Page 11 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)
Chapter Eleven
“Surely you cannot be in earnest about this arrangement, Grandmother.”
Jasvian stood in the doorway of the tea house’s pantry, his shoulders rigid beneath his impeccably tailored coat. He’d deliberately timed this conversation with his grandmother to coincide with the midday lull, when most of Bloomhaven’s elite would be taking luncheon in their homes rather than lingering over tea and gossip. More importantly, he’d specifically waited until he was certain Lady Iris wasn’t present. The very idea of another confrontation with that infuriating half-fae woman had set his teeth on edge all morning.
His grandmother didn’t look up from the inventory ledger that lay open on her lap, where she was meticulously recording figures with a silver-tipped quill. Shelves of exotic teas, spices, and preserves surrounded her, each jar and canister meticulously labeled in her elegant script.
“I am absolutely in earnest about the chocolate shipment,” she replied, turning a page in her ledger. “The supplier insists the price has increased due to transportation difficulties, but I suspect opportunism in the face of growing demand.”
“You know perfectly well that is not what I meant,” Jasvian said, stepping further into the pantry and closing the door behind him. The familiar scents of cinnamon and dried tea leaves enveloped him. Normally a comforting combination, but today it failed to soothe his agitation.
Rivenna finally glanced up, one silver eyebrow arched in that particular way that had intimidated half of Bloomhaven society for decades. “Ah. You refer to Lady Iris Starspun, I presume? My new apprentice?”
“Yes, I refer to Lady Iris Starspun ,” Jasvian replied, unable to keep a hint of mockery from his tone as he pronounced her name and title. “The very same Lady Iris whose magic consists of folding paper into decorative shapes. The Lady Iris who insulted our family in front of the High Lady herself and caused a scene that will be discussed in every drawing room in Bloomhaven for weeks to come. That Lady Iris.”
“Indeed.” His grandmother carefully set down her quill and closed the ledger. “Might I inquire as to your specific objection? Beyond the rather tiresome prejudice against her heritage that you seem determined to nurture.”
“My objection,” Jasvian said, “is that the tea house is not some charitable institution for wayward half-bloods with delusions of belonging in proper society. It is the center of Bloomhaven’s social web. A position it has maintained through years of careful stewardship by a full-blooded fae of impeccable lineage.” He drew a breath, forcing his voice to assume a more reasonable tone. “I simply cannot fathom how you could possibly believe her suitable for this role.”
His grandmother’s expression remained maddeningly serene. “And yet here we are.”
“Here we are indeed,” Jasvian agreed, his frustration building. “With you having offered an apprenticeship—a position dozens of accomplished young fae have sought for years—to someone whose magic couldn’t light a candle without assistance.”
“I see,” she said, rising from her chair. “I wasn’t aware that you had suddenly become an expert on The Charmed Leaf’s succession requirements. How marvelous that in addition to managing the lumyrite mines and overseeing our numerous estates, you’ve had time to master the tea house’s ancient magic as well.”
“That is not?—”
“Or perhaps,” she continued, her voice cutting through his protest, “you simply assume your title and bloodline grant you authority over matters that have never been your concern?”
Jasvian felt heat rise to his face. “My concerns are solely for the family’s standing in society.”
“How noble of you.” His grandmother moved to a shelf lined with various jars of honey, minutely adjusting their positions as she spoke. “And naturally, you believe yourself better positioned to judge what might affect our standing than I, who have maintained both the tea house and the Rowanwood social position for more decades than you’ve been alive.”
He forced himself to take another deep breath. Arguments with his grandmother invariably followed this pattern—her calm deflection and subtle redirection gradually leading him into verbal traps of his own making. “I apologize if I’ve overstepped,” he said, “but you cannot deny that this appointment is highly unusual.”
“The most significant decisions often are.” She turned to face him fully, her silver hair catching the faelight.
“In any case,” Jasvian said, raking a hand through his immaculately arranged hair, a gesture of frustration he immediately regretted, “the point remains that I cannot work under these conditions. If you insist on maintaining this arrangement with Lady Iris, then I will be forced to return to working at Rowanwood House.”
“An excellent solution,” his grandmother agreed smoothly. “Though I was given to understand that your mother’s ballroom renovations have made concentration at home rather challenging.”
Jasvian’s jaw tightened. His mother had indeed commissioned extensive renovations to the ballroom directly beneath his study, filling the house with the constant cacophony of workmen, enchanted tools, and the occasional minor explosion. “The renovations are … disruptive,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Such a pity. So it seems you have three options.” Rivenna ticked them off on her fingers. “Work amidst the chaos at Rowanwood House, find another location entirely, or …” Her smile grew slightly wicked. “Learn to coexist peacefully with Lady Iris in the study upstairs.”
“Or you could reconsider your decision,” Jasvian pointed out, his voice tight.
“I could,” she agreed. “But I will not.”
Jasvian pressed his fingers to his temples, where a headache had begun to form. “I don’t understand your insistence on this particular candidate. Surely there are dozens of suitable young fae who would be honored?—”
“The tea house chose her,” Rivenna interrupted, her voice suddenly gaining an edge of steel. “And I agreed with its judgment. That is all you need to know.”
“The tea house cannot choose anything,” Jasvian said, exasperation coloring his tone. “It is a building, Grandmother. A magically enhanced building, certainly, but still ultimately an inanimate structure. Everyone indulges the fancy that it has ‘a mind of its own,’ yet we all understand that it does not possess true sentience.”
His grandmother’s expression grew dangerously calm. “Is that what you believe, after all these years? That The Charmed Leaf is merely a clever enchantment? A trick designed to impress the gullible?” She shook her head slowly. “I had thought you more perceptive.”
“I understand that it responds to your magic,” Jasvian said. “That you’ve bound it to your will through decades of careful enchantment. But to claim it possesses independent judgment, that it can select anything of its own accord?—”
“And yet it did precisely that,” Rivenna cut in. “From the moment Lady Iris stepped through the front door, the tea house recognized something in her that you, with all your esteemed magical sensitivity, have failed to perceive.”
“And what might that be?” Jasvian asked, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice.
“Potential,” she said simply. “The kind that reshapes worlds, if given the chance to flourish.” She sighed, her expression softening slightly. “You see only what is before you, Jasvian. The tea house and I see what could be.”
A heavy silence fell between them. Jasvian struggled to formulate a response that wouldn’t sound petulant or dismissive, but found himself curiously unsettled by his grandmother’s words. What potential could Lady Iris possibly possess that he had failed to recognize? Her magic was rudimentary at best, her bloodline compromised. And yet …
He recalled the fierce intelligence in her eyes as she’d challenged him, both at the Opening Ball and again this morning in the study. The unwavering confidence with which she’d defended herself against his criticisms. Despite his initial dismissal of her abilities, there was something undeniably compelling about her refusal to be diminished.
“Your frustration is etched into every line of your face,” his grandmother observed, breaking the tense silence. “Perhaps you might consider some additional fencing practice to work through these emotions that so clearly unsettle you.”
Jasvian’s frown deepened. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve already scheduled the optimal number of fencing sessions into my weekly regimen, as well as the precisely calculated amount of swimming required to maintain peak physical condition.”
“Of course you have,” she sighed, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Heaven forbid your exercise routine should ever become as spontaneous as your temper.”
“I still maintain that this arrangement is ill-conceived,” he said, ignoring her jab. “Lady Iris and I are … incompatible. Our interactions invariably devolve into argument.”
“Perhaps that is precisely what you need,” his grandmother suggested. “Someone who challenges you, who refuses to be cowed by your pronouncements or intimidated by your position.”
“I have no desire to be challenged on a daily basis,” he answered. “I merely wish to complete my work in peace.”
“Ah, yes. Your precious solitude.” Rivenna moved to the pantry door. “Has it occurred to you, my dear grandson, that your insistence on isolation might be less a necessity and more a convenient shield against the messier aspects of human connection?”
“I have responsibilities?—”
“As do we all,” she interrupted smoothly. “Yet most of us manage to fulfill them without retreating entirely from society.” She opened the pantry door and gestured for him to leave. “Lady Iris is due to return at one o’clock. The study is large enough for both of you, and I expect you to make a genuine effort at civility.”
Jasvian recognized the tone—the conversation was over, his grandmother’s decision final. He could continue to protest, but it would accomplish nothing beyond prolonging this increasingly uncomfortable exchange. “Very well,” he conceded with poor grace. “I shall endeavor to be civil.”
His grandmother’s mouth curved in a smile that held more knowledge than Jasvian found comfortable. “How magnanimous of you.” She gestured once more toward the door. “Oh, and Jasvian? If you’re planning to filch one of Orrit’s fresh-baked loaves to tide you over until dinner, I suggest the rosemary sourdough in the cloth-covered basket beneath the third shelf. He’s outdone himself with today’s batch.”
Jasvian gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, then moved past his grandmother into the kitchen. He located the basket she had mentioned and helped himself to a generous slice of the still-warm bread before making his way back to the study upstairs, determined to put Lady Iris Starspun out of his mind.