Chapter 8
CASSIA
The hand pies in The Witching Flour’s oven were supposed to be golden by now; they were not.
Cassia sighed. Today had started wrong and just kept going in a worsening direction.
First, she’d overslept. The drizzle against her window had made staying in bed irresistible, and Anuck had curled against her chest, purring.
The cat had felt so warm, so soft, she might’ve slept another hour if he hadn’t started kneading her belly—a pointed reminder she had kneading of her own to do.
Then there was the humidity, unusual for winter.
She didn’t mind the cold, but damp air always did something strange to her curls.
This morning, they’d been particularly riotous, an untamable red halo defying every ribbon and pin.
She’d barely wrestled them into a loose knot before throwing on her cloak and rushing out.
Just as she’d rounded the corner to The Witching Flour, a speeding car tore past, spraying her with icy street water.
But the real gem of the morning had been waiting in the bakery’s mailbox: another rejection letter, this time from The Willow Hearth—a coven she’d actually believed would give her a chance.
Their literature spoke of nurturing young witches, fostering magical growth, upholding tradition without exclusions.
Community-focused, welcoming to those with mixed heritage.
Like a fool, she’d let herself hope.
The letter shut that down neatly. ‘While you are welcome to participate in our special events, full membership requires a stronger lineage connection.’
Cassia had been rejected many times before, but this one stung.
Still, disappointment wouldn’t put pastries inside the bakery cases.
She had exhaled and pushed forward, wishing—not for the first time—that she had the funds to hire help.
But, as she moved through the space that had always been both a refuge and responsibility, she knew: as much as she wished she could’ve just spent the day in bed today, she needed the comfort of routine and familiarity.
A few years ago, she’d tried taking this day off to spend it curled under a blanket, assuming being at home would help.
It hadn’t.
But being in the bakery—cooking, baking, seeing her customers’ smiles . . . that helped.
Because The Witching Flour was more than a shop—it was a haven.
No grandeur or opulence, and no staff—just warmth that made people linger.
It smelled of sugar and spice, of hearth and home.
A place to sit with tea, listen to the rain against the windows, and indulge in something warm and sweet.
Soft golden light from enchanted lanterns glowed over sage-green walls and rustic wood floors.
Ivy and flowering vines curled from the ceiling—wisteria, honeysuckle, wild roses—blooming all year round, a testament to the magic her mother had started. The same magic Cassia continued.
Beyond the pale-green counter, the open kitchen stretched in full view.
Trays of pastries and glass jars of sugared treats caught the light.
Fresh loaves lined the shelves, their crackling crusts dusted with flour; cakes and tarts rested beneath domed glass covers.
The space hummed—pies cooling, teacups clinking, the low murmur of conversation blending with the occasional flutter of vines above.
Cassia sighed, grabbed a teapot, and drifted into the dining room, refilling cups at the cozy tables scattered throughout.
It was lunchtime—her favourite part of the day.
Little Mineola’s residents, from shopkeepers to passersby, gathered here for warm conversations over hearty soups and savoury pies.
And today, more than ever, she needed them to distract her.
Alas, her regulars had already noticed her frown, and the letter peeking out of her apron pocket.
“Another rejection, dear?” Mrs. Potts asked, sympathy softening her gaze. “Don’t let it get to you. The right coven’s out there somewhere.”
“Any coven would be lucky to have you,” Mr. Potts chimed in from across the table, his words slightly muffled around a mouthful of pastry. He adjusted his spectacles and reached for another.
Mrs. Tilly, sitting at the table beside them, gave a firm shake of her head. “Your mother never needed a coven. She lived just fine without one.”
“Yes, well, Celestia had Cassia,” Mrs. Potts countered, lips pursing. “Cassia has no one.”
“She has us, doesn’t she?”
Mrs. Potts huffed. “Of course she does, but we’re old, Araminta. She needs people her own age. Witches she can connect with.” She waved a hand. “Network, I think they call it. Finding a nice witch gentleman to settle down with wouldn’t hurt either.”
Cassia’s chest tightened. Once, she thought she’d found a nice witch gentleman to settle down with. He turned out to be neither nice nor a gentleman.
She gave her customers a bright smile. “I think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves.”
“Forget those arrogant covens,” Mrs. Tilly said, reaching for Cassia’s hand. “Why don’t we take a look at your fortune today? See what the tea leaves have to say.”
The hand pies smelled like they were nearly finished baking in the oven, but she humoured Mrs. Tilly with a smile. For a human of her years, Mrs. Tilly had the sharpest eyes Cassia knew—and an unshakable belief in the stories leaves could tell.
“Give me just a moment to check on some pies, Mrs. Tilly.”
Cassia made her way to the kitchen and opened the oven.
The pies were perfect—golden, crisp, exactly as they should be.
She set the pies on the rack to cool and made her way back to the dining room, pausing at the table where Opalina and Lilibeth were still picking at their lunch.
A half-eaten slice of quiche rested on Opalina’s plate, while Lilibeth had a forkful of rich chocolate torte halfway to her lips.
A small pot of dark ganache sat beside her plate, and every now and then, she dipped her fork in for an extra taste before taking another slow bite.
Opalina glanced up first, her jade-coloured eyes sharp as she set down her fork. “That bad?”
Lilibeth nudged her plate toward Cassia. “Here. Chocolate makes everything better.”
Cassia sighed, dropping into the seat across from them, eyeing the chocolate torte. “If only it were that simple.”
Opalina tilted her head. “Another rejection?”
Cassia hesitated, then pulled the folded letter from her pocket and placed it on the table. “The Willow Hearth.”
Lilibeth winced. “Oh, Cass. I thought they were one of the welcoming ones.”
“So did I,” Cassia muttered. “Apparently, their idea of inclusivity stops just short of me.”
Opalina tapped her nails against her cup, eyes narrowing slightly. “You should hex them.”
Cassia let out a short laugh. “That’s your answer for everything.”
Lilibeth took her hands and straightened. “Forget about them. Let’s talk about something else. You still haven’t told us about the other night.” Her dark brown eyes roved over Cassia. “Did you speak to Agmon Alderrath?”
Cassia sighed. “The office was closed. I went to The Ivory Club.”
Lilibeth cringed. “And?”
Cassia dusted flour from her apron, her stomach twisting. “Nothing worth talking about.”
Opalina gave her a long, knowing look. “Cassia.”
She sighed, resting her elbows on the table. “Fine. If you must know, I spoke to Agmon Alderrath.”
Lilibeth leaned forward. “And?”
“He refused to reconsider.”
The words sat like lead on her tongue. She’d known the odds were slim, but at the time, part of her had hoped it would be just that simple. She almost cringed at her own naivety.
Lilibeth scoffed. “Of course he refused. That bone sucker is as soulless as they come.”
Opalina’s expression was softer. “So . . . what will you do now?”
Cassia hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around the folded letter in her pocket. If she admitted to the bargain she’d struck with Arkenoth, Opalina and Lilibeth would never let her hear the end of it.
They’d worry. Opalina would try to talk her out of it, reminding her of every cautionary tale about pureblood demons—their cunning, their self-interest, their ability to turn any deal in their favour.
Lilibeth would be furious on her behalf, certain Ark would exploit her, that he saw her as nothing more than a pawn in whatever game Echelons played.
And they might be right.
But . . .
She had read his missives, the ones that had felt strangely and unexpectedly personal. She’d seen him at Starlight, listening to the children, answering them without mockery or dismissal. She’d watched the way his gaze had lingered on the Memory Wall, quiet and unreadable, but not indifferent.
Cassia exhaled, shoving the thought aside before it could take root.
She would tell Opalina and Lilibeth soon, when they had all the time in the world to talk about it.
For now, she forced a light shrug and an easy, practiced smile. “I have another plan.”
Lilibeth’s dark eyes rounded. “You do?”
“Uhm . . . somewhat.”
Her friends exchanged a look.
“That,” Opalina said slowly, “sounds like you don’t have a plan.”
Cassia pursed her lips. “Not in a fully constructed sense, no.”
“That’s not a plan, that’s a wish.”
“It’s . . . more like a bargain.”
Lilibeth gaped. “Aura Cassia! You better tell us what’s going on, now.”
“I will,” Cassia said quickly, already rising. “Later.”
Before her friends could press her further, she made a beeline for Mrs. Tilly’s table, grabbing her tea from the counter as she went. She slid into the seat across from the elderly woman and drained it in one go.
“Alright, Mrs. Tilly,” she said, setting the empty cup down. “Read my fortune, will you?”
Mrs. Tilly adjusted her glasses, peered inside, and gave a knowing hum. “You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger.”
Cassia snorted, shaking her head. Mrs. Tilly had given her the same fortune every week for the past . . . three or four years, at least.
“Chance would be a fine thing, Mrs. Tilly.”