Novels by Jasmine Wren Leigh

Morning kept its promise and showed up like a clerk with ink already dry. The box from Ashmere sat open on the green desk—last of the hinges, last of the island’s patience, diagram pinned under a teaspoon as if to keep it from floating back to myth. On the sill, the city-made hinge breathed without boasting.Evelyn woke to bread and not to weather. Lucien was already half dressed, the way men are when the day has chosen them and they mean to choose it back. He held up a slip of ugly gray—the Receipt of Kindness they had filled last night; grease kissed the corner.“For the officiant,” he said.“Minta takes jam, not bribes,” Evelyn said, tying the red scarf badly on purpose.“Clause Twe

Morning brought a wooden box that smelled like salt, iron, and somebody else’s patience. The rope was Ashmere’s—opinionated knotwork that could have doubled as a note if you knew the dialect. Lucien levered the lid with a kitchen knife; the blade forgave the demotion from metaphor.Inside: small hinges nested in sea-grit, a coil of stubborn wire, three packets of screws tied with sail thread—and, folded under brown paper, a diagram in a lighthouse hand: HINGE, CITY-MADE. In the corner, Maera’s older script: This is the last box. After this, make your own. Accuracy prefers local metal.“Graduation present,” Maera said, mouth trying not to be pleased.Isolde tapped the diagram as if it o

Spring learned handwriting. The letters came early, neat, and almost kind. One wore the city seal the way a polite thief wears gloves.Notice of Voluntary Registry for Public Safety (Witness), it read in a clerk’s careful hand. Purpose: to expedite assistance, avoid duplication of charity, and minimize gossip-related harms. Please enroll names of conveners, locations of open windows, and typical hours. Forms available at Listening Rooms and at the Office of Harmonious Quiet. Signatures optional but recommended.Optional. Recommended. Kindness with a ledger.Isolde set the paper on the green desk as if it might stain. “He did say registry,” she murmured. “He has domesticated it.”

Spring arrived like a clerk with wet boots and a stack of forms. It did not argue with winter. It simply set new rules on the counter and watched to see who would sign.On Valehart’s green desk, three notices rested with the polite menace of folded steel.The first wore the city seal and a scented ribbon, as if good intentions could perfume an invoice: Witness Levy—A modest assessment to offset municipal costs associated with open windows (sweeping, rats, sentiments). The second came from the insurers, who had begun to learn poetry where it profited them: Premium Adjustments for Premises Hosting Unlicensed Assemblies (kitchens included). The third had no crest and no ribbon. It was one line, hand-proud and ink-thin:

The city had learned to send its news in envelopes that smelled like chores. Morning put three on the green desk. The first wore the municipal seal and the solemnity of a scolding uncle: Revision to Night-Noise Guidance—Voluntary Observances Encouraged. The second carried the Foundry watermark: Benevolent Silence Fund—Grants for Listening Rooms. The third had no mark and was folded along the careful pleats of a widow’s patience: Our rent went up for hosting chairs. We will bring jam anyway.Isolde slit the first with a butter knife; knives were back to kitchen rank in this house. She read aloud as if conducting a small, disobedient orchestra. “The city invites citizens to consider quiet as a civic duty. Windows may remain open for

The city woke like a shopkeeper who had counted her till three times and still wasn’t sure whether the loss was carelessness or theft. Bread arrived precisely; milk nearly so. The river made small arguments and then forgave itself. On Valehart’s sill the hinge looked like nothing, which was how it did its best work.Two envelopes waited under the door. Not threats. Invoices.Isolde slit them with a butter knife because knives had been promoted back to kitchen rank. “Weights and Measures,” she read, unimpressed. “A fine for obstructing a thoroughfare with chairs. And a Notice of Harmonious Quiet—noise ordinance—eight to ten in the evening, no public assemblage that might ‘impede sleep as a public good.’” She looked over the paper as if it were an adolescent.

I cared nothing for how the farce in the dining hall ended. I went upstairs, locked the door behind me, shutting out the crying, the shouting, and the wreckage. Silence fell instantly. I walked to the window, gazing at the heavy night beyond, my heart filled with a peace I had never known before—tinged with the thrill of rebirth. It was over. The nightmare that had once belonged to Sophia Lane—the humiliation, the disguises—was finally over. Not long after, hesitant, heavy footsteps stopped outside my door. He lingered for a long time before finally knocking softly. “Sophia.” Ethan Caldwell’s voice filtered through the door, hoarse, filled with weariness and… almost a plea. “Open the door. Let’s talk, please?” I didn’t respond. I simply stood still.

Ethan Caldwell’s so-called “pursuit” was like a belated and clumsy performance—forced and laughable. He started coming home on time, even bringing back expensive but soulless gifts—jewelry, limited edition handbags—placing them on the coffee table as though checking off a task. He tried to have dinner with me, searched for topics at the table, but his gaze always carried that lingering scrutiny and probing. He wavered between suspicion and a twisted urge to “win me back.” The more he failed to find any connection between me and Stellar Dawn Group, the more restless he became, and the harder it was for him to let go of his “interest” in me. I observed coldly, playing along with his act—sometimes showing just the right touch of aloofness and grievance, sometimes offering a tiny hint of soften

The name Stellar Dawn Group swept through the Caldwell Group like a sudden storm, dragging the entire Caldwell estate into the eye of a suffocating vortex. When Ethan Caldwell returned home, it was already late at night. I hadn’t gone to bed. Instead, I sat on the sofa in the upstairs lounge, a book open under the glow of a floor lamp—or rather, I was waiting for the storm I knew would come. Heavy footsteps echoed from downstairs, weighed down with fury and—faintly—exhaustion. He didn’t come up right away but went to the bar. The sharp sound of ice hitting glass rang out—once, twice, over and over—cutting through the silence like shards of glass.I set my book aside, moved to the stairwell, and looked down.He stood with his back to me, at the bar, his suit j

Ethan Caldwell’s suspicion hung over the Caldwell estate like an invisible mist. The way he looked at me grew increasingly complex, filled with a kind of obsessive scrutiny. He began coming home more frequently, even casually asking about my past—about my life in the Lane family, about what books I had read. I remained the same obedient, timid Sophia Lane, answering flawlessly, carefully concealing every edge. Only on rare occasions—when he brought up highly technical business terms or international affairs—would my eyes betray the faintest glimmer of another soul’s sharpness. I could feel his confusion mounting, along with his frustration. He could uncover nothing. My background as Sophia Lane was clean to the point of emptiness: an overlooked daughter in the Lane family, unremarkable in school, withdrawn in character. This stark contrast to the woman he sensed now formed a riddle he couldn’t let

The aftermath of the banquet was like a stone cast into a still lake, sending invisible ripples through the Caldwell mansion. I remained in my room, yet the air felt different. When Mrs. Zhou delivered meals, her head bowed lower than usual. The faint disrespect that had always tainted her tone was gone, replaced by cautious curiosity. The servants I passed in the hall stopped, greeted me respectfully as “Madam,” and hurried away, their eyes full of confusion—and a touch of fear. I could feel countless eyes, discreetly watching me from the shadows, trying to see what lay beneath the calm exterior of the woman who had revealed such unexpected brilliance that night. Ethan Caldwell no longer ignored me. He began coming home for dinner. The atmosphere at the dining table was suffocating. He sat at the head; I, at the opposite end. He no longer pretended I didn’t exist. Instead, from time to time, his eyes fell on me. That gaze was no longer purely cold or filled with disgust. It was

Determination is a peculiar thing. Once it settles in the heart, it builds a wall of iron, shutting out all weakness, fear, and hesitation.After that day, I remained silent, outwardly obedient. But I was no longer the same Sophia Lane who endured humiliation passively. My obedience had become my disguise—the best cover I could wear. Behind it, my eyes were open, calmly observing the world I was about to fight against.And the opportunity came sooner than I expected.The Caldwells hosted a grand business banquet, gathering nearly every elite in the city. As the nominal Mrs. Caldwell, my presence was required.The day before, Vivian Caldwell had Mrs. Zhou deliver a dress—a dull, conservative gown, clearly chosen so I wouldn’t outshine anyone. I looked at the gown and, instead of meekly accepting as before, I said calmly, “Tell Mother, I already have a dress.”Surprise and disdain flashed across Mrs. Zhou’s eyes, as if she thought I was bluffing. I gave no explanation.On the night of t