Page 23 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Can you imagine it? An entire ballroom full of people who have no idea who they’re dancing with,” Lucie said from her position at one end of the kitchen’s long worktable, her gaze directed at the used teacup she was currently labelling with magic. The enchantment was a simple one Lady Rivenna had apparently taught her. Part of Lucie’s daily duties involved collecting used teacups from unsuspecting patrons so that Lady Rivenna and her companions could perform their ritual examination of the tea leaves left behind.
This practice stirred the same unease in Iris as the vines’ gossip-gathering—a subtle intrusion into private matters without consent. When Iris had voiced these concerns, Lady Rivenna merely dismissed them with elegant confidence, explaining that Lady Whispermist and Lady Thornhart possessed such meager divination skills that they rarely discerned anything of consequence. As for Rivenna herself, she considered herself above reproach—a trusted custodian of the secrets the leaves revealed, as though her superior judgment made the invasion perfectly acceptable.
“Lady Whispermist told Lady Rivenna that last year she danced three consecutive dances with her own husband without realizing it!” Lucie added with a giggle.
“Can you imagine finding yourself attracted to the person you’re dancing with and then discovering it’s a sister or brother or cousin?” Charlotte said. On a brief break from assisting at her mother’s dressmaking shop, she sat at the other end of the worktable next to Iris. “How horrifying!”
The scent of freshly steeped tea and warm pastries mingled in the air as The Charmed Leaf’s kitchen bustled, hearth sprites keeping the ovens at a constant, steady glow and kitchen brownies scrubbing countertops while Mama Saffron kneaded dough for spiced honey rolls in the middle of the worktable and Lissian silently prepared a variety of blends at the brewing station. Orrit had already disappeared, his daily quota of scones completed. If the tea house happened to run out now, it was simply too bad. All the more reason for patrons to return another day.
“Is it really true that no one can recognize anyone else?” Iris asked, looking up from the hefty tome splayed open before her: The Proprietor’s Comprehensive Guide to Magical Establishment Management. Lady Rivenna had instructed her to begin studying the dry accounting principles and inventory systems that would one day be her responsibility when she took over The Charmed Leaf. The pages of dense text and complex calculations gave Iris a newfound sympathy for Lord Jasvian and his constant battle with ledgers.
“Absolutely true,” Charlotte nodded emphatically. “The enchanted masks hide all distinguishing features. Transform your voice, alter your height slightly, adjust the color of your attire, and even change your scent. The magic doesn’t just disguise you, it weaves an illusion so complete that even your closest friends walk right past you.”
The Rowanwood Masquerade Ball was, by all accounts, one of the most anticipated events of the Bloom Season. Held annually at Rowanwood House, its enchantments and transformations were legendary. Enchanted masks were apparently presented on arrival, each one unique, and Iris had heard that the moment a mask touched a person’s face, the magic flowed through that person, completely concealing their identity until midnight when the enchantment dissolved.
“I would give anything to attend,” Lucie said, adding another labeled teacup to her tray. “Just once, to see the Rowanwood ballroom transformed for the masquerade.”
“Now, young one,” Mama Saffron said, her hands never stilling as she worked the dough. “The masks are not safe for humans. The magic enters one’s body and interacts with one’s own magic—if one possesses magic, that is—to create the illusion. It can cause terrible headaches for humans, and possibly even more unpleasant side-effects.”
“I know,” Lucie said with a wistful sigh.
Iris rubbed her temples, feeling a headache of her own coming on. The particularly tedious section on quarterly inventory assessments she’d been staring at for the past hour was threatening to permanently blur her vision.
At least she no longer had to worry about visions of a different sort assaulting her. It had been almost two weeks since she’d discovered the tea blend that successfully managed the images of possible futures that had begun to overwhelm her. Of course, the blend required some further adjustment after that first morning—a little more of the mysteriously labeled ‘spiced leaves’, a longer brewing time, a dash more honey, and stirring with a lumyrite rod rather than swirling—but now Iris sipped a cup of her refined version of ‘Autumn Lucie without a mask, embracing a tall man who—could that possibly be Lord Jasvian?
Iris blinked hard and the images vanished, revealing Lucie squeezing a final teacup onto her tray. No, it couldn’t have been Lord Jasvian. He didn’t embrace anyone , never mind human serving girls who worked at his grandmother’s establishment.
Still, the vision of Lucie placing an enchanted mask over her face concerned Iris. Surely that was not a possibility Lucie would actually entertain? Iris cleared her throat and said, “Saffron’s right about how dangerous it is for humans. I’ve heard the same thing mentioned multiple times this week.” This was the truth. The only topic of conversation the leaves had whispered about this week was the masquerade. It seemed there was nothing else on anyone’s mind.
“Oh, indeed,” Lucie said, looking up from her tray with wide eyes. “I would never do anything so foolish.”
“Have you seen any of it before, Charlotte?” Iris asked, giving up entirely on Magical Establishment Management and setting her quill down beside the collection of paper pixies she had attempted to fold with her magic earlier that morning. “Your mother crafts most of the masks and delivers them herself, doesn’t she? I wondered if you might have glimpsed the festivities in previous years.”
“Sadly not,” Charlotte said. “The masks must be delivered days in advance to allow time for the enchantment process.”
“Oh, yes, you mentioned that’s why you were so busy last week.”
“I’ve seen most of the gowns, though. I’ve helped Mother with endless adjustments for the ladies who will be there. Oh! Did I tell you who the mystery gown was for?” She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The High Lady herself.”
“The High Lady will be there?” Iris asked in surprise.
“Oh yes,” Charlotte nodded. “The High Lady always attends. It’s part of what makes the event so prestigious. She doesn’t grace all social gatherings with her magnanimous presence, you know.”
Lucie tossed a cleaning cloth across the table at her sister. “Do stop your sarcasm.”
Charlotte caught the cloth and threw it back with a laugh.
“Not while I’m baking!” Mama Saffron called out sternly, and Charlotte had the good sense to look at least somewhat chastened.
“I’m a little sad I won’t be attending either,” Iris said, placing one elbow on the table and resting her chin on her palm. “It all sounds quite exciting.”
Charlotte groaned. “Is your grandmother being especially difficult about it? She’s such a bore.”
“Charlotte!” Lucie admonished.
“She can’t exactly help being ill,” Iris said, surprising herself by defending her grandmother. Their relationship had warmed slightly in recent weeks, though it remained far from close. “She took a chill the other morning when it began raining while we were out at Elderbloom Park and hasn’t fully recovered.”
“I suppose it’s true that she can’t be blamed for that,” Charlotte conceded.
Iris’s gaze dropped to her notebook beside the imposing tome. Elegant script that did not belong to either her or the notebook had begun to appear on the page:
Lady Iris, I trust your studies of tea house management are proving illuminating? Or have you nodded off entirely from the tedium?
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Lord Jasvian’s morning messages had become something of a ritual, regardless of where in the tea house Iris happened to be working or studying. “I believe I’ll sit by the window for a moment,” Iris said, gathering her notebook and quill in one hand and sliding the management tome closer with the other. “The light is better for writing there.”
“And I must get these cups to Lady Rivenna,” Lucie said, lifting her tray. “She’s terribly strict about timing with the leaf readings.”
Charlotte stood and attempted to brush the creases from her skirt. “I suppose I should get back to Mother’s shop. My morning break is nearly over, and she’ll expect me back punctually to help with all the last-minute adjustments for any ladies who aren’t quite happy yet with their gowns for tonight.”
With farewells exchanged, Iris settled at the small table beside the window that overlooked the tea house garden. Sunlight dappled the flagstone pathways where garden gnomes tended the rows of herbs and garden pixies flitted among the blossoms. Near one of the flower beds, a gnome trudged over to a row of blooms and offered its small watering can to a nearby pixie. The pixie hovered uncertainly for a moment before accepting it—a rare moment of harmony between the two creatures.
With a smile, Iris turned her attention back to the notebook, where it had left its own dry comment:
How marvelous. Our daily correspondence commences. I shall observe this one-sided exchange from afar this time. Perhaps someday you might deign to share YOUR half of the conversation. Though I must admit, attempting to deduce your responses provides me with a modicum of intellectual diversion.
Iris shook her head and allowed herself a quiet laugh as she pulled a few loose sheets of paper from the collection she now made sure to keep tucked into the back of the notebook. She placed her quill on the first blank page.
I now understand your perpetual expression of deep concentration, my lord. These accounting principles could render even the most energetic sprite comatose.
Her tiny folded envelope flitted swiftly out the window and upward. Iris leaned forward, watching its journey until it disappeared from view, imagining Jasvian at his desk above, his brow furrowed in that particular way it did when he was focused.
A curious thought struck her then, one that had surfaced occasionally these past two weeks. Since discovering her true abilities and gaining some measure of control over them, she had not once attempted to glimpse Jasvian’s possible futures. She certainly could try now, if she went upstairs to the study. A simple moment of concentration, a deliberate loosening of her control, and the possibilities surrounding him might unfold before her eyes like paper creations taking shape.
Yet something held her back whenever she found herself curious about him. It felt … improper somehow. Intrusive, as if she were reading private correspondence not meant for her eyes. Though that wasn’t the full truth, since apparently she felt none of that same hesitation when it came to seeing anyone else’s possible paths. No, the real reason was … something that felt uncomfortably like fear.
What if she saw something—or someone —she did not want to see in Jasvian’s possible future? What if she saw him with some beautiful, full-blooded fae lady of impeccable lineage and suitable magical ability, their futures entwined in ways that made perfect sense for the heir to the Rowanwood fortune?
But that was silly, she told herself firmly. It did not concern her who Jasvian Rowanwood ended up with—if anyone. Her reluctance was simply respect for his privacy, nothing more. And truly, what purpose would it serve to glimpse the possible paths laid out before him?? His future did not concern her.
Welcome to my daily torment , came his reply, pulling her from her thoughts. Though I find a certain satisfaction in bringing order to chaos that I suspect you might lack.
Iris smiled and penned her response:
Perhaps. Though I confess I’ve discovered an unexpected appreciation for your dedication. These pages are merciless.
There was a longer than usual pause before his response:
High praise indeed. Speaking of dedication, you’ve shown remarkable restraint in avoiding the topic that has consumed all of Bloomhaven’s attention for days.
Iris smiled and decided to take the bait.
Lord Jasvian, might I enquire if you will be donning a magical mask at tonight’s masquerade?
Most likely I shall not attend.
Iris blinked in surprise at his response, then penned her own:
Does it not take place at your own residence?
That does not mean I must attend.
Iris considered this point. He wasn’t wrong.
It’s true that your presence will not be missed, given that everyone’s identities are hidden.
Precisely. There is little point to me being present at the type of event I am generally not comfortable with if no one is even aware of my presence.
Iris paused, contemplating the revelation, perhaps unintentional, that Jasvian did not feel comfortable at social events. Now that she thought about it, though, had he not expressed something to this effect early on in their acquaintance? Something about … not being able to converse easily in a crowd. Was this what contributed to his … what had Lord Hadrian called it? Lack of social graces? Perhaps the serious and imposing Lord Jasvian was simply … shy?
She tore a new sheet of paper into smaller pieces and wrote:
Are you not curious though?
About what?
You may be missing out on the opportunity for dazzling conversation with a mysterious young lady of secret identity.
I do not believe I am known for my ‘dazzling conversation’ skills.
Iris couldn’t help the quiet snort of laughter that escaped her. She scribbled:
I did not mean yours but rather hers.
Lord Jasvian’s response came quickly:
I believe I shall endure the loss.
Before she could reach for a new scrap of paper, more words formed beneath the previous message:
Will you be attending tonight, Lady Iris?
Unfortunately not. My grandmother’s lingering illness prevents her from attending, and she refuses to let me go without her supervision. Even if she were well, I suspect she would decline. She likely fears that in a setting where my identity is concealed from everyone—including her—I might commit some grave social transgression.
But no one would know it was you.
True …
And the event would be made all the more interesting for it.
Iris felt her smile widening at his response, a delighted warmth spreading through her chest as she penned her reply.
Lord Jasvian, I do believe you are encouraging me to find a way to attend the masquerade.
I am encouraging nothing of the sort.
Iris tapped her quill against the edge of the notebook, considering her reply. There was something more playful than usual in this exchange. She found herself wishing to prolong it.
If I were to go against my grandmother’s wishes and secretly attend the masquerade tonight—which I would never do—how do you believe an enchanted mask might transform me?
She sent the note on its way, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Why did this particular message feel more daring than all their previous exchanges?
Jasvian’s response took longer than expected to appear, and Iris had begun to sketch idle patterns along the edge of her next blank scrap of paper by the time his message took shape in the notebook.
I imagine the enchantment would bestow upon you an oversized peacock feather that towers ridiculously above your head, transform your gown into an entire tea leaf bush making dancing impossible—which would be a mercy, as who truly enjoys dancing?—and reduce your already diminutive stature to comically miniature proportions.
Laughter burst from Iris’s lips as she read the message. That was certainly not the response she’d been expecting. It was true indeed that Jasvian’s messages were becoming more playful by the day. Before she could reply, another message appeared:
And now that you’ve planted the notion in my mind, I find myself strangely disappointed that neither of us shall be in attendance.
Iris stared at his words, her pulse quickening. Why was it that she found herself strangely disappointed too? She wished once again that her grandmother was well and that she had no reservations about Iris attending an enchanted masquerade. But there was nothing to be done about that.
Before she could reply, a comment appeared in the notebook’s own script:
Ahem. I simply cannot maintain my silence a moment longer. “I find myself strangely disappointed that neither of us shall be in attendance”? What precisely have you written to Lord Brooding in your little paper missiles that has sparked this obvious attempt at flirtation?
Iris’s face warmed, and she pointedly ignored the notebook’s commentary, refusing to acknowledge the implications or give the enchanted book the satisfaction of a response. She took a breath, considering several responses before settling on:
I suspect you’ll find adequate diversion in your ledgers, my lord. They seem never to disappoint you.
An unfair assessment. They disappoint me with alarming regularity, particularly when the numbers refuse to align as they should.
Perhaps they’re staging a small rebellion against your excessive orderliness.
If so, they shall find me a formidable opponent. I always prevail in the end.
Iris pressed her lips together, trying to hold her laugh back. The imposing management tome caught her eye again, its very presence enough to dampen the lightness in her chest. She sighed. If she hoped to complete her assigned work for the day, she really should return to it.
I must return to my studies now, Lord Jasvian. Your grandmother expects me to create an imagined example of a quarterly inventory assessment that actually makes sense, and I’ve scarcely begun to comprehend the concept.
Organization being such a challenge for you.
Indeed. Though I find disorganized thoughts often lead to the most interesting places.
While organized ones lead to completed work.
Touché, my lord. Good day to you.
Good day, Lady Iris.
She turned to a fresh page in the notebook, a smile lingering on her lips. As she drew the boring management text closer, she found herself wondering how an enchanted mask might transform Jasvian. Not that he required any enhancement in appearance—he was far more handsome than any gentleman as perpetually serious as he had the right to be. Broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and possessed of eyes that were alarmingly captivating up close. Iris caught herself recalling the one occasion when they had actually touched. That moment in Elderbloom Park when the glittering pink fox had nearly knocked her over mid-argument, and he had caught her?—
The back kitchen door burst open and Rosavyn rushed in like a miniature cyclone, accompanied by the squawking of a gossip bird. “Lady Duskfall!” the bird shrieked, flapping frantically around Rosavyn’s head. “Lady Duskfall! Kissing at the mermaid fountain!”
“Oh, be gone, you ghastly creature!” Rosavyn flapped a hand at the bird, which finally settled on the windowsill. Iris leaned across her table and shooed it away with a wave.
“Iris!” Rosavyn stepped closer and gripped her friend’s shoulders, a grin spreading across her face. “I have had the best idea.”
Iris couldn’t help laughing at her friend’s theatrical enthusiasm. “What is it?”
“I have determined a way to sneak you out of Starspun House.” Rosavyn lowered her voice and leaned a little closer. “You, Lady Iris, shall attend the masquerade after all.”