Page 154 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“You’ll be able to perch in the windows and judge everyone who walks by. You’ll enjoy that.”

Anuck gave a quiet purr and nudged his head against her cheek—a soft, grounding weight. As if he understood. As if he was comforting her. Cassia shut her eyes for a moment and let him.

Just breathe, she told herself. Let them imagine their lives. Let them walk the hallways and dream. This is what people do when they’re buying a house.

She was the one choosing to let go. The least she could do was be gracious about it.

“Darling,” the wife called from the next room, “look at this woodwork. The wainscotting is original, I think.”

Cassia turned and said, “My father did those himself back in the 80s.”

The husband made an impressed noise. “Craftsmanship like this is rare these days. We could refinish it, lighten the stain⁠—”

Cassia kept her eyes on Anuck, and the cat slowly winked at her.

It’s fine. They want it lighter. Everyone wants lighter colours nowadays. More modern. More airy.

She adjusted her hold on the cat and walked to the edge of the front parlour, standing quietly as they moved through her family’s home. The wife ran her fingers along the trim, nodding, already halfway into renovation plans.

“It has good bones,” the husband said cheerfully. “Traditional, but we can fix that.”

Cassia bit the inside of her cheek and smiled, just barely.

Then he asked his wife, “What about the kitchen?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A bit dated, isn’t it.”

Cassia’s breath caught. She turned toward the doorway, toward the narrow hall that led to the kitchen—the same one her mother used to disappear into with her sleeves rolled up, trailing cinnamon and clove. The same one where Cassia first learned to bake bread. The same one where her father danced her mother around the table after the Summer Solstice festival, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. Cassia had been jealous after and insisted she had a turn. Her father let her stand on his feet and taught her the steps.

That same kitchen was still lined with old spice jars, some labeled in her mother’s faded hand. The same crooked drawer that stuck every time it rained. The same worn wooden spoon that stirred healing broth for Cassia when she had fevers so high her magic hummed.

If they renovated it . . .

Her chest tightened, suddenly and without warning. She couldn’t breathe right—like her lungs had forgotten how to draw in air.

This wasn’t just a kitchen. This was the epicentre of her mother’s world. The place where, exhausted and stretched thin, her mother had performed the ultimate act of love. She had stood right there, between the stove and the pantry, and woven the multiplication spell that fractured her own lifespan, costing her thirty-five years to maintain the bakery, the orphanage, and a stable home for Cassia.

But Celestia’s magic hadn’t just vanished after her death; it had seeped into the very grain of the wooden countertops, lingered in the scent of the herbs, baked into the floorboards by the warmth of the oven. If they renovated it . . .

The smell of dried herbs would vanish. The warmth would be scrubbed away, sealed under new finishes. They wouldn’t just be tearing out cabinets; they would be scouring away the tangible echo of that sacrifice, erasing one of the final physical places where her mother’s love was still a palpable force.

Her pulse picked up, uneven, thudding hard behind her ribs. The room swam. Her gaze blurred. She held Anuck a little closer. He stirred uneasily.

“It’s fine,” she whispered, except no one had asked. “It’s fine. It’s just a kitchen.”

Cassia tried to remember her mother’s exact words when she’d cried bitterly after they sold her father’s things to pay some of the hospital bills.

‘The best memories are not in things,’ Celestia had whispered as she ran her fingers through Cassia’s curls. ‘They live in our hearts.’

But the heat behind her eyes betrayed her. One tear slipped loose before she could catch it.

The agent was at her side in an instant, while the elf couple cleared their throats amid awkward silence.

“Miss Aura,” he said quietly, his tight-lipped smile barely masking his panic, “perhaps you’d like to step outside for some fresh air?”

Then, almost in a hiss, “You are making them uncomfortable. And ruining the sale.”

She muttered an apology and went to the door like a wind-up doll at the end of her tune. Moving not because she wanted to, but because she’d been set in motion long ago.