Chapter 39
CASSIA
The carriage rolled as smooth as cream across the village’s cobbled streets, then turned toward the outer boroughs, where iron lampposts gave way to flowering hedgerows and bridges arching over streams. Even in the heart of winter, the fields outside Little Mineola stood tall with corn—enchanted to last the season, their stalks rustling in the cold wind like a promise that roasted corn with honey butter would still grace the Yulefrost table.
Cassia sat stiffly, hands on her lap, while Delphyne leaned back against the velvet upholstery as if she hadn’t just commandeered someone’s afternoon.
She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d climbed in—only gestured for the driver to depart.
Cassia had noticed the driver when they approached the carriage.
It made sense—Ark never used one, preferring to operate his own carriage with his own magic, but Delphyne, she supposed, had standards to maintain.
She tried to contain her curiosity. It lasted about five seconds. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” Delphyne’s eyes remained fixed on the window.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” she agreed, “it’s not.”
“You can’t just sweep me away without a reason!”
“Can’t I?” A faint, knowing smile curved at the corner of Delphyne’s mouth. “A note would have been simpler, but I suspected you’d burn it.”
Cassia glared, but the Daemaris had already turned back to the window, dismissing her. The silence stretched. Cassia bit the inside of her cheek, watching the corn blur past, until another thought surfaced. “The Daemar looked well. I’m glad the surgery was successful.”
Delphyne’s gaze flickered toward her, then returned to the passing scenery. “Thanks to your elixir.”
Cassia blinked. “The surgeons said that?”
A scoff. “They’d never. That wouldn’t look good in a medical journal.” Delphyne smoothed her hair, and when she spoke again, her voice had softened—just slightly. “But Kassenor believes it. Ark and Oromon believe it.” A pause. “And . . . so do I.”
Cassia sat very still. Varil Delphyne believed her elixir was the reason Kassenor was still alive. Warmth bloomed in her cheeks, heavy and light all at once, and she didn’t know how to hold it. So she said nothing, letting the moment pass until she could trust her voice again.
“You must’ve known I told Ark about his father.”
Delphyne didn’t look at her. “I knew as soon as he appeared at the house the morning after the ball.”
Cassia stared at her lap, fingers worrying the loose thread at her coat’s hem. “I’m sorry I broke my oath.” She lifted her gaze, uncertain. “But there was no consequence. Why?”
A long sigh. “Because, foolish girl, I didn’t write one.”
Her eyes widened. “Why not?”
For a long moment, Delphyne said nothing. Her gaze stayed fixed on the window, but her voice, when it came, was quieter. “Because a part of me wanted my children to know. If this is to be the end, I’d rather it come with truth. I’ve kept many secrets. But not this one. Not anymore.”
Cassia didn’t know what to say. For the first time, she saw past the title—the woman across from her had held her husband’s hand through the worst of it, and had made room for grace in her own way.
Delphyne turned to her then, and her voice was almost gentle. “I owe you gratitude for that. So—thank you.”
Cheeks warm, Cassia inclined her head. “A family should stay together.”
Something flickered across Delphyne’s face—brief, sharp, gone before it fully formed. “That depends entirely on the family.” Her voice carried an edge Cassia suspected had nothing to do with her, but then it softened. “But in this case, happily, I agree.”
The carriage veered off the main road, wheels crunching through frost-laced gravel.
Cassia blinked and sat up straighter, brushing fog from the window.
Fields rolled past on either side, pale with snow and stubbled with the remains of last season’s crops.
Skeletal trees lined the drive, their branches etched against the pale-grey sky.
A pair of crows lifted from a stone fence and vanished into the clouds.
It had only been fifteen minutes, but they were no longer in Little Mineola.
The gravel path curved, climbing slightly—and then, all at once, the trees parted to reveal a mansion.
Cassia sucked in a breath.
It stood at the crest of a snow-dusted hill, not grand in the royal sense, but stately, unmistakably proud.
A long, sweeping facade of pale stone stretched across the grounds, its windows tall and latticed, many of them newly paned.
The roof had been re-shingled in slate-grey tiles, and deep-green shutters accented the upper floors like thoughtful punctuation.
Smoke rose in soft spirals from one of the chimneys. A line of hedges bordered the property.
It was beautiful. Restored, but not stripped of its soul.
A pair of craftsmen carried a door past a half-repaired garden wall. Others were painting trim, patching masonry, and retiling the side stairs. The air smelled faintly of snow, wet cedar, and old enchantments being gently brought back to life.
Cassia leaned forward, her breath catching. “What is this place?”
Delphyne didn’t reply, stepping down as the driver opened her door, heels crisp against the paving stones. Cassia scrambled after her, nearly slipping over the gravel.
“Where are we?” she demanded.
Delphyne’s coat swirled around her as she turned her head slightly, a cool winter wind lifting the silver ends of her braid. “A sanctuary. Of sorts. Consider it an alternative option.”
Cassia frowned. “An alternative option for what?”
Delphyne said nothing, walking up the path toward the arched front entrance. Carved columns flanked the door, and the knocker—an iron phoenix—had been freshly polished. Every step they took was accompanied by the quiet sound of work—hammers, distant voices, the scrape of chisel on stone.
The front door opened with a gust of warmth, cedar and wood varnish rushing out to meet her. But before Cassia could take in more than the ornate glass panelling and the aged marble threshold beneath her feet, voices rose from somewhere deeper inside.
“I said it’s crooked!”
The words shot down the hallway like a thrown hammer.
“You’re impossible,” came the reply—equally forceful. “The floor itself is sloped. Unless you want me to charm gravity, this is as straight as it’s going to get!”
Cassia paused on the threshold. Delphyne, standing just behind her, gave no indication she planned to enter. She merely raised an elegant brow and nodded for Cassia to proceed.
“Don’t tempt me,” the first voice muttered. “You’ve done it wrong twice—”
“I refused to do it wrong twice! That was your precious vision board talking, not real geometry!”
A heavy door slammed open somewhere down the hall. Footsteps approached, each one firm and fast, like someone storming off a battlefield.
Cassia instinctively stepped back when a towering demon appeared in the archway—broad shouldered, dust in his black curls, a thick flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, a toolbelt slung low across heavy trousers.
He filled the doorframe with his solid, slightly chaotic presence, like a thundercloud in work boots.
He caught sight of her and froze.
Then, slowly, his expression changed. He took in her face, her posture, the nervous grip she still had on her coat. His brows arched—slow and knowing.
She stared at the same sharp jaw, the same golden eyes—Ark’s features rendered larger, broader, unchecked.
If Ark was a dagger, this man was a battering ram.
When his expression softened into a smile, her breath snagged.
That devastating Varil smile. They both had it, and she was willing to bet Kassenor had once worn it too.
“Well,” he said, voice deep and gruff, but not unkind. “You must be the witch.”
Cassia blinked. “I—pardon?”
“The one my brother’s been turning into a tyrant over.” The grin widened. “I’m Oromon. Restoration contractor. Brother. And, most recently, sanity check.”
He offered a sawdust-rough hand without hesitation, and she took it—her fingers nearly disappearing into his warm, calloused grasp.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” he said, and the look in his eyes held something like fondness, as if he’d already decided he liked her. As if he knew exactly why his brother was acting the way he was, and couldn’t help being a little charmed by it.
“Good luck in there,” he added with a low chuckle as he strode past her. “And don’t let him bully you about the doorknobs. He’s been obsessed with them for three days.”
Then he clomped down the steps, shaking his head, muttering about difficult clients.
“Ah, Mother,” he said behind her, his tone brighter. “Come to take your favourite son out to tea, have you? Perfect timing—I’m absolutely starving.”
A pause—the kind that hinted at a withering look exchanged just out of sight.
Then Delphyne’s voice, cool as ever: “What about Ark and Cassia?”
Oromon chuckled. “I have a strong suspicion they’ll be . . . otherwise occupied.”
Just like that, they disappeared into the carriage, and the vehicle glided away.
Silence returned. In the distance, workers drifted toward a cluster of benches beneath a great oak tree—tea break, thermoses and sandwich papers in hand. The timing felt almost orchestrated. Having met Oromon, it probably was.
Cassia stepped inside. The door shut behind her with a soft thud, sealing her into warmth.