Page 2 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Eyes flashing, he lifted his chin. “I’m being honest. You’re the one trying to sugarcoat it.”

Cassia turned to the younger children. “Family isn’t about what’s written in some dusty book.” She looked at each of their faces, then shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “We’re here together. That counts.”

Her words softened the silence. Even Devlin’s scowl faltered, just slightly. Cassia smiled and slid a plate of cake in front of him.

“Here. I brought your favourite from the bakery. Now eat, before I decide Imogen deserves your slice too.”

This time, the reluctant twitch in his mouth almost counted as a smile. A small victory.

She gathered a stack of empty plates and shouldered through the swinging door into the kitchen. The din of the dining hall fell away to the hum of the oven, the scent of spiced honey, and the familiar sight of her two closest friends tucked into their usual spots.

Opalina sat at the wooden worktable, needle in hand, her golden hair twisted into a tidy coronet atop her head—a style that accentuated the delicate points of her elven ears. Gossamer layers of pastel-coloured fabric spilled across her lap, a half-mended costume for the upcoming Yulefrost play, only four weeks away. From the window seat, her other friend Lilibeth deliberated over a tin of dark chocolates, her slender black tail flicking.

Cassia’s thumb brushed a threadbare seam on the nearest costume piece. Every year, she hoped the performance would spark just enough interest to keep Starlight’s own seams from fraying. A piano for the music room, perhaps, or just enough food to fill the cupboards through spring.

And, to make it worse, this might be their last Yulefrost celebration together.

“Another rejection letter?” Opalina mused, her voice soft as the shimmering threads she deftly worked between her fingers.

Cassia sighed and went to open the oven. Warmth rushed through the kitchen as she pulled out the tray of cakes. A bowl of spiced honey glaze slid toward her with a flick of her hand, and she dipped a brush, sweeping it over the miniature cakes until the sugary sheen melted into their golden-brown tops.

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured.

Opalina arched a flaxen brow—a look Cassia had known since they were girls sharing a desk in their drafty classroom—but said nothing. From her perch, Lilibeth selected another chocolate and nibbled the edge, watching.

“You are very tense for someone who claims not to care,” she said.

Cassia shot her a look. “I’m not tense.”

Lilibeth’s gaze slid toward the tray. “You’ve glazed the same cake at least three times.”

Cassia groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. The words pressed at her lips—not just about the letter, but about the eviction notice, the empty donation ledger, the relentless feeling of patching up a wall just as another crack splintered through.

As it was, she was barely sleeping. Her body recognized the signs even if she refused to admit them—the dull ache behind her eyes from another four o’clock start, the flour she kept finding in her hair hours after leaving the bakery. Most days, she sold out at The Witching Flour by early afternoon, locked up the shop, and caught the train from Little Mineola to Angelene with bits of dough still stuck under her nails.

By the time she walked through Starlight’s door each evening, she was running on fumes and stubbornness in roughly equal measure.

Lilibeth opened her hand. “Give it here.”

Cassia passed the letter over. Her friend barely glanced at the words before setting it on fire with a snap of her fingers. Cassia gasped but made no move to save the blackening parchment.

Lilibeth’s expression was neutral as she swept the ashes away, but her tail flicked behind her. Over the years, Cassia had learned to read Lilibeth’s mood from her tail, courtesy of her half-demon heritage. When it lay still, she was calm. When it moved like that, even with a blank face, something was simmering underneath.

“Another organization that thinks they’re too good for our kind. No surprise there,” Lilibeth said.

Opalina smirked. “The Mystic Misfits strike again.”

Cassia’s lips twitched. “Their loss. We have our own society, and at least ours includes good tea and cake.”

“And a much better name,” Lilibeth added, dusting off her hands. Her long dark curls, streaked with rose gold, swung forward as she turned back to her notes on the bookbinding lesson she’d give the children tomorrow.

Cassia turned back to the counter and rolled up her sleeves. The familiar weight of her mother’s rolling pin settled in her hands. Though Starlight had a full-time cook and kitchen hand, she would send Mrs. Thimble and Matilde to the market whenever she slipped away from The Witching Flour early. She’d take over the dinner preparations, immersing herself in the rhythm of chopping and stirring, the quiet joy and the steady magic—the same kind her mother had once worked in this very kitchen.

Her gaze drifted to the pantry door, to her mother’s photograph pinned there, its edges softened to a warm yellow.

I’ll protect them. I promise.

She wiped her hands on a towel and pulled out her phone. Human gadgets were fussy but useful—a reminder that magic wasn’t the only way to shape this world. Witches had spells; humans had technology. Same people, though some inherited power with their blood, and others had no choice but to build it.