Page 32 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)
Chapter Thirty-Two
Iris inhaled deeply, holding the breath for several heartbeats before releasing it in a controlled, even stream. She repeated the process three times, a centering ritual she had developed in recent weeks to mark the beginning of her morning tea brewing. The gentle, familiar motions had become something of an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
Two days had passed since the Stardust Night Market. Two days since Jasvian had paled mid-conversation and fled without explanation. Word had reached them the following morning that a tempest had erupted at the Rowanwood mines in the north, though Jasvian had arrived in time to calm it before catastrophic damage occurred. He had remained there to oversee the initial repairs, and the tea house had been awash with a current of anxious tension ever since. Relief that no lives had been lost mingled with concern over the extent of the damage—and over Jasvian himself.
Iris stood at Lissian’s tea blending station, trying to focus on the precise measurements required for her ‘Autumn & Pine’ blend. She reached for the jar of spiced leaves and carefully measured the fine red-brown fragments. Behind her, Orrit huffed and muttered as he kneaded his legendary scone dough, while kitchen pixies flitted between shelves, arranging cups and saucers for the day ahead. This peaceful, familiar routine should have been soothing, yet Iris found her thoughts straying continuously northward.
Had Jasvian slept at all these past two nights? Had he eaten properly? Was he truly unharmed? And why, despite Lady Lelianna’s assurances that her son was physically well, did a sense of foreboding still cling to Iris?
She measured the pine needles next, then added starlight crystal honey, watching it dissolve into glittering particles as it touched the hot water inside the copper teapot. As she reached for the lumyrite rod to begin stirring, the kitchen’s back door swung open. A gust of cool morning air swept in, carrying with it the scent of dew-damp grass and?—
Her heart leapt into her throat. Jasvian stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the pale morning light. For a moment, she could only stare, the lumyrite rod forgotten in her grasp. The impulse to rush to him, to throw propriety to the winds and simply confirm with her own hands that he was whole and unharmed, was nearly overwhelming. She took a half-step forward before remembering herself—and their audience of kitchen pixies, hearth sprites, and one highly judgmental brownie.
“Lord Jasvian,” she managed instead, her voice betraying more emotion than she intended. “You’ve returned.”
“Lady Iris.” His voice was formal, controlled. Too controlled. “I arrived late last night.”
He looked exhausted. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes, and his normally immaculate attire showed signs of hasty attention. But it was his expression that truly concerned her. The warmth that had begun to soften his features when they were together had vanished, replaced by the rigid mask he wore in public.
“I was up early this morning,” he continued. “I … needed to see you.”
Joy fluttered in her chest at those words, but something in his demeanor—the stiffness of his posture, the careful distance he maintained—kept her rooted to the spot.
“I’m relieved you’re back safely,” she said, setting down the lumyrite rod. “We’ve all been so concerned.”
“Indeed.” The word fell between them, oddly hollow. “May I speak with you? Privately? The garden, perhaps?”
Orrit harrumphed loudly, the sound startlingly incongruous coming from such a diminutive figure. Iris looked over her shoulder and found the brownie making a show of scowling at his dough, though Iris knew he was listening intently to every word.
“Of course,” she replied, turning back. She followed Jasvian outside where the morning was still young, the sun casting long, cool shadows and painting the tea house gardens with a pale golden light. Dew clung to every surface, transforming the rows of herbs and flowers into a landscape of glittering jewels. Sleepy garden gnomes trudged slowly into view, yawning widely as they dragged tiny watering cans and trowels behind them, while several garden pixies remained curled beneath the flowers, their translucent wings twitching as they snored quietly.
Jasvian led Iris beyond the rows of herbs, flowers and tea plants to a small stone bench nestled beneath a flowering archway, far enough from the kitchen windows to ensure privacy. He did not sit, however, and neither did Iris. They stood facing each other, an arm’s length of morning air between them.
“I wanted to tell you—” Iris began.
“There are things I must say—” Jasvian spoke simultaneously.
They both stopped, an awkward silence falling between them. A garden gnome nearby lowered his watering can and sat down to watch them.
“Please,” Iris gestured for him to continue, her heart racing. “You first.”
Jasvian’s jaw tightened. “Very well.” He clasped his hands behind his back, assuming a stance that reminded Iris painfully of their earliest, most formal interactions. “I wanted to inform you that I have returned safely, as you can see. The tempest was contained, though not without damage to some of the tunnel supports.”
“I’m so relieved you arrived in time,” Iris said softly. “That no one was?—”
“I did not arrive in time, Lady Iris. The tempest erupted. It’s true the damage was limited, but there should have been no damage at all. Had I been more attentive to my duties, had I not allowed myself to become …” He paused, his gaze sliding away from hers. “… distracted , I would have sensed the danger much earlier. I could have calmed the tempest before it formed.”
The implication hung in the air between them, clear as crystal: She had been the distraction. Iris felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. “I’m so?—”
“This cannot continue,” he cut in, his gaze returning to hers now. “Whatever this is between us. I cannot allow it to proceed any further.”
Iris felt as though the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Around them, the garden grew unnaturally still, even the breeze falling silent.
“I don’t understand,” Iris said, though she was beginning to—all too clearly.
“My responsibilities to the Rowanwood mines and the safety of the workers must take precedence over …” He hesitated, and something like genuine pain flickered across his features before being ruthlessly suppressed. “Over personal feelings. The burden is mine alone, and I cannot risk dividing my attention.”
“Surely there must be a way?—”
“There is not.” His voice was final, brooking no argument. “You saw what happened at the Night Market. One moment of inattention, one evening spent in pleasant company, and disaster nearly struck.”
“But no lives were lost,” Iris argued, desperately reaching for something to counter his rigid certainty. “And what of Hadrian’s early warning system? You spoke so positively of the developments?—”
“I will never be able to trust it,” he interrupted, something raw and wounded entering his voice. “Not with people’s lives. I can only trust myself, and even that …” He drew a sharp breath, looking away. “Even that has proven insufficient. But I will not allow myself to fail again.”
“My lord, you have not failed?—”
“I have!” He retorted, loud enough that Iris took a step back. “It was my failure to react in time that resulted in my father’s death! If I had been closer, if I had left home that day just a few minutes earlier instead of dallying with ...” He shook his head, eyes filled with a pain so acute it took Iris’s breath away.
“I … I didn’t know …” She trailed off softly. “But that wasn’t your fault. No one could have known what was about to?—”
“I should have known,” he said, his voice cracking. “Just as I should have sensed the danger the other night, long before it reached critical levels. I cannot allow myself to be diverted from my duty, not for a single moment. Not even for—” He stopped, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“Not even for me,” Iris finished quietly.
The silence that stretched between them seemed endless. The distant squawk of a gossip bird reached Iris’s ears, and she prayed it came nowhere near this garden. The last thing she wanted was for this raw, painful exchange to become fodder for Bloomhaven’s rumor mill.
“You deserve more,” Jasvian finally said, his voice softer but no less resolute. “Someone who can give you more than divided attention. More than constant worry that any moment of happiness might be interrupted by disaster. Someone whose duty does not require him to abandon you at a moment’s notice.”
“That should be my decision to make,” Iris argued, anger beginning to burn through her shock. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve or what I can accept.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, straightening his shoulders, “I have made my decision. I … I cannot continue our acquaintance in its current form.”
Iris stared at him, searching his face for some sign of the man who had held her hand in the darkness at the Night Market, who had traced gentle patterns on her skin as he tended her wounds, who had looked at her with such undisguised longing. But that man seemed to have vanished, replaced by this cold, unyielding stranger.
“So this is how it is to be?” she asked, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “You’ve decided, and I have no say at all?”
“It is the only possible course,” he replied with terrible finality. “I cannot be what you need. I cannot be what anyone needs outside of my role as head of the Rowanwood family and guardian of the mines.”
A lump formed in Iris’s throat, hot tears pressing against her eyelids. She fought them back fiercely, refusing to let him see how deeply his words had wounded her. “Very well, Lord Rowanwood,” she said, deliberately using his formal title. “I understand completely.”
His expression flickered—a brief, pained shadow crossing his features—before settling back into rigid control. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. “I wish you all happiness, Lady Iris. Truly.”
Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode away, his back straight, his steps measured. Not once did he look back, not even as he rounded the corner of the tea house and disappeared from view.