Page 25 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“This should be better than hot water and lemon.”

He looked at the cup, then at her. The steam carried the scent of honey and herbs. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She left it at that.

Footsteps thumped on the stairs. The door swung open, and the children trickled in—some still clutching notebooks, others rubbing their eyes, blinking in the warm light. Cassia sat down beside Ark. She looked at the children and cleared her throat.

“Everyone, this is—” She paused, the formal titles flickering through her mind, but all of them too distant, too stiff. She wanted the children to see him as approachable—not someone to fear or bow to. “This is Arkenoth. He’s a friend. He’s joining us for tea.”

The younger children stared. The older ones exchanged glances. Devlin, already seated across from Ark, simply raised an eyebrow.

Ark inclined his head. “Thank you for having me.”

His words were polite, but she watched, amused, as the lack of condescension in his voice made the children’s shoulders relax.

Mrs. Thimble and Matilde brought out plates of bread and cakes and a pot of tea that smelled of bergamot and clove. The soft clink of cups and the rustle of napkins filled the room. Someone passed the currant scones. Another reached for clotted cream. Ark went for the butter knife at the same moment Cassia did. His knuckles brushed her fingers, warm and brief. She looked up. He was already watching her—not the aloof glance he gave the rest of the world, but a look that made her feel like she was the only person in the room. She smiled without thinking. Small, private.

He didn’t look away. Her pulse galloped, but she held his gaze.

Across the table, Imogen leaned in, her small face scrunched with the kind of curiosity that had never once been tempered by tact.

“What are you, exactly?” the girl blurted.

Cassia pulled back. “Imogen, sweetheart.” She reached for her gentlest scolding tone, though her cheeks warmed. “It’s not polite to ask someone what they are. Instead, you might ask them which roots they come from.”

The girl folded her arms. “Alright, but what is he, though?”

Cassia sucked in a breath and shot Ark an apologetic look. She half expected him to bristle—most people would have—but he only chuckled, low and easy.

“It’s fine,” he said. Then, he turned to Imogen and answered, simply, “I am a demon.”

There were several gasps around the table. Then, a chorus of comments and questions erupted.

“But you have no horns! What happened to them?”

“Did they break?”

“Maybe they haven’t come in yet.”

“But they must have! He’s old, silly.”

Cassia bit the inside of her cheek, torn between mortification and a rising tide of helpless laughter. The children meant no harm. They were simply being children—blunt, unfiltered, and brutally honest. And Ark, who could intimidate half the city without trying, was being roasted by a pack of orphans over missing horns and his age.

He caught her eye. “I came here hoping for a boost of confidence,” he said dryly. “Instead, I’ve been called old and hornless in less than thirty minutes.”

She lost the battle. A laugh escaped before she could stop it—bright and unguarded, the kind she hadn’t realized she still had in her.

“I am thirty-three,” he told them. “I imagine that must seem incredulously old to you.”

Imogen blurted, “When you don’t have horns, absolutely! Even Devlin has horns, and he’s only a boy!”

“I’m not a boy, I’m almost thirteen,” Devlin muttered into his teacup.

Cassia sighed. Goodness, she loved these children—even when they were determined to embarrass her in front of demon aristocracy. “That’s enough pestering our guest for one day,” she told them.

“It’s not pestering,” Imogen huffed. “It’s an important question.”

Ark seemed entirely unfazed. “I’ve learned to hide my horns with glamour. That’s why you can’t see them.”