Page 26 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jasvian winced as he stepped into The Charmed Leaf the morning after the masquerade, a dull ache throbbing through his head. Sleep had proven elusive, his mind replaying fragments of conversation with his mysterious partner in teal and silver, analyzing each laugh, each shared observation, searching for clues to her identity. He stifled a yawn, uncomfortably aware of the morning light streaming through the windows at an angle that revealed his tardiness. Still early enough that the tea house remained closed to patrons, but considerably later than his usual arrival.

Lord Jasvian Rowanwood, disheveled and behind schedule—what was becoming of him? His grandmother would be delighted by this evidence of his humanity.

As he walked between the empty tea house tables—his aching leg muscles reminding him that he’d danced far more enthusiastically last night than he had in years—a belated realization struck him: he had no reason to be here today. The renovations to Rowanwood House’s ballroom were complete, the masquerade itself now merely a memory. For the first time since the season began, the house was blissfully quiet, free from the constant disruption of workers and suppliers.

It was true that he had used his grandmother’s tea house study for years, keen to avoid the interruptions of his siblings, but surely he could endure their occasional visits to his study at Rowanwood House if it meant no longer having to share a workspace with Iris. Except … he no longer harbored any desire to escape her company. Quite the opposite, in fact.

A movement near the far wall caught his attention. Lucie Fields, the human serving girl who worked here, stood precariously balanced on a wooden ladder, one hand stretched toward the ceiling. Around her neck hung a chunky necklace of raw lumyrite crystals, the morning light catching on their rough-cut edges.

It occurred to Jasvian, rather abruptly, that he had never exchanged a single word with the girl. Indeed, he had scarcely acknowledged her existence beyond a fleeting disapproval when his grandmother first employed her. He paused, watching her with curiosity. She was directing thin ribbons of light toward the ceiling, where they wove themselves into an intricate pattern across the plaster. Each ribbon connected to one of the tea house’s central support beams, creating a delicate lattice of golden energy.

After several moments, Jasvian recognized the base spell. One of his grandmother’s seasonal enchantments designed to maintain a perfect ambient temperature regardless of the weather outside. But Lucie had modified it, he realized. Instead of the standard circular pattern he had seen his grandmother apply to the entire ceiling, Lucie had created an asymmetrical design that followed the natural grain of the wooden beams. The modification was clever—it would distribute the cooling effect more evenly throughout the space.

Without magic of her own, she was no doubt channeling power from the lumyrite necklace—likely a gift from his grandmother—and yet the precision of her work suggested actual … skill. A discomfiting blend of guilt and shame pricked at him. Why should her competence surprise him? Because she was human? The prejudice inherent in that assumption struck him now as utterly absurd.

He was quite certain this shift in perspective stemmed from Iris’s influence. She had challenged his ingrained assumptions at nearly every turn, forcing him to reconsider beliefs he’d held for years. This change in his thinking, he now realized, had occurred gradually over the past weeks since their first meeting. Only now, in this quiet, unguarded moment with his mind weary from lack of sleep, did the extent of the change strike him with such sudden force.

“Good morning, Miss Fields,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Lucie started violently, nearly toppling from her perch on the ladder. Her concentration broken, the golden ribbons of light wavered dangerously before she steadied them with a quick gesture. “L-Lord Rowanwood!” she stammered. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I apologize for startling you,” he said, moving closer to examine her work. “That’s an interesting modification to my grandmother’s ambient enchantment.”

Lucie’s eyes widened. “I, uh …” She blinked several times, like a shadow sprite caught in a sunbeam. “Yes, my lord.”

“It’s quite clever,” he added. “More effective, I would imagine.”

Again, she appeared lost for words before finally stuttering, “I-I hope so, my lord.” She was clearly uncomfortable with his attention.

Unease settled in Jasvian’s chest, the same he’d felt the previous evening when Hadrian had called him out on his ‘impeccable lineage’ comment. Shame, he realized. He was ashamed of his former certainty, his dismissal of humans as somehow lesser.

“Miss Fields,” he said formally, “I feel I owe you an apology.”

She stared at him. “My lord?”

“It is no great secret, I suspect, that I’ve long held certain restrictive views regarding humans and their place in fae society. Views that I’ve recently come to recognize as … incorrect. I merely wish to apologize for this and to thank you for your contribution to this establishment.”

Another awkward silence stretched between them, Lucie appearing to be shocked speechless by his words. Finally, she whispered, “Thank you, my lord,” as if she were too afraid to raise her voice to a normal pitch.

With a final nod, Jasvian stepped back. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. Good day, Miss Fields.” And then he made his way toward the stairs that led to the upper study before he could terrify the poor girl any further.

He ascended the familiar steps slowly, one hand rising reflexively to massage his throbbing temples. The exchange had been undeniably awkward, yet as he climbed, he felt … lighter. A curious counterpoint to the lingering physical discomfort. Who might have suspected, he mused, that the constant effort of maintaining disapproval, the sheer weight of rigidly held disdain, could be such a heavy weight?

He found himself wondering what Iris would think of this realization of his. She would undoubtedly find his newfound enlightenment rather amusing, he suspected. Probably take considerable delight in informing him that she had, of course, been correct all along. And strangely, the prospect did not irritate him in the slightest.

No , he checked the thought sharply as he reached the landing. He was not meant to be dwelling on Iris. That had been the very purpose of subjecting himself to the masquerade the previous night—to seek some distraction from these incessant thoughts of her. The evening had, in that regard, been a success.

He paused at the study door, fingers hovering over the polished brass handle as memories of the previous night washed over him. One decision against his nature had led to an evening more enjoyable than he’d ever expected. He’d stood at the edge of the ballroom for far too long, watching masked figures twirl across the floor while anxiety lingered at the edges of his mind. That familiar discomfort he always felt at such gatherings.

He’d been on the verge of departure, berating himself for the foolishness of attending at all, when he’d noticed her—the woman in teal, observing the dancers while she sipped her drink. She’d remained stationary at the ballroom’s periphery long enough for him to do something utterly uncharacteristic. In a moment of reckless abandon—as reckless as Lord Jasvian Rowanwood ever allowed himself to be—he’d decided that one dance before leaving the blasted masquerade couldn’t hurt. Well, it could, but the embarrassment wouldn’t last long beneath the shield of enchantment.

But one dance had become two, then three, until he’d lost count entirely. Time had slipped away as they’d moved across the floor, her conversation as captivating as her graceful movements. Moments of shared humor, thoughtful questions, and a comfortable rhythm to their discourse—all had combined to create an evening he hadn’t known he was capable of enjoying.

Yes, he had indeed succeeded: thoughts of this mysterious woman now occupied the space previously held by Lady Iris Starspun. The maddening preoccupation with his grandmother’s apprentice had instead been replaced by fascination with a masked stranger who’d vanished before midnight. A fair trade, surely. His mind cleared of one distraction only to be filled with another, but at least this one would fade as the masquerade receded into memory.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the study. The room was bathed in morning light, the curtains drawn back to reveal a perfect view of the upper branches of the ancient glimmerbark tree on the other side of the road. The air smelled of freshly brewed tea and old books—a combination Jasvian found comforting.

And there sat Iris, her dark hair catching the light in a way that made it gleam almost black, her slender fingers turning the pages of the book that lay open on the desk before her. In that instant, any claim Jasvian had made to banishing thoughts of her simply evaporated. His gaze lingered on the graceful line of her back as she leaned over the text, on the subtle point of her ear just visible beneath a strand of hair that had escaped its pins. The mysterious woman in teal might have captivated him for an evening, but Iris Starspun effortlessly reclaimed his entire attention.

“Good morning, Lord Jasvian,” she said without looking up, her voice carrying the same polite neutrality that had characterized their recent face-to-face interactions, though their written correspondence had grown increasingly familiar.

“Lady Iris.” He moved toward his own desk. “I trust your morning has been productive.”

“Quite,” she replied, turning another page. “Lady Rivenna has rewarded my struggle through yesterday’s tedious management text with this marvelous old tome. It details the rather scandalous history of one of the first families involved in creating enchanted tea blends. It has proven to be quite absorbing.”

Ah. That explained the old-book smell then.

Jasvian settled into his chair, waiting the customary few moments for his neatly arranged documents to appear. Then he reached for the ledger he’d abandoned the previous evening when Hadrian had entered his study at Rowanwood House. He had little genuine intention of resuming his work, however. His eyes kept drifting to Iris, who appeared remarkably serene as she made occasional notes in her favorite notebook. Had she always been this composed? This focused? Or was he simply more attuned to her presence now, acutely conscious of every small movement?

“I hear the masquerade was quite spectacular last night,” he said, attempting to maintain conversational normalcy.

Iris’s quill paused mid-stroke, hovering over her notebook. “Yes,” she said after a moment, her gaze still fixed on the page before her. “So I’ve heard as well.”

Jasvian frowned slightly. “How have you heard already? It is still quite early; surely most of Bloomhaven’s elite have yet to rouse themselves after last night’s revelries.”

She hesitated for the briefest moment. “The gossip birds,” she replied with a slight shrug. “They’ve been particularly active this morning. Something about the High Lady’s dress and Lord Thornhart stepping on toes.”

“Ah.” Jasvian tried to focus on the columns of numbers before him, but found his mind wandering back to the mystery woman. “Gossip birds are remarkably swift, if not always accurate.”

“Indeed.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the scratch of Iris’s quill and the occasional rustle as she turned a page—noticeably quieter than her usual enthusiastic page-flipping that had so often disrupted his concentration. Jasvian found himself missing the familiar sound, another peculiarity in a morning already filled with them.

After what felt like an eternity of pretending to work while his mind raced in useless circles, Jasvian lowered his quill and leaned back in his chair. Across the room, Iris reached for the porcelain teacup standing on one corner of her desk.

“The usual?” Jasvian asked, grasping at ordinary conversation. “Cinnamon and … something fresh?”

She paused, her hand a few inches from the cup, and he felt an utter fool for his lack of subtlety. He might as well have plainly announced how much attention he’d been paying her. “Uh, yes.” She reached for the cup. “‘Autumn & Pine’ is what I’ve called it.” She lifted the cup to her lips, and as she did so, something silver slid down her arm, catching the light. A bangle.

Jasvian froze, sudden recognition striking him like a physical blow. A silver bangle, intricately etched with flower patterns, each blossom’s center adorned with a purple gemstone. The same bangle the mystery woman had worn last night.

His gaze had traced that very ornament countless times during their dances, his fingers occasionally brushing against it as he guided her through the steps.

Iris. It had been Iris all along.

The realization crashed over him in waves of shock, disbelief, and—mortifyingly—a surge of something dangerously close to elation. His mind raced backward through every moment of their conversation, every turn and step, every laugh they had shared beneath the enchanted ceiling.

He’d spoken to her about the Rowanwood legacy, about his—no, about Lord Jasvian’s —magical abilities. She had asked direct questions about him, as if … as if she had known exactly who he was.

Had she recognized him somehow? The enchantment should have prevented it, yet her questions about the Rowanwood family had been oddly specific. But she had claimed curiosity about all of Bloomhaven’s prominent families, and, as she had pointed out last night, being at Rowanwood House naturally invited questions about its family’s lineage.

Jasvian exhaled a quiet breath of relief, though his mind still whirled, sifting through everything he had learned about the mystery woman last night and layering it atop what he already knew of Iris. Her fondness for poetry … her immediate empathy for his ancestor who felt so out of place … Of course. That shouldn’t surprise him. Had he not played a significant role himself in ensuring she felt precisely that way upon her arrival? He had hardly been welcoming when she first arrived.

And her laugh. The warm, genuine sound that had sparked something within him had been her laugh—but distorted by the enchantment. He realized with a strange, piercing clarity that he had never heard Iris laugh in his presence. Not when she knew it was him.

“Lord Jasvian?” Iris’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “Are you quite well? You look rather … distressed.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” he managed, though his voice sounded strange even to his own ears.

Iris set her teacup down, concern etched across her features. “Are you certain? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“Merely … a momentary dizziness.” He stood, forcing his gaze away from that damning silver bangle that had shattered his carefully maintained equilibrium. “It will pass.”

“Perhaps you should stay seated.” She shifted to the edge of her seat as if about to stand.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said stiffly. “I simply require fresh air.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him with those intelligent dark eyes. “Something has upset you.”

“Not at all.” The lie felt leaden on his tongue. “I was merely thinking of the—the need to finalize the seasonal workforce allocations for the mines. There is still much to prepare.”

“Of course,” she said, though her expression suggested she didn’t quite believe him. “The mines reopen soon after the Bloom Season ends, do they not?”

“Yes. The dormant period coincides with the Bloom Season.” He struggled to maintain the thread of conversation while his mind continued to reel from his discovery. “There will be … uh, extensive inspections before operations resume.”

“That sounds like a significant responsibility,” she said, her tone gentler than usual. “No wonder you’re preoccupied.”

After another moment in which he couldn’t think of a single thing to say, she turned in her seat and faced her desk again. He was intensely aware of everything about her—the delicate arch of her wrist as she reached for her quill, the absent sweep of her other hand down the curve of her neck, the space she occupied as something wholly and unmistakably hers, as if the room had been shaped to fit her presence. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, yet with the intimate knowledge of having held her in his arms while they danced.

His carefully ordered world had been upended. The woman who had challenged and irritated him for weeks, whose sharp wit had both frustrated and intrigued him, was the same woman whose laughter and conversation had captivated him at the masquerade. The realization struck him with unexpected force, and with it came an admission he could no longer deny: he was drawn to her, had been perhaps from the very beginning.

He wanted to hear her laugh again, her true laugh unaltered by enchantment. He wanted to touch her, to feel the warmth of her hand in his, to stand as close as they had been while dancing. The urge to reach out, to trail his fingers down her arm and over her wrist, to feel the softness of her skin beneath his touch, was almost overwhelming.

“Did you know,” Iris said suddenly, interrupting his perilous train of thought, “that one of the earliest tea scandals began with a fae merchant’s daughter who unexpectedly manifested the ability to infuse emotions into liquids? She unknowingly brewed a blend that made everyone who drank it speak with absolute honesty for hours—at a rather high-profile gathering, no less. Imagine the consequences!”

The sudden image of Iris serving such a tea to him, of truth spilling from his lips about who he’d danced with and how it had affected him, sent a jolt of panic through Jasvian’s system. “I should go,” he said abruptly, startling even himself with the urgency in his voice. “There are matters requiring my attention at Rowanwood House.”

Something flickered across Iris’s face, so quickly he couldn’t decipher it. “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish to keep you from your responsibilities.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” He gave a short, formal bow, desperate now for solitude in which to untangle his chaotic thoughts.

“Until tomorrow, Lord Jasvian.”