Chapter 6 #2
The moment Cassia pushed open the kitchen door, warmth wrapped around her.
The air smelled of steamed custard buns and stewed apples, mingling with carrot soup and roast chicken for tonight’s dinner.
Mrs. Thimble stood at the long wooden counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she kneaded dough with strong, practiced hands.
Her silver-threaded hair was pinned into a neat bun, stray wisps escaping at her temples.
Flour dusted her apron, her forearms, even the bridge of her nose—she’d been at it for hours and had no intention of stopping.
Matilde, perched on a stool at the opposite end of the counter, was brushing melted butter onto a tray of pastries, her eyes flicking toward the doorway the moment Cassia stepped inside. A surprised grin pulled at her lips.
But it was Mrs. Thimble who spoke first, barely looking up from her work.
“Well, well.” She pressed the heel of her palm into the dough and turned it, voice as steady as the motion. “Miss Aura finally brought a young man to visit.”
Cassia choked on air while Matilde smothered a laugh.
Ark, to his credit, looked entirely unbothered. “Am I the first?” he asked, lips curving slightly.
Before Cassia could answer, Mrs. Thimble straightened, giving him a once-over, sharp but not unkind. “Cassia’s been coming here for years. First as a young girl, when her parents still volunteered, then as the steward. But this is the first time she’s ever brought male company.”
Matilde tucked a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear and leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “And such a handsome one too.”
Cassia shot her a glare. “Not you too.”
Matilde just winked and went back to brushing the pastries.
Mrs. Thimble gave a sage nod. “I approve, so long as he has good manners and an appetite.” She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to Ark with an expectant look. “Well? Do you?”
Ark inclined his head, as if playing along. “I do.”
That seemed to satisfy Mrs. Thimble. “Good. Tea’s nearly ready, and the children will be down soon.” She turned back to Cassia. “Your young man will be staying, won’t he? Go and set out an extra plate.”
Cassia opened her mouth to protest the phrasing, but Ark beat her to it.
“I’d be honoured,” he said smoothly, with just enough amusement to tempt her to elbow him.
Mrs. Thimble grinned, patting Cassia’s cheek with flour-dusted fingers before turning back to her work. “About time, my girl.”
Cassia’s face flushed with heat, and she bit the inside of her cheek. The teasing, the fun and games didn’t matter. She must keep her feet on the ground and remember what this was: a temporary arrangement.
She led Ark back to the dining hall, then turned to face him, tucking her hands into her skirt pockets. “If you have to go, I completely understand.”
This wasn’t his world—a house full of children, shared meals at scratched-up tables, a place built on memories rather than power. She should give him a way out. It was only fair.
But Ark didn’t move toward the door. “Why? Don’t I get cake too?”
Cassia hesitated. She’d expected him to do a quick sweep, ask his questions, and leave. Instead, he stood there, unhurried, as if he had nowhere else to be.
The tightness in her chest loosened. She blinked, then laughed—a real one, startled out of her. “Here, everyone gets cake.”
She turned toward the kitchen, and this time when she walked, her nerves didn’t feel so raw.
The kettle was still warm. She poured the hot water, then paused. Lemon and water was fine—but she could do better. A few quick movements: a slice of fresh ginger, a sprig of thyme from the windowsill pot, a generous spoonful of honey. She swirled it together, the honey dissolving with the heat.
When she returned with the cup, Ark was already settling at the table—the corner seat, against the wall, where he could see the whole room. She set it in front of him.
“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.”