Page 14 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)
Chapter Fourteen
Iris lifted a sprig of lavender to her nose, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes to fully appreciate the delicate floral scent. She set it down beside the small pile of herbs and tea leaves spread across her desk, then reached for a spoonful of dried chamomile. A faint herbal sweetness tickled her senses as she leaned in to capture the aroma.
“Notes of apple,” she murmured to herself as she scribbled the observation on one of the loose sheets of paper scattered across her workspace. “And … something earthy?” The tip of her self-inking quill danced across the paper as she continued writing. One of the small advantages of having manifested magic was that her own power flowed into a quill when she used it, meaning she never had to dip it into an inkwell. Even if her magic was, as Lord Jasvian had so charmingly put it, ‘useless,’ at least it spared her the inconvenience of splattered surfaces and overturned inkwells.
It was Iris’s fourth morning at the tea house, and after spending the previous two days in the kitchen with Lissian and Saffron—who, it seemed, was called Mama Saffron by almost everyone—and observing the main floor, she’d been instructed by Lady Rivenna the previous afternoon to begin this morning in the study. She’d been at her desk for nearly an hour, cataloging the characteristics of The Charmed Leaf’s extensive collection of tea ingredients.
So far, she was enjoying this sensory exploration more than she’d expected. And if she was being entirely honest with herself, the peaceful solitude of the early morning study offered a welcome respite from the curious stares and whispered comments that followed her everywhere else in Bloomhaven.
She crushed a mint leaf between her fingers and inhaled before pulling another blank sheet of paper in front of her. She had somehow managed to misplace the beautiful leather-bound notebook Lady Rivenna had gifted her and so was forced to write her observations on loose sheets that had somehow formed a chaotic array across her workspace. She breathed in the scent of the mint leaf again before returning her quill to the page and murmuring, “Refreshing. Cool. Slightly sweet with?—”
The door creaked open behind her.
Iris lifted her quill and looked over her shoulder. Lord Jasvian Rowanwood stood in the doorway, his expression darkening visibly when he spotted her. His appearance was immaculate, of course. Not a hair out of place, coat perfectly pressed.
“You’re here. Already.” His voice carried the warmth of a midwinter frost.
“Good morning to you as well, Lord Rowanwood. Yes, I am indeed here.”
He removed his coat and hung it with measured precision on the wooden stand by the door. “I had hoped for a few hours of peace before having to share the space.”
Iris turned back to the page in front of her, projecting an air of composed serenity. “Then perhaps you should have arrived earlier,” Iris suggested. “I’ve been here for nearly an hour.”
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Lord Jasvian crossed the room behind her. She watched from the corner of her eye as he pulled the chair out from behind his desk. The moment he settled into his seat, piles of documents materialized on his previously empty surface—account ledgers, correspondence, and meticulously organized stacks of papers, each one perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk.
“I see the enchantment works as intended,” Iris observed, looking up.
“Indeed. Some of us appreciate a system that ensures nothing is out of place.” His gaze lingered pointedly on the tea ingredients scattered across her desk.
“How fortunate that we’re each permitted our preferred approaches,” she replied sweetly. “You with your precise orderliness, and I with my … what was the term you used at the Opening Ball? Ah yes, ‘paper-folding nonsense.’”
Jasvian’s jaw tightened. “I thought we had agreed to maintain civility.”
“Had we? I must have missed that conversation amidst all your disapproving glares.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly striving for composure. “I see no reason why we cannot share this space amicably if we each focus on our respective tasks.”
“Precisely my intention,” Iris said, reaching for another jar and inadvertently knocking over a small vial. Golden pollen spilled across her notes. “Oh, blast it all.”
“Perhaps if you organized your materials in some logical sequence?—”
“Perhaps if you concerned yourself with your own affairs,” Iris cut in, brushing the pollen into a neat pile. She took a breath and focused intently on directing a wisp of her magic to scoop up the pollen and return it to its vial. Iris felt a quiet thrill of satisfaction at this small success. She secured the stopper, savoring the moment before Lord Jasvian could find something to criticize.
At his desk, he lifted the topmost ledger from the pile of documents and placed it neatly in front of him before opening it. “I would appreciate some quiet while I work, if you can manage it.”
“I’ll try not to breathe too loudly while sampling aromatic herbs.”
“I’m sure the effort would strain your capabilities,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
“About as much as basic courtesy appears to strain yours,” she replied in a similar tone.
For several minutes, they worked in strained silence. Iris continued her methodical sampling, though she found herself increasingly distracted by the scratching of Lord Jasvian’s quill and the almost inaudible whisper of magic he used to blot each line before continuing to the next. Everything about him radiated control and precision.
It was, Iris decided, utterly maddening.
She reached for another sheet of paper, accidentally brushing several loose herb stems off the edge of her desk and onto the floor. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Jasvian’s hand freeze mid-sentence, his gaze fixed on the fallen foliage.
Iris lifted her gaze from the floor and met his head-on, arching a single brow in silent challenge. His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, his stare unwavering. And in that moment, something Iris couldn’t identify prickled all the way up her spine.
Then, as if shaken loose by the weight of his stare, a thought struck her. She frowned. “Is it not considered improper that we’re alone in here together?”
He blinked and returned his gaze to the page in front of him. Lowering his quill to the paper once more, he said, “In this tea house, Lady Starspun, one is never alone.”
Iris looked around more closely and realized that despite the quiet, this was indeed true. There were several hearth sprites nestled in the unlit fireplace, their tiny forms glowing faintly as they dozed. A kitchen pixie who must have snuck in unnoticed after Lord Jasvian opened the door was arranging fresh flowers in the vase on the small corner table, and a flutter of movement on the bookshelf brought Iris’s attention to the small creature that had just darted behind the largest volume.
“How comforting,” she said. “Our mutual animosity has an audience.”
“I’m certain they find it as tedious as I do,” Jasvian replied, returning to his calculations.
Iris turned her attention back to the botanical reference book Lady Rivenna had provided. She reached for a sprig of rosemary to mark her current page, then flipped back to another section she’d previously marked with a loose button—one that had fallen from her sleeve when she’d settled at the desk that morning. Running her finger down the page, she found what she was looking for: When properly crushed, moonroot seeds release a delicate vapor with notes of vanilla and honey, intensifying any blend’s magical properties. Curious to test this out for herself, she reached for the small mortar and pestle on her desk, drawing them closer. The pale blue moonroot seeds rattled softly as she poured them into the bowl. With deliberate, circular motions, she began grinding.
“Must you do that?” Lord Jasvian demanded.
Iris paused. “Do what, exactly?”
“Create disturbances while I’m attempting to work.” He gestured toward her mortar. “I need to finish these accounts early. I have social engagements to attend this afternoon.”
Iris couldn’t contain her surprised laugh. “You socialize? Voluntarily?”
He dropped his quill and looked up. “It is most certainly not—” He cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a careful, measured quality. “Yes. Is that so difficult to believe?”
“Frankly, yes.” Iris set down the pestle. “What does that look like, my lord? You standing rigidly in the corner of a gathering, cataloging all the ways in which everyone else is failing to meet your exacting standards?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We are not all capable of easy conversation in a crowd, Lady Starspun.”
“Nor easy conversation in a confined space, it would appear,” she muttered.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “If you find my company so objectionable, perhaps you might consider working elsewhere. The kitchen seems better suited to your current endeavors.”
“Lady Rivenna specifically assigned me to this study,” Iris replied. “Though you’re welcome to return to Rowanwood House if my methods disturb you so greatly.”
“That isn’t possible at present,” he said, his voice clipped. “My mother is having work done on the ballroom, which is directly beneath my study. I cannot think for all the banging.”
Iris raised an eyebrow. “Surely your magnificent home has more than one room suitable for work?”
“The lighting in that room is optimal, and the desk itself cannot—” He broke off, seeming to realize how ridiculous this might sound. “I simply prefer my established workspace.”
“As do I, yet here we are, forced to adapt to circumstances beyond our control.” Iris gestured expansively, accidentally sending several petals dancing through the air toward his desk. “Life’s great equalizer.”
Lord Jasvian sent the petals spiraling back toward her desk with a quick spark of magic before they could land on his papers. “There is nothing remotely equal about our situations.”
“Of course not. You merely face the inconvenience of sharing a study, while I contend with an entire society that views my very existence as an affront to proper order.” Iris smiled tightly. “Clearly, your burden is the heavier.”
“That isn’t what I—” He stopped, visibly recalibrating. “Your personal challenges, while regrettable, are hardly relevant to the matter at hand.”
“Which is?”
“Your deliberate invasion of my workspace with … botanical debris.”
Iris threw up her hands. “For someone so obsessed with efficiency, you waste an extraordinary amount of time and energy on pointless complaints.”
“And you,” he countered, “seem determined to justify disorder as some form of artistic necessity.”
“Better than justifying rudeness as—” She broke off with a gasp as her gesturing hand knocked against a delicate vial of shadowberry extract. The vial toppled, its silver stopper popping free as it rolled across her scattered notes. Black liquid pooled across the sheets of paper. “Oh, for the love of?—”
“One might take this as a sign,” Lord Jasvian said, his tone laced with false sympathy, “that even the tea house finds your methods objectionable.”
“Or perhaps,” Iris countered, turning in her seat to face him fully, “the tea house is providing a perfect metaphor for how your presence darkens every room you enter.”
A flicker of something—hurt?—crossed his features before his expression hardened again. “I see. Well, far be it from me to inflict my ‘dark’ presence on someone who finds it so objectionable.” He shut the ledger with a snap and pushed his chair back.
But Iris was already standing. “Oh, by all means, stay,” she said with exaggerated politeness. “This is your study, after all—as you’ve repeatedly reminded me.”
She gathered her skirts and swept away from her desk, leaving behind the disaster of midnight essence-stained papers and scattered tea ingredients. The mess would likely torment Lord Jasvian’s ordered sensibilities far more effectively than any retort she could offer.
“Do ensure the door is properly closed when you leave,” he called after her.
With a deliberate slowness that bordered on theatrical, Iris pushed the door open to its widest extent. She paused in the doorway, turned to meet his gaze with defiant satisfaction, then lifted her chin and marched away, leaving the door gaping behind her.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the resounding bang of the study door closing upstairs. She halted mid-step, fingers tightening around the banister as a fresh wave of indignation surged through her. The insufferable man had actually slammed the door! For a wild moment, she contemplated marching right back up those stairs, flinging the door open once more, just so she could have the satisfaction of slamming it shut herself.
That would be childish, a small voice of reason whispered in her mind. And exactly what he would expect from you.
She took a deep breath, then another, willing the flush of anger to subside from her cheeks. Lord Jasvian Rowanwood might be the most irritating, rigid, judgmental person she had ever encountered, but she refused to give him the power to disrupt her day any further. She would not allow his arrogance to chase her away from this apprenticeship—her path to independence and, hopefully, her family’s financial salvation.
By the time she reached the kitchen, her breathing had steadied, though her irritation still simmered beneath the surface. She pushed open the door, expecting to find the usual bustle of morning activity. Instead, she was greeted by a surprising stillness. The kitchen wasn’t entirely empty, but the usual frenetic energy had dissipated to a gentle hum of minimal activity.
Before Iris could inquire about this unexpected calm, Lady Rivenna emerged from the pantry, a ledger tucked against her side, a kitchen pixie sitting on her shoulder, and a frown creasing her brow. “It’s simply unacceptable,” she was muttering to the pixie. “I paid the astronomical shipping price weeks ago and yet the stock still has not arrived? And we are days into the start of the Season now. I most certainly will not be dealing with them again in—” She broke off, noticing Iris. “Ah, Lady Iris. I thought you’d be occupied in the study until noon at least.”
“I found the environment less than conducive to focused study,” Iris replied carefully.
Lady Rivenna’s eyebrow arched knowingly. “I see. My grandson’s company proved as stimulating as expected, did it?”
“If by ‘stimulating’ you mean ‘infuriating,’ then yes.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Lady Rivenna’s mouth, but all she said was, “Interesting.”
“Where is everyone?” Iris asked, gesturing to the quiet kitchen around them. “I expected more activity.”
“We’re closed today. It’s the spring races.”
“Races?” Iris repeated.
“Pegasus racing,” Lady Rivenna clarified. “The first major event of the season after the Opening Ball. Nearly all of society will be in attendance. The tea house would be practically empty even if we were to open. Personally, I lost interest in pegasus racing years ago, so I rarely attend these days.”
“I had no idea,” Iris admitted. “I wonder why my parents did not mention it. I would have thought they’d want me to attend if all of Bloomhaven’s elite will be there. It seems like the perfect opportunity to make a favorable impression and improve my standing in society.”
“Your grandparents have never been particularly fond of pegasus racing either—they haven’t attended in years,” Lady Rivenna replied with a dismissive wave. “Besides, it’s not truly an ideal setting for making meaningful connections. Everyone is far too distracted by the races to engage in any conversation of substance. They’re either shouting themselves hoarse over their favored steed or frantically calculating their potential winnings.”
“Ah, well perhaps that’s for the best then,” Iris said, though inwardly she felt a pang of disappointment. Her curiosity about the magical marvels of Bloomhaven—so different from everything she’d known before—made her secretly long to witness such a spectacle.
“Well,” Lady Rivenna said, moving toward the kitchen’s central worktable and placing her ledger upon it. The pixie leaped from her shoulder and disappeared into a gleaming copper pot hanging from the ceiling rack. “Tell me what you learned during your botanical study this morning. Before my grandson disrupted your concentration, that is. Oh, and have you been recording your observations in the notebook I provided?”
Heat crept up Iris’s neck. “I, um …” She cleared her throat. “I seem to have temporarily misplaced it.”
“Misplaced it?” Lady Rivenna repeated, her tone suggesting that misplacing such an item was akin to misplacing the High Lady herself.
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” Iris hastened to add. “I last had it when …” She cast her mind back over the past few days, taking a few moments to think before realization struck. “The alcove! Your private alcove, where you had me sit and observe. I must have left it on the window seat when I was distracted by …” By the revelation that the tea house itself was actively listening and reporting on every conversation within its walls. “I’ll find it immediately,” Iris promised, already backing toward the door.
“Please do,” Lady Rivenna said, her expression subtly communicating that she expected better.
Iris hurried through the quiet main floor, weaving between tables until she reached the honeysuckle-draped alcove. She ducked inside and surveyed the small space, her eyes scanning the window seat with its plush cushions. Nothing. Frowning, she lifted the cushions one by one until finally she saw a gleam of deep plum leather wedged into the back corner of the window seat. “There you are,” she murmured, reaching for the notebook.
She tucked it securely beneath her arm and made her way back to the kitchen, where Lady Rivenna was now sitting at the worktable consulting a weathered recipe book. “Found it,” Iris announced, holding up the notebook.
“Good,” Lady Rivenna said, looking up. “See that you do not misplace it again.”
Iris was about to assure her that she would be more careful in future when the back door burst open with a bang that made both women jump. A whirlwind of teal silk and dark curls swept into the kitchen, bringing with it the scent of fresh air and herbs from the tea house’s garden.
“Grandmother!” the whirlwind called, resolving itself into the form of Rosavyn Rowanwood. “I simply must?—”
“Rosavyn!” Lady Rivenna exclaimed as she stood. “A lady does not careen about like a runaway pegasus.”
“Pegasus! That’s precisely why I’m here, Grandmother. The races. You simply must allow Iris to accompany me today. And may I remind you, I’m not actually a ‘lady’ yet, so perhaps I’m still entitled to a bit of careening.”
“With that unruly mane of yours, my dear, you’ll need far more than a magical manifestation before anyone considers you a proper lady,” Lady Rivenna replied with a pointed sniff.
“Fine, fine! I’ll tame this wild mane into the most elegant of hairstyles if you’ll allow Iris to accompany me,” Rosavyn said.
“When,” Lady Rivenna asked, arching a single silver brow, “in the long and distinguished history of our family, has anyone ever successfully bargained with me? Besides, Lady Iris has important work to attend to here.”
“Oh, surely she can sniff random leaves or whatever it is she’s been doing any day of the week,” Rosavyn said, earning another sharp glance from her grandmother. “This is one of the most significant social gatherings of the early season. If Iris is to establish herself properly in society, she absolutely must be seen in the right company. My company, specifically.”
Iris refrained from pointing out that Lady Rivenna had just told her the races were not ideal for making connections. In truth, her curiosity about the pegasus racing had only grown since their conversation, and she found herself hoping Lady Rivenna might relent.
“Please, Grandmother,” Rosavyn begged. “Mother is insisting I attend, and I shall be stuck with her and the twins if Iris does not come along.”
“A cruel fate indeed,” Lady Rivenna remarked dryly. “To be surrounded by one’s own family.” But she turned to Iris and asked, “What do you think, Lady Iris? Does the prospect of witnessing fae society engaged in one of its more frivolous pastimes appeal to you?”
Iris hesitated. She didn’t want to appear eager to escape her studies—she’d been genuinely enjoying the botanical examinations and the tea house’s many mysteries—but she couldn’t deny the pull of curiosity about this quintessentially fae spectacle she’d only read about in books.
“I would be honored to accompany Miss Rosavyn,” she said finally. “If you feel my studies can spare the time.”
Lady Rivenna paused, her lips pursed.
“Please, Grandmother,” Rosavyn repeated. “I cannot possibly attend such an occasion without proper female companionship. Please, please, please ?—”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, stop this unseemly whining. Very well, you may have Lady Iris’s company for the afternoon.”
“Oh, thank you, Grandmother!” Rosavyn darted across the kitchen and pressed a swift kiss to her grandmother’s cheek, which Iris noted Lady Rivenna attempted—and failed—to receive with due dignity.
Excitement bubbled up inside Iris as Rosavyn seized her hand, tugging her—just a touch too hastily to be deemed entirely proper—toward the back door. “Oh, my gloves!” Iris protested with a laugh.
“Quickly!” Rosavyn released Iris’s hand, though she could hardly contain herself, rising and falling on her tiptoes like a sparrow ready for flight.
Iris turned back, relieved she’d left her gloves in Lady Rivenna’s private alcove this morning instead of in the study upstairs. She raced off as the older woman heaved a dramatic sigh and muttered, “The pegasi shall still be there, my dear, even if you walk at a reasonable pace.”