The Idle Prince's Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 1

CASSIA

Dear Miss Aura Cassia,

Thank you for your application to The Grapevine Witch Society.

Regrettably, your status as ‘Sanguis Incertus’ makes you ineligible for a membership, which requires either a verifiable magical bloodline or sponsorship from an established witch family.

While your roles as Steward of Starlight Orphanage and Proprietor of The Witching Flour bakery are noted, they cannot override the Society’s basic requirements.

Sincerely,

The Membership Board

The Grapevine Witch Society of Angelene

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Cassia reread the letter once, twice, as if each pass would change the words. They were the same—polite and practiced, precise enough to sting. Another door shut in her face, just when she and Starlight needed every one open.

She slipped the paper into her apron pocket and drew a deep breath. There was no time for grief. The letter was just paper; the real threat was much more serious.

Cassia pushed a stray red curl from her face and hefted the teapot, making her rounds through the orphanage’s dining room.

Children of various ages, as young as five and old as twelve, gathered around the long wooden table.

Chairs scraped. Enchanted lanterns flickered.

The scents of chamomile and honey mingled with that of buttered bread—a fragile cocoon against the winter chill seeping through the stone walls.

Walls which, according to their new landlord, Peter Glendale, would not be theirs for much longer.

She should’ve known the moment he’d invited Angelene’s most prominent real estate developers to tour the building. She’d naively hoped it would be for renovations—that maybe someone would finally see the value in Starlight, in keeping it standing. But she’d been far off the mark.

‘I’m selling the building to Agmon Group, Miss Aura,’ he’d told her two weeks ago, quite irritated that she kept pestering him for a lease renewal. ‘They’ve offered a large sum. I can’t give you an extension.’

Her gaze swept over the children, fingers tightening around the teapot. One month. That was all the time they were given. Nausea churned. Where will the children go?

“Did you just get rejected again?”

Tea sloshed against the porcelain. Devlin, her oldest charge, leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes homing in on the apron pocket where she’d hidden the letter.

“What makes you say that?” Cassia asked.

He shrugged. “You had the same look last time.”

Before she could answer, Imogen wriggled close, the letter already grasped in fingers sticky with apricot jam.

“Imogen!” Cassia plucked it back. The girl blinked up at her, eyes wide.

“What’s San . . . Sanguis In . . . certus?” she asked.

The room fell silent. Cassia looked up to find that every child had stopped eating, their eyes fixed on her. She took a steadying breath and set the teapot down.

“It’s . . . a fancy term for being Untethered,” she said.

When Imogen still stared with a furrowed brow, she explained, gently, “It means I wasn’t born into a family with a lineage that can be traced back through generations.

” She tucked the letter back into her pocket.

“And some people think that matters more than it should.”

Another boy, Jonah, frowned. “But . . . we don’t even have families. Does that mean we’re Untethered too?”

Chest squeezing tight, she crouched beside him, brushing crumbs from his cheek. “We may not have a family in a traditional sense, but we belong to each other. That’s family too.”

Devlin snorted, folding his arms tight across his chest. “Try telling that to all of Meredith. They’d sooner eat their Book of Names than admit we’re worth half a damn.”

She shot him a stern look. “Language, please.”

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.

Sometimes she wondered which was more impressive.

The phone’s screen lit up, but not with the response she needed. Just another email reminder from Peter Glendale that she must find another arrangement for the children as soon as possible.

When old Mr. John Glendale was alive, Starlight’s future had felt secure. But then his son inherited the building and struck a deal with Agmon Group, one of Meredith’s largest real estate developers, and no amount of pleading could change his mind.

Hence, the coven applications.