Page 173 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“This is Ark,” she said softly, “at a younger age? But⁠—”

“No,” Kassenor said.

She looked again. The resemblance was uncanny—the same tilt of the head, same fingers curled with unconscious care rather than possession. Even the eyes had the same flicker of restraint behind reverence. But now that she looked closer, she saw this man’s build was slimmer, his horns slightly less curved.

“That was taken at our engagement ball—mine and Delphyne’s,” he said. Then, he looked at the photograph again, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “She wore a dress with crystal beading that snagged on every bloody thing. Threatened to set it alight halfway through the evening. I told her she outshone the chandeliers. She said I was full of smoke, but she stayed by my side all the same.”

He passed her another photograph.

This one she knew. The event photographer had taken a picture of her and Ark, dancing at the Yulefrost ball. Her laughter was suspended in time, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. But what struck her now was Ark’s face. The openness in it. How his expression mirrored Kassenor’s.

He picked up the photo and touched the image gently, his fingers pausing over his younger self.

“I had thought,” he said, voice low, “if my son ever looked at someone the way I looked at her that night . . . if he felt even half as fortunate as I was, then there’s no argument in any realm strong enough for me to stand in the way.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. “‘The one I love, loves you.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

Cassia’s throat ached. She smiled, blinking quickly. “You remembered.”

“These days, I forget much. But that, I remember.”

She looked down at the photograph again, her vision blurring. She blinked hard, once, twice, until Ark’s face came back into focus. Her words had mattered. And she hadn’t known, until this moment, how much difference they’d made.

Inside the box, she glimpsed other portraits: Kassenor and Delphyne standing side by side on what looked like their wedding day, and them again, each holding a baby wrapped in dark velvet. Ark and Oromon, so small they fit in the crook of their parents’ arms. A family. Cassia stared at the image. At the four of them, whole and unbroken. She thought of the few photographs she had of her own family—her mother, young and smiling. Her father, thin even before the illness took him, but still standing. The three of them, together, before everything changed.

Her throat tightened.

“You have a beautiful family,” she said.

Kassenor’s fingers stilled on the velvet case.

“I sometimes wonder,” she said softly, “what it would be like to have that. A family I came from. People who share my blood.” She shrugged, letting out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “But I’ve made peace with that. Mostly. Most days.”

He didn’t speak, but he studied her with that same careful look she’d noticed when he turned puzzle pieces between his fingers—weighing her, though she couldn’t tell on what scale.

Then, he said, “You see, I’ve found that the happiest people are the ones who stop asking where they came from and start deciding where they’re going.” He fitted the photographs back into their velvet case carefully. “Any gardener will tell you—it’s not where the seed fell that matters. It’s what you do with the soil you’re given.”

Cassia smiled. It sounded like something her mother would have said whenever she’d asked about family. The words settled somewhere quiet and warm in her chest—a reassurance she hadn’t known she needed.

“Thank you,” she said. “For showing me the photographs. For listening.”

He closed the case with a soft click. His head tilted toward the door, slightly ajar, a gentle smile touching his face as faint laughter drifted from the sitting room—the sound of his family gathered together, warm and unhurried.

“Now, let’s return to the others,” he said, already turning his wheelchair toward the door. “I believe there was mention of winterberry cake.”

Dessert had been served and enjoyed in front of the fire. Kassenor was right: it was an excellent winterberry sponge cake soaked in plum wine with a generous serving of spiced cream. When she and Ark were ready to leave, farewells were brief but warm—just enough to signal they’d see each other again before the end of Yulefrost season, or before Oromon returned home to Valien.

In the front hall, Cassia tugged on her gloves, smiling to herself, the last echoes of laughter still coursing through her. Ark helped her into her coat, smoothing the collar. As he wrapped her scarf, his fingers lingered against her cheek.

“Ready to go, Starling?”

She leaned back into his solid warmth for a fleeting second. “If we must.”

They waved goodbye to Orlen, who held the door open, and stepped outside into the night, the air crisp with frost and starlight. Lanterns lined the walkway, their glow soft and golden beneath gently falling flakes.

Cassia smiled up at Ark, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “You know, a certain demon once informed me that Yulefrost is the most auspicious night for . . . new beginnings.”

Ark’s brows rose, a slow, knowing smile gracing his lips. “Did he? How forward.”