Page 28 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Later that day, Jasvian carefully navigated the familiar pathway through the back gardens and into The Charmed Leaf’s kitchen, balancing a small wooden box in his hands. The tea house seemed remarkably still in the early evening light, most of the day’s patrons and staff having already departed. As he stepped inside, he spotted his grandmother directing a drowsy hearth sprite to bank the coals for the night.

“Grandmother,” he called as he approached the long worktable at the center of the kitchen. “This arrived at Rowanwood House this afternoon.” He set the intricately carved box down. “The courier claimed it contained those specialized ingredients you’ve been waiting for. Highland frost petals, I believe? For certain specialty blends.”

Lady Rivenna turned, her expression conveying obvious skepticism. “And you felt compelled to deliver this immediately? Rather than waiting for me to bring it here myself tomorrow morning?”

“Of course I brought it now. You’ve mentioned several times how essential these ingredients are. It seemed … important.” In truth, the small box could easily have waited, but the restlessness that had plagued Jasvian all day had finally driven him to seize upon the first reasonable excuse to visit the tea house—and perhaps catch a glimpse of Iris before she departed for the evening.

“How thoughtful,” his grandmother remarked, her tone suggesting she found his explanation thoroughly unconvincing. She approached the table and ran her fingers over the box’s delicate carvings. “Though I suspect even frost petals from the highest peaks would have survived another twelve hours.”

Jasvian cleared his throat. “The tea house appears quite empty. Has everyone departed for the day?”

“The staff has, yes,” Lady Rivenna said, watching him with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. “Lady Iris, however, remains in the study. She’s been working on her presentation for the Summer Solstice Grand Ball for most of the day.” Something like concern flickered across her features. “I may have pushed her a bit too hard today. The poor girl has barely taken a moment’s break.”

A frown creased Jasvian’s brow. “Pushed her? What exactly did you do, Grandmother?”

“Mind your tone, Jasvian,” she said. “And your business, for that matter. My methods with my apprentice are hardly your concern.”

“They are if you’re driving her to exhaustion,” he replied, the protective edge in his voice surprising even himself. He moderated his tone with effort. “I simply meant that she’s been working quite diligently these past weeks. Perhaps a different approach?—”

“My, my,” his grandmother interrupted, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “Such concern for Lady Iris’s wellbeing. How unexpected.”

Heat crept up Jasvian’s neck. “I would express similar concern for any of your staff.”

“Of course you would.” She drummed her fingers on the ornate box, then nodded to the kitchen pixies that had climbed onto the end of the worktable and were hovering with questioning gazes. “Yes, thank you, you know what to do with it.”

Then she swept past her grandson to the back kitchen door. She lifted her elegant cloak from its peg and pulled it around her shoulders. “Now, shall we be on our way? My carriage will be here any minute.”

“You’re leaving Lady Iris here alone?” Jasvian asked before he could stop himself.

“She’s perfectly capable of managing on her own,” Lady Rivenna replied with a dismissive wave. Then, after a brief pause, her brows pulled together slightly. “Hopefully.”

Jasvian straightened. “I can wait for her. My carriage is outside. I can escort Lady Iris home when she’s finished. It wouldn’t be proper for her to walk unescorted at this hour.”

His grandmother’s eyebrows rose incrementally higher. “The two of you alone in my tea house? That hardly adheres to the standards of propriety you so typically champion.”

“We’ll hardly be alone,” Jasvian countered. “The tea house is positively teeming with watchful eyes. Besides, I’ll remain down here. I brought something to read.” He withdrew a slim volume from his coat pocket, the leather binding soft with age. His grandmother leaned forward, squinting slightly to read the faded gold lettering.

“Poetry?” Disbelief colored her voice. “You?”

Jasvian slipped the book back into his pocket, discomfited by her reaction. “I thought I might expand my literary horizons.”

“Did you indeed?” Lady Rivenna sounded as though she were suppressing a laugh. “How very unlike you.”

“People change, Grandmother,” he replied stiffly.

“Some more believably than others.” She fastened her cloak. “Well, if you insist on playing guardian, I won’t stand in your way. Simply ensure that all doors are locked when you leave. Lady Iris has her key, and she knows what to do.” She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch as she looked back at him. “And do remember, dear boy, that the tea house sees everything. I do not wish to hear whispers of impropriety greeting me upon my return tomorrow morning.”

Jasvian winced at the thought of the tea house reporting his actions to his grandmother of all people. But there would be no actions to report, he reminded himself firmly. Besides, the tea house was a building , not a sentient being capable of ‘reporting’ anything, he added almost as an afterthought. “Your concern is entirely misplaced,” he said, his voice cool. “I intend only to ensure Lady Iris’s safe return home.”

“Of course,” Lady Rivenna agreed, her tone making it abundantly clear she didn’t believe him for a moment. Then she slipped out into the evening, leaving him alone in the dimly lit kitchen.

He stood motionless for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of the tea house at rest. The occasional ping as cooling pots contracted, the soft murmuring of sleepy hearth sprites, the almost imperceptible creaking of floorboards as the building settled. From upstairs came the faint sound of movement. A chair scraping, perhaps.

He crossed the kitchen and entered the main floor of the tea house, aiming for a window along the front wall where a wide cushioned seat offered a view of one of Bloomhaven’s cobbled streets, now bathed in the warm glow of faelights. He settled himself, arranging his long limbs as comfortably as possible, and withdrew the book from his pocket once more.

The cover was bare, and the delicate gold script on the spine was so faded that he couldn’t make out the full title aside from the words ‘Poems’ and ‘Heart.’ He’d found it in his mother’s section of the library at Rowanwood House that afternoon, after hours of distraction had rendered productive work impossible. The conversation with his masquerade dance partner about poetry had lingered in his mind—her passion for how emotion could be contained in so few, carefully crafted words. Now that he knew that partner had been Iris all along, her enthusiasm held even greater weight.

He opened the book carefully, the spine crackling slightly with age, and began to read. The poem on the first page began: “ Thy gaze, like dew-kissed petals at dawn’s first blush, envelopes my trembling soul in silken whispers of unspoken desire. ”

Jasvian stared at the words, his brow furrowing. He struggled to decipher what the verse was actually attempting to convey. How could anyone find this appealing? If someone had actually whispered something like that to him at a social gathering, he’d have excused himself immediately to check the wine for hallucinogenic properties.

He scanned further down the page until his eyes landed on: “ My heart, a caged nightingale, beats against its gilded prison, yearning for the sweet nectar of thy tender affection. ”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. A caged nightingale? Did the author have any idea how birds behaved when caged? They certainly didn’t pine romantically. Most of them thrashed about in panicked desperation. This was precisely why he preferred ledgers and accounts; they never pretended a bird was anything other than a bird.

But then his eyes fell on the verse at the bottom of the page: “ Thy presence fills all spaces, contracts all distances; when near thee, the very world recedes until only thy light remains.”

He looked up thoughtfully, the words resonating in a way he hadn’t expected. Now that , at least, he could understand. The strange sensation of being so acutely aware of someone’s presence that they seemed to occupy far more space than physically possible. The way a single person could somehow fill a room entirely, drawing attention like a lodestone no matter how one tried to focus elsewhere.

He’d felt precisely that with Iris in recent weeks. Her presence in the study, the tea house, even in his thoughts, had gradually expanded until it seemed she was everywhere, inescapable. The awareness of her had grown until it rivaled even his constant concern about the mines.

As the evening deepened outside, the tea house grew increasingly still around him. The hearth sprites had all drifted into the kitchen to nestle near the banked coals, though two of them, he’d noted with some comfort, had scurried upstairs, hopefully to keep Iris company. The kitchen pixies were nowhere to be seen, and the vines had ceased their restless movement, their leaves hanging motionless in the quiet air.

Jasvian turned another page, but the words blurred before his eyes. The events of the previous night—the masquerade, the dancing, the conversation that had flowed so easily between them—combined with the morning’s revelation about Iris’s identity had left him mentally exhausted. The comfortable cushions beneath him and the hushed atmosphere of the tea house seemed to wrap around him like a blanket.

His eyelids grew heavy, the book drooping in his hands. He should move, he thought distantly. He should at least call upstairs to inform Lady Iris of his presence. But the poem before him pulled at his attention once more, something about stars and destiny, about two souls orbiting each other, unaware of their inevitable collision.

The tea house sighed around him, a sound almost like contentment, as Jasvian’s eyes finally closed, the book of poetry slipping from his fingers to rest in his lap.

In the study upstairs, Iris’s frustration had reached its peak. She paced between her desk and the window, barefoot and disheveled, her dark hair escaping its pins to fall in wayward strands around her face. Papers covered every surface—her desk, Lord Jasvian’s usually pristine workspace, the armchair, even the floor—each one a half-formed creation caught between what it was and what it might become.

“This should work,” she muttered, flexing her fingers before attempting once more to coordinate the movements of dozens of paper figures simultaneously. “I can do this. I know I can do this.”

The sun had long since set, its warm glow replaced by the cooler silver of moonlight. Iris had sent a messenger pixie to her grandparents earlier that afternoon, explaining she was working late and would stay the night if she finished after dark. It was apparent now that she would indeed be spending the night.

Despite exhaustion pressing against her temples, she refused to abandon her task. The Summer Solstice Grand Ball was her final opportunity to prove herself, not just to Bloomhaven society but to Lady Rivenna, who had invested so much in her development. She couldn’t fail now.

Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her magic once more, focusing on the scene she wanted to create. A grand ballroom in miniature filled with paper figures, their movements telling a tale of two strangers meeting beneath enchanted stars, unaware that fate had determined their paths would cross long before they ever set eyes upon one another.

Yes, her tale was indeed influenced by her own experience at the masquerade and by her growing fascination with a certain brooding lord, but she had finally surrendered to the truth of it. There seemed little point in denying what her magic clearly wished to express. If Lord Jasvian Rowanwood had claimed a permanent residence in her thoughts, perhaps allowing him this space alongside her creations might actually quiet the constant awareness of him that plagued her mind.

Her magic responded, dozens of paper creations rising from various surfaces around the study to hover in the air before her. The ballroom took shape, elaborate paper chandeliers unfurling from flat sheets, tiny dancers transforming from simple folded forms into more intricate forms. In the center, two figures moved toward each other, refolding themselves with each step to create the illusion of movement.

“Yes,” Iris whispered, her concentration absolute as she guided the figures through their dance. The scene needed to shift from the glittering ballroom to a garden setting beneath paper stars, then transform again to show the dancers parting at midnight.

She pushed her magic further, attempting to hold all elements of the scene in perfect balance while initiating the first transformation. The paper ballroom began to unfold and refold, walls becoming garden hedges, chandeliers transforming into stars, the surrounding dancers shifting into elegant topiary shapes.

But as she directed the central figures to continue their dance amidst this changing landscape, she felt something … slip. A tremor run through her magic. One of the paper trees faltered in its transformation, tearing slightly as it attempted to hold two shapes at once.

“No, no,” Iris whispered, reaching out with her magic to stabilize it. But in focusing on the tree, she lost her grip on the dancers. Their forms began to blur, folding and unfolding rapidly as if unable to decide which shape to take.

Panic flickered through her. She tried to calm herself, to regain control, but exhaustion had weakened her discipline. With growing horror, she felt her magic slipping further, the careful structure of her story crumbling as the paper creations began to vibrate with unconstrained energy. “No,” she whispered desperately. “Not again?—”

But it was too late. With a sound like a hundred wings beating frantically against glass, every sheet of paper in the room—her creations, the papers on her desk, pages from open books on the shelves—tore free and launched into the air. They whipped around her in a violent cyclone, folding and unfolding with impossible speed, their edges sharp as razors.

Iris cried out as the first cuts stung her exposed skin. She raised her arms to shield her face, but the paper found every inch of exposed flesh—her cheeks, her neck, her hands, her arms.

“Stop!” she shouted. “STOP!”

But the papers only spun faster, catching in her hair, slicing at her gown, cutting her again and again until tears of pain and frustration streamed down her face. She dropped to her knees, hunching over to make herself a smaller target, her magic spiraling completely out of control.

Then suddenly, abruptly, everything stopped.

The papers froze mid-air, then fluttered harmlessly to the floor. The sudden silence was deafening.

Iris remained crouched on the floor, sobbing, her arms still raised defensively. Only when she heard footsteps hurriedly crossing the room did she dare to lower her arms slightly, peering through her fingers to see Jasvian crouching down before her. His hair was disheveled, his cravat askew, as if he’d been startled from sleep. His eyes, though, were intensely alert, fixed on her with an expression of genuine alarm.

“Lady Iris,” he said, his voice tight with concern. “Are you hurt?”

“I … how did you …”

“I fell asleep downstairs,” he admitted. “And then your magic—the sudden eruption of—it woke me.”

“I …” Words failed Iris as she took in the destruction around them. Papers lay strewn across every surface, some torn to shreds, others bent and creased. Pages had been ripped from the bindings of every book in the room. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I’ve ruined everything,” she whispered. “Your books, your grandmother’s books … I—I’ll pay for the damage. I don’t know how, as my family is already dreadfully in debt, but—” She broke off, horrified at what she’d revealed. “Oh no, I—” She buried her face in her hands once more. “I was not supposed to say,” she mumbled, her words muffled behind her fingers. “No one is supposed to know.”

“Lady Iris, please. It does not matter to me. I care only for?—”

“But you cannot tell?—”

“I will say nothing of your family’s situation,” he assured her, his voice softening. “It is you I’m concerned for right now.”

She stopped, something unexpected shivering through her at his words.

“You’re hurt,” he said, a waver of anxiety still evident in his voice. “Please, let me see your face.”

Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her hands. His expression tightened as he took in her appearance. Judging by the stinging sensation across her face and the way his eyes widened in concern, Iris imagined her cheeks and neck bore the same pattern of tiny cuts that crisscrossed her arms and hands.

“I need to get a healing salve,” he said, starting to rise. “My grandmother keeps supplies in the kitchen?—”

“No!” Iris’s hand shot out to grasp his arm, her fingers clutching the fine material of his coat sleeve. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud, but the thought of being left alone in this room, surrounded by paper that might once again turn against her, filled her with terror.

Understanding dawned in his eyes. He glanced toward the hearth, where several sprites huddled together in the shadows, their tiny flames dimmed with fear. Iris remembered seeing them snuggle into the corner earlier to settle down for a night’s sleep.

“You,” Jasvian addressed them, his tone gentle but firm. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the healing salve from Lady Rivenna’s cabinet in the kitchen? The blue jar on the second shelf.”

The sprites bobbed in agreement, clearly relieved to have a reason to leave the room. They shot toward the door and disappeared.

“What happened?” Jasvian asked when they were alone, his gaze returning to Iris’s face with undisguised concern.

She swallowed, struggling to compose herself. “This … this is how it was the first time. When my magic manifested. It happened in a bookstore. A sanctuary I once cherished above all other places. There was …” Her voice trembled. “So much destruction. Just like this.” She looked around the room, sniffing faintly. “I thought I had learned enough control, but it seems I may have pushed myself beyond my limits this evening.”

“Indeed, it seems so,” he observed, his gaze moving around the room, taking in the sheer number of paper creations she’d been attempting to manipulate simultaneously.

The hearth sprites returned then, carrying the small blue jar between them. Jasvian took it from them with murmured thanks, uncapping it to reveal a pale cream that shimmered. “This will help,” he said, dipping one finger into the salve. “It works with the healer’s magic to accelerate natural healing. I’m not particularly skilled in healing arts, but my knowledge is enough to address superficial wounds.” He hesitated before touching her. “May I?”

Iris nodded. Jasvian carefully took her right arm, turning it gently to assess the damage. His fingers were warm as he cradled her forearm in one hand, using the other to apply the salve to each individual cut.

“Why were you asleep downstairs?” she asked quietly, not wanting to startle him as he worked.

He paused for a moment before continuing. “My grandmother was preparing to return home and mentioned that you were still here, working on your display for the Solstice Ball. I offered to stay so that you would not be left here on your own. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Iris shook her head as she swallowed. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice somewhat hoarse. “I mean … thank you. For staying.”

“Of course.” His thumb brushed over a slightly deeper cut at her wrist, and she felt a tingling warmth as his magic flowed through the contact. The skin knitted together before her eyes, leaving only the faintest pink line. He continued working in silence for several minutes, carefully addressing each cut on her arms. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, his focus absolute as he tended to her wounds.

When he finished with her arms, he hesitated, then moved his attention to the cuts on her neck. She turned her head to the side, trying to keep her breathing steady as his fingers ghosted over the sensitive skin there.

When his attention moved to her face, he cleared his throat and said, “I owe you an apology.” He kept his gaze fixed on his work, deliberately avoiding her eyes as he continued applying the salve to the cuts along her jawline and cheek. “What I said to you that first night at the Opening Ball was … unconscionable. The things I said about your bloodline, your magic. I was wrong. So terribly wrong.” His fingers moved to a cut near her temple. “If I could take back every word, every moment of hurt I caused you, I would do so without hesitation.”

Iris held perfectly still, afraid that any movement or word uttered might break the spell of this unexpected moment between them. With his gaze focused on his task, she took the opportunity to study his face openly for the first time—the strong line of his jaw now softened with concern, his storm-gray eyes holding a calm stillness, the usual stern set of his mouth replaced by an expression of gentle concentration. This was not the same Lord Jasvian Rowanwood she had met at the start of the Bloom Season.

“I must apologize too,” she whispered. “The things I said to you the night we met—I spoke from anger and hurt, not truth. I judged you without knowing a single thing about the man beneath the title.” She swallowed, feeling the gentle pressure of his fingers as they moved to another cut. “I was every bit as prejudiced as I accused you of being.”

“Perhaps we both needed time to see beyond our first impressions,” he said softly. “Though in my case, I fear my prejudice was far less excusable.” He paused then, the pad of his thumb resting against the curve of her cheek, as his eyes traveled her face.

“There,” he murmured, drawing back slightly. “That should prevent any scarring.” Yet his hand remained at her cheek, his thumb making one final, unnecessary pass over now-healed skin. He lowered his hand slowly, turning his attention back to her arms, ostensibly to check his work, but his fingers continued to trace delicate patterns over her skin, following the paths where cuts had been only moments before. The salve had done its work; there was no reason for him to continue this careful exploration of her wrists, the soft underside of her forearm, the sensitive skin at the bend of her elbow.

Yet neither of them moved to break contact. His touch was feather-light, almost worshipful in its gentleness. Each slow stroke of his thumb over her skin sent shivers cascading through Iris’s body, awakening sensations she had never experienced before. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something powerful and unspoken. Her breathing grew shallow, her pulse quickening beneath his touch.

At the quiet intake of breath that she could no longer contain, his eyes rose to meet hers, sending a tremor of awareness rushing through her body. And for one breathless moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was only this—his hands on her skin, his eyes holding hers, the silent acknowledgment of something neither of them dared to name.

Then the door to the study flew open with a bang.

“Iris!” Lady Rivenna stood in the doorway, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, a cloak hastily thrown over her nightdress. Her sharp gaze took in the scene before her—Iris and Jasvian kneeling amid scattered papers, his hands still cradling her arms—before moving to assess the destruction around the room. “What happened? The tea house woke me. I felt its distress from across Bloomhaven.”

The charged atmosphere dissipated instantly. Jasvian released Iris’s arms and rose to his feet in one fluid motion, stepping back to put a respectable distance between them while also extending a hand toward her. “There was an incident,” he explained, his voice returning to its usual formal cadence. “Lady Iris’s magic became temporarily unstable. I was downstairs and sensed her loss of control. I was able to assist.”

Assist. That was certainly one way to put it.

She reached for Jasvian’s offered hand, letting him pull her to her feet. The moment she was steady, he released her and stepped back, widening the space between them once more. The sudden absence of his touch left her feeling unmoored, standing there awkwardly, all too aware of her disheveled state and the lingering tension that still hummed between them.

“I see.” Lady Rivenna’s gaze moved between the two of them before landing on the small jar of salve still sitting on the floor. “You were hurt?” she asked, concern coloring her tone again.

“Not badly,” Iris hastened to assure her. “And I apologize for the damage, Lady Rivenna. I was attempting to create something elaborate that appears to have been a little beyond my control. I will do everything I can to restore?—”

Lady Rivenna waved away her apologies. “The tea house has withstood far worse in its time.” She stepped fully into the room, her keen eyes assessing Iris’s condition. “You appear physically recovered, at least.”

“Yes, I—” Iris glanced at Jasvian, who was now staring fixedly at a point somewhere over his grandmother’s left shoulder. “Lord Jasvian’s assistance was invaluable.”

“I’m sure it was,” Lady Rivenna murmured, her tone laden with meaning. “Well, since I am here and clearly neither of you is in imminent danger, perhaps it’s time we all retired for what remains of the night.” She turned to Jasvian. “You should return to Rowanwood House.”

“Of course,” he agreed stiffly. “I shall take my leave.”

Iris’s heart sank at the formal distance that had returned to his voice. Just moments ago, his hands had moved over her skin with such tender care that she’d nearly forgotten to breathe. Now he was once again the proper Lord Jasvian Rowanwood, standing tall and composed as if nothing extraordinary had passed between them.

“Lady Iris can remain here tonight as planned,” Lady Rivenna said. “I shall stay as well. My quarters upstairs can be rearranged for two with a few simple magical adjustments.”

Iris blinked. “There are … quarters upstairs?” she asked haltingly. And then: “There is another level above this one?”

Lady Rivenna gave her a look of incredulous bemusement. “Of course. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?”

“I—” Iris broke off, looking around the study. “The armchair?”

“Good gracious, my dear. Perhaps it’s fortunate the room erupted in chaos. At least now you’ve been saved from the terrible fate of attempting to sleep in that armchair. And how is it possible you’ve been here for weeks without noticing there’s another floor to this building?”

“Well … the staircase does not continue,” Iris pointed out. “And from the outside of the tea house, it appears that there are only?—”

“In the case of The Charmed Leaf,” Rivenna said, “appearances are rarely what they seem. You, of all people, should understand that what’s visible on the outside rarely reflects the true nature of what lies within.”

Iris merely blinked at that, her gaze moving uncertainly between Rivenna and Jasvian.

“Grandmother, do you require any assistance with the arrangements upstairs?” Jasvian inquired politely, still refusing to meet Iris’s gaze.

“Do I look incapable of managing a few simple spells?” Rivenna huffed. “I’ve been rearranging furniture with magic since before you were born, Jasvian.”

Jasvian sighed before inclining his head. “Then I bid you both good night.”

As he turned to leave, his gaze finally met Iris’s, and for the briefest moment, she glimpsed that same vulnerability, that same longing, before his expression smoothed once more into careful neutrality.

“Good night, Lord Jasvian,” she said softly.

Lady Rivenna watched her grandson go, an inscrutable expression on her face. Then she turned to Iris. “Come, my dear. We shall see to this mess in the morning.”