Page 24 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)
Chapter Twenty-Four
“The primary issue is transferring your specific awareness to the copper alloy,” Hadrian said, adjusting one of the small, intricately etched metal pieces. “I can channel the raw magical energy easily enough, but your ability to sense a building tempest is more akin to an art form than a science.”
Jasvian leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he studied the array of copper components, wires, and hastily sketched diagrams spread across his normally immaculate desk. The summer evening pressed against the tall windows of his study, golden light filtering through gaps in the heavy curtains. From below, the sounds of music and laughter drifted upward—the masquerade in full swing as more guests continued to arrive at Rowanwood House.
“I’m not sure I’m convinced that what you envision is truly achievable,” Jasvian replied, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt another notch. He’d long since abandoned his formal jacket, having no intention of joining the festivities. “I don’t believe I identify with the term ‘art form’, but yes. It is as much instinct as it is power. Is that a quality that can be transferred?”
Hadrian, dressed in formal evening attire of deep blue with silver detailing, adjusted one of his cufflinks before responding. “That’s what I’m attempting to determine, and I believe the endeavor merits continued dedication, despite your doubts. If we can successfully map the correlation between specific magical fluctuations and your intuitive responses, we might create a system that could eventually take your place, freeing you from this constant burden.”
Jasvian sighed, rising from his chair to pace the length of the room. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls were filled with mining records, geological surveys, and complex magical texts—the accumulated knowledge of generations of Rowanwoods who had managed the lumyrite mines before him. His father’s portrait hung above the fireplace, a constant reminder of the cost of failure.
With his gaze still on the portrait, he said, “Thank you, Hadrian. Despite my repeated expressions of doubt, I genuinely appreciate your continued efforts.”
“It is my privilege,” Hadrian replied. “You would do the same for me. You have done the same for me, countless times when I’ve required your assistance. And now you, my friend, are the one facing a burden that necessitates help. I’ve watched you throughout the year, whenever we meet. The constant vigilance, the inability to ever truly relax. Soon the dormant season will be over, and you’ll return north time and time again. How long before you miss a tempest because you’re simply too exhausted to sense it coming?”
Hadrian’s sentiments mirrored those Jasvian’s mother had expressed on numerous occasions. Jasvian returned to his chair, picking up one of the metal components and turning it in his palm. Though physical distance now separated him from the mines, he could still sense that low-level hum, that persistent awareness of the lumyrite’s latent power.
“I understand the need for a system that does not rely solely on my presence at the mines,” he conceded. “But relinquishing control to a mechanical system, no matter how magically enhanced …” He shook his head. “What if it fails? What if it misses something I would have caught?”
“And that is why we will continue to test until?—”
A clock on the mantel chimed nine, drawing Hadrian’s attention. He straightened, glancing toward the door where the sounds of the masquerade grew more enchanting with each passing moment, the melody of the orchestra now swelling as a new dance began.
“Ah, forgive me,” he said. “I should probably make an appearance downstairs. Your mother would be most displeased if I avoided the festivities entirely after accepting her invitation.” He paused, studying Jasvian. “Are you certain you won’t join? The masks offer a certain freedom from social expectation that even you might enjoy.”
Jasvian laughed, the sound short and dismissive. “A room full of people engaging in pointless revelry while pretending to be someone else? No, thank you. I’ll accomplish far more staying here.”
Even as he spoke, however, his mind drifted to his correspondence with Iris that morning. There had been something almost wistful in her messages about the masquerade, a lightness to their exchange that had lingered with him throughout the day. For a fleeting moment, he tried to imagine what it might be like to encounter her in such a setting, neither of them knowing the other’s identity, free from their usual antagonism, playful though it had become these days.
“As you wish,” Hadrian said, straightening his already impeccable cuffs. “I’m hoping Lady Iris might attend. Perhaps we shall continue our conversation from the Living Portrait Exhibition. Her observations were remarkably insightful. Such intelligence and wit in her commentary!”
Jasvian’s fingers stilled on the metal piece he’d been examining, his grip tightening involuntarily. An unexpected prickle of irritation coursed through him. Did Hadrian truly believe he was announcing some novel insight? As if he alone had noticed these qualities in Iris? These were aspects of her character that Jasvian had been sparring with for weeks.
“Lady Iris?” he managed, setting down the metal component with excessive care. “I don’t believe she’ll be there this evening.”
“Oh?” Hadrian’s brow furrowed as he stood. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Her grandmother is unwell,” Jasvian explained, his voice carefully neutral. “And Lady Iris cannot attend without her supervision.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Hadrian said, genuine disappointment evident in his tone. “I had hoped?—”
“It hardly matters,” Jasvian cut in, his voice sharper than intended. “Even if she were here, you wouldn’t know it was her. The enchantment would hide her identity entirely.”
“Only until midnight,” Hadrian reminded him with a smile.
“Perhaps you would be wise to consider the full array of eligible young ladies present this evening,” Jasvian said, busying himself with realigning the already perfectly aligned documents on his side of the desk. “There are countless young ladies of impeccable lineage in Bloomhaven who might still capture your attention if you’d only give them the chance.”
Hadrian leaned against the edge of the desk, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “And how precisely would you know this, when you’ve spent every ball haunting the periphery of the room, declining dance invitations and avoiding conversation?”
“That’s entirely different,” Jasvian said stiffly. “I’m not looking for someone to wed.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, my friend,” Hadrian said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “None of us are looking until suddenly, inexplicably, we find ourselves caught. I suspect even the great Lord Jasvian Rowanwood isn’t immune to such fate. And I feel compelled to mention that, unlike some, I find nothing whatsoever wrong with Lady Iris’s lineage. Her unique heritage strikes me as rather refreshing in our often stifling society.”
Jasvian opened his mouth to protest, but found himself bereft of a suitable retort. That wasn’t at all what he’d intended when he mentioned the eligible young ladies present this evening. He’d merely been attempting to direct Hadrian’s attention elsewhere—anywhere that wasn’t fixed so determinedly upon Lady Iris. ‘Impeccable lineage’ had been a thoughtless choice of words, he realized with a twinge of something uncomfortably like shame. In truth, he scarcely thought of Iris’s heritage anymore. Somewhere between their spirited exchanges and increasingly entertaining written arguments, her mixed blood had ceased to matter. In his mind, she existed now as simply … Iris.
“Well,” Hadrian continued, moving toward the door, “I still intend to enjoy the evening. Will you at least consider coming down later? The refreshments, if nothing else, will no doubt be worth experiencing.”
“Perhaps,” Jasvian said noncommittally, though they both knew it was unlikely.
After Hadrian departed, Jasvian leaned back in his chair with a groan, unable to deny his inexplicable relief at the knowledge that Iris wouldn’t be present tonight. She wouldn’t be dancing with Hadrian while he remained isolated in his study. Yet with this relief came a profound frustration directed entirely at himself.
What was happening to him? He could scarcely get through a single morning without composing some message to send her way, even when she was sitting just across the study, seemingly absorbed in her books while he pretended to focus on his ledgers. He would craft each note with ridiculous care, then find himself unable to properly attend to anything until her response arrived. And when it did—those clever, sharp-witted replies that matched him barb for barb—he would read them multiple times, analyzing every phrase for hidden meanings that likely didn’t exist.
It was maddening. Completely, utterly maddening.
Even now, far from the tea house, he imagined he could detect the lingering scent of that tea she’d been drinking lately—something with cinnamon and spice, but undercut by a surprising freshness he couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, the scent had become a constant presence in the tea house’s study, interwoven with the fragrance of orange blossom like an invisible reminder of her that refused to dissipate even when she was nowhere near.
And worse, far worse, were the moments when she’d tilt her head just so while considering a passage in one of Lady Rivenna’s tomes, or when she’d absently tuck a strand of dark hair behind one ear, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. Those observations had no business taking up space in his ordered mind, yet they intruded with increasing frequency, disrupting his concentration at the most inconvenient moments.
He was Lord Jasvian Rowanwood. He had responsibilities. Lives depended on his focus, his control, his unwavering attention to detail. He did not have time for … whatever this was. This distraction. This preoccupation. This utterly inexplicable tendency to find himself glancing at the tea house’s study door whenever it opened, hoping, against all sense, that it might be her.
Abruptly, he pushed his chair back and rose. He moved to the window and pushed the curtain aside. Below, guests continued to arrive, their elegant attire catching the light as they proceeded into Rowanwood House where they would receive their enchanted masks. He thought again of his morning conversation with Iris, of her teasing suggestion that he might find ‘dazzling conversation with a mysterious young lady.’
Jasvian glanced at his reflection in the window glass—disheveled hair, loosened cravat, rolled sleeves. Hardly appropriate attire for a masquerade. Yet the thought persisted, growing stronger rather than fading. Perhaps there was wisdom in what Hadrian had said about finding freedom beneath a mask, even if only for a single evening.
With a decisive movement, Jasvian turned from the window and headed toward his chambers. His work could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he would attend the masquerade after all, if only to lose himself in the revelry and enchantment for a few hours. Perhaps, beneath a magical mask, surrounded by music and dancing, he might finally find respite from the one thing his disciplined mind seemed incapable of controlling—his increasingly persistent thoughts of Iris Starspun.