already lowering to the floor, her skirt fanning softly around her. She opened her arms, and they came. Not all at once—but one by one, they crossed the room. Devlin’s shoulders hunched forward as if unsure, until Imogen tugged at his sleeve and he followed. A few of the younger ones reached her first—clutching at her sweater, burying their faces in her shoulder. The older ones came last, hesitantly, with pride and hurt mingled in their eyes.

Cassia wrapped her arms around as many of them as she could. They smelled like honey and smoke and the herb sachets Mrs. Thimble and Matilde placed between their sheets and clothing—like the Starlight she knew. Something hot pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked it back.

“I don’t have all the answers yet,” she murmured, “but I promise you this: we are not being torn apart. We’ll find somewhere new. Somewhere warm. Somewhere ours.”

She didn’t know how, not precisely. But the way their small bodies leaned into her—trusting, believing—she knew she couldn’t let them down.

Not now. Not ever.

Slowly, the children moved to the entertainment room, temporarily reassured by her embrace and promises. But Devlin lingered near the door, arms crossed, his brows drawn.

Cassia rose slowly, brushing off her skirt, and crossed the room to him.

He looked away. “They believe you,” he said, voice rough with something too old for his age. “Even when it sounds impossible.”

“They do,” Cassia agreed. Then, she tilted her head. “But . . . do you?”

He hesitated. “I want to.”

She smiled at him. “I’m scared too. Not because I don’t think we’ll survive this. We will. But because I don’t know what comes next, and I hate not knowing. Especially when there are people depending on me.”

He glanced up, just enough for her to see the understanding in his expression.

“I’m not a kid,” he muttered. “You don’t have to explain things to me like I’m five.”