Page 18 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)
Chapter Eighteen
Jasvian had devised a perfect, foolproof system for maintaining his sanity while sharing workspace with Lady Iris Starspun. Step one: climb the stairs to the study. Step two: greet her with the exact minimum courtesy required by social convention (precisely calculated at four words: “Good morning, Lady Iris.”). Step three: proceed directly to his desk without further engagement. Step four: immerse himself so completely in the mountain of paperwork that he could plausibly pretend she didn’t exist.
And a mountain it was. The annual Rowanwood Masquerade loomed less than a fortnight away, and his mother’s seemingly endless ballroom renovations had generated enough invoices to bury a small village. There would be no deviation from sorting through them. No distractions. Certainly no dwelling on the infuriating conversation in the park yesterday, or how inexplicably unsettled he’d felt watching Hadrian charm Lady Iris with his easy smile. And absolutely no contemplation of the way her touch had left his skin tingling long after contact.
He’d already spent far too much time doing precisely that the night before.
He reached the top of the stairs and inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders like a soldier preparing to face an opponent far more dangerous than any mine tempest: a woman who somehow managed to disrupt his perfectly ordered existence simply by breathing the same air.
He pushed open the door to find her already seated at her desk, her dark hair arranged in an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Several books lay open before her, and she appeared to be comparing passages between them, her quill moving swiftly across her notebook. Beyond the pervasive aroma of tea leaves that perpetually filled this building, another delicate scent now lingered in the air. Something citrusy. Something Jasvian was doing his best not to notice.
“Good morning, Lady Iris,” he said, then silently congratulated himself for successfully executing step two of his plan as he crossed the study to his desk.
She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him at all. The scratching of her quill continued without pause.
Jasvian placed his leather satchel on the desk with more force than necessary, but still received no response. He settled into his chair, waited the usual two to three seconds for the contents of his desk at Rowanwood House to appear on the desk in front of him, then pulled the stack of invoices closer. He began meticulously comparing the artisans’ charges against their initial estimates, noting with irritation that the crystal chandelier fixtures had exceeded the projected cost by nearly fifteen percent. The lumyrite inlay work for the dance floor similarly showed concerning overages that would need explanation before payment could be authorized.
He reached for the next invoice and scanned it, but the figures began to blur as his attention kept wandering across the room. The silence stretched between them, heavy and pointed. Normally, he would have welcomed such peace, but today it felt like an accusation.
After another minute or two of staring at the same invoice without making any progress, he cleared his throat. “I see you’ve decided not to speak to me. Is this because of yesterday’s … exchange?”
Iris finally looked up, her expression carefully neutral as she glanced at him. “I have determined that conversation between us inevitably leads to argument. It seems more efficient for each of us to simply pretend the other does not exist.”
“Indeed?” Jasvian found himself strangely irritated by her calm assessment. “I suppose that is one solution.”
“You’re welcome to propose an alternative,” she said, her tone so perfectly reasonable it bordered on maddening.
“No, your approach suits me perfectly. I have complex calculations that require my full concentration. Silence will work well.”
“Excellent.”
And with that, she returned to her work, effectively dismissing him.
Jasvian stared at her bent head for a long moment before forcing his attention back to his own papers. The figures now made even less sense than before. He took a deep breath to clear his head, then copied the numbers from various invoices to calculate the total expenditure. He made an error, crossed out his work, and made another two errors before giving up with a quiet huff of frustration.
Despite his best efforts, his awareness of Iris’s presence seemed to have intensified now that they had agreed not to speak. The soft rustle as she turned a page, the occasional scratch of her quill, even the rhythm of her breathing—all of it conspired to disrupt his concentration.
He glanced up again just as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind one slightly pointed ear, revealing the elegant line of her neck. As if sensing his gaze, she shifted in her chair, the movement releasing another wave of—what was it? Orange blossom? Jasvian found himself inhaling deeply before he could stop himself.
This was intolerable. How was he supposed to work while she sat there being so … present?
His gaze fell on the notebook lying open on her desk. She had moved it a little to the side as she focused on a page in one of the books in front of her, and from his vantage point, he could see that the current page was blank.
He picked up his quill, hesitated for just a moment, and then cast a communication spell he and his siblings had taught themselves years ago. Originally intended for sending messages across ballrooms during particularly tedious social events, it would serve his current purpose well enough.
He released magic into his quill and wrote on his own paper, beneath the scratched-out calculation: Your endless page-turning is exceedingly distracting.
Across the room, it took a few moments before Iris stiffened. Jasvian watched as she noticed the words appearing on her blank notebook page. For a long moment, she simply stared at them. Then she reached for a loose sheet of parchment, wrote something quickly, then sat back as it quickly folded itself into a perfectly crisp envelope. The paper creation lifted from her desk and flew across the room, landing precisely in front of him.
He unfolded it to find a message written in a neat, flowing hand:
How unfortunate. Perhaps you might consider relocating to another workspace if my study habits disturb you so greatly. I was here first, after all.
Jasvian found the corner of his mouth twitching upward before he mastered the impulse. He penned his reply:
This has been my workspace for years. I will not be driven out by your inability to turn pages quietly.
He watched with satisfaction as his words materialized in her notebook. Her shoulders tensed again, but she didn’t turn around. Instead, another paper envelope soon made its way to his desk.
I wasn’t aware that mastering silent page-turning was a prerequisite for occupying this study. How remiss of Lady Rivenna not to mention this crucial requirement.
Despite himself, Jasvian felt a spark of … something. He wrote:
Lady Rivenna would never be so impolite as to mention such a deficiency directly. She would expect one to have the self-awareness to recognize it.
The next paper envelope pirouetted through the air with unnecessary flourish before landing on his desk:
How thoughtless of me. Just as it would be thoughtless to mention someone’s apparent inability to complete a calculation without sighing dramatically. Yet here we are.
Jasvian glanced down at his work, noting with chagrin the multiple crossed-out figures. He wrote:
I am not sighing ‘dramatically.’ I am expressing justified frustration at being unable to focus on important financial matters while someone insists on creating miniature windstorms with every turn of a page.
I had no idea paper could be so loud. Perhaps the sound is merely amplified by the echoing silence where your good manners should be.
A snort escaped Jasvian before he could stop it. He cleared his throat and sat a little straighter, still fighting a smile. There was something oddly liberating about arguing in writing rather than aloud. The slight removal allowed him to appreciate Iris’s quick wit without the immediate pressure to maintain his stern demeanor.
You misunderstand. It is not the sound of the paper, but the obvious deliberation with which you turn each page. Clearly calculated to disrupt my concentration.
He watched as she read his message, her posture straightening indignantly. The next envelope practically shot across the room:
Oh yes, because my entire purpose in life is to disrupt Lord Jasvian Rowanwood’s precious concentration. How did you discover my nefarious plot? I’ve been meticulously practicing disruptive page-turning for years, awaiting this very opportunity.
He had to catch himself before another snort could escape.
Your sarcasm is noted, Lady Iris. Though I must point out that dedicating one’s existence to disrupting my concentration seems a rather dull and limiting life purpose.
Still more satisfying than your apparent life purpose, which seems to revolve entirely around sitting at your desk and glowering at innocent accounts. Do the numbers tremble in fear when you approach, or do they merely cower respectfully?
Jasvian’s lips twitched. Biting back a smile, he wrote:
They arrange themselves in perfect order, naturally. Unlike your tendency to arrange your desk in what appears to be complete chaos.
He looked at her workspace as he finished writing. Books open to various pages, loose sheets of notes scattered across the surface, several jars of tea ingredients positioned with no apparent system.
Not all of us feel the need to arrange our lives with unyielding precision. Some of us appreciate the beauty of spontaneity. Though I understand such concepts might be beyond your rigid comprehension.
Jasvian glanced at his own meticulously arranged desk, everything placed at precise angles, and felt a curious twinge of self-consciousness.
Organization is not rigidity, but efficiency. Though I wouldn’t expect someone whose research system consists of marking pages with sprigs of rosemary, buttons, and even a dried orange slice to appreciate such distinctions.
He watched as she finally half-turned, glancing at him over her shoulder with one eyebrow raised before returning to her writing:
Have you been keeping track of my highly creative bookmark selection? How flattering to know I occupy so much of your attention. Perhaps that explains your inability to focus on your precious calculations.
Her observation hit uncomfortably close to the mark. Jasvian shifted in his chair, suddenly aware of how much he had been watching her, noticing her habits, cataloging her expressions. He wrote:
Merely an observation made in passing. Do not flatter yourself that you command any significant portion of my thoughts.
A blatant lie, and from the tone of her next note, she knew it:
Of course not. You merely tracked my bookmark choices, noted my page-turning volume, and initiated this written conversation because I occupy so little of your attention. Perfectly logical.
Jasvian felt heat rising in his cheeks. He was grateful she wasn’t looking at him directly.
I initiated this conversation because your disruptive presence was preventing me from working. Nothing more.
Her reply was infuriatingly smug:
And yet here you are, continuing to engage rather than simply ignoring me. Curious behavior for someone so determined to focus on his work.
She had him there. Why was he continuing this exchange? He should return to his calculations, should prove that he could indeed ignore her presence. Instead, he found himself writing:
Perhaps I am merely being polite by responding to your notes.
The paper envelope that floated back to him seemed to do so with an air of triumph:
Lord Jasvian Rowanwood, choosing politeness over productivity? Alert the gossip birds—this is truly unprecedented news.
Jasvian worked to suppress another smile. The morning sun had shifted, casting a warm glow across the room that caught in Iris’s dark hair, highlighting strands that weren’t purely black but rather a deep, rich brown. He found himself staring at the play of light before forcing his attention back to their exchange.
Very amusing. I see your wit is as sharp as ever, if somewhat misdirected.
My wit is precisely directed, thank you very much. Your reception of it, however, remains questionable.
Jasvian was formulating a suitably cutting reply when the door to the study opened. They both looked up, hastily shuffling papers as Lady Rivenna entered.
“Well,” she said, her sharp gaze moving between them, taking in their guilty expressions. “I cannot decide whether to be pleased or concerned that you two have found a way to continue arguing without speaking aloud.”
“Grandmother,” Jasvian began, “we were merely?—”
“Exchanging notes regarding our respective work,” Iris finished smoothly.
Rivenna arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? How very collaborative of you both.” The skepticism in her voice was unmistakable. “In any case, Lady Iris, I require your assistance downstairs. We have received a shipment of specialty tea leaves that need proper cataloging.”
“Of course, Lady Rivenna.” Iris rose, casting a quick look at Jasvian before very deliberately placing what appeared to be a cake fork on the page of the open book nearest to her before shutting it and following his grandmother to the door. As she pulled it closed, she glanced back at him. For just a moment, their eyes met, and he could have sworn he saw a hint of amusement in her gaze.
After they were gone, Jasvian found himself staring at the last paper envelope, his fingers tracing the crisp folds Iris had created with her magic. He should return to his work, now that the distraction had been removed.
Instead, he found himself wondering what retort she might have offered to his next message, had their exchange not been interrupted. Pushing the thought aside, he turned back to the pile of invoices, determined to make progress. But the scent of orange blossom lingered in the air, and the silence that had once been so welcome now felt strangely empty.