Page 33 of Tempests & Tea Leaves (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #1)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jasvian tugged irritably at the high collar of his evening coat, which seemed determined to strangle him with each breath. The crowded ballroom of Fawnwood House felt oppressively hot, the air thick with perfumes that clogged his senses and set his teeth on edge. Despite the late hour—an hour when any sensible person would be at home with a book or ledger—the festivities showed no sign of waning. Couples swirled across the polished floor with mindless enthusiasm, the orchestra played with relentless, grating vigor, and hollow laughter punctuated every corner of the grand space.

He had not wanted to attend. In the week since he had returned from the north, he had spent his time either locked away in his study or working with Hadrian, obsessively refining their early warning system. Despite the fact that he would never trust a mechanical system alone, Jasvian hoped that the combination of both Hadrian’s invention and his own focused vigilance would result in no more potentially disastrous surprises. The mines were secure for now, but the close call had shaken him more than he cared to admit, driving him to work punishing hours that left little time for sleep, let alone frivolous social engagements. His grandmother, however, had been insistent.

“Your absence has become the subject of speculation,” she had informed him that morning. “People are concerned about the state of the Rowanwood mines. Your continued seclusion only fuels the gossip.”

“The state of the mines is hardly their business,” he had replied, not looking up from his ledger.

“When those mines supply the lumyrite that powers half the enchantments in their homes, it most certainly becomes their business,” she had countered. “One evening, Jasvian. Your presence will reassure them that the situation is under control.”

He had relented, but only after extracting a promise that Iris would not be in attendance. “She is occupied at the tea house this evening,” his grandmother had assured him. “She continues her preparation for the Summer Solstice Ball display. Her control improves daily. I am most impressed with what she has managed to achieve since the night she lost control in the tea house study.”

Jasvian’s heart had quickened at the memory of that night. “Perhaps because she no longer has distractions to contend with,” he’d muttered.

Yet here he stood, his gaze fixed on the familiar slender figure across the room. Iris Starspun wore a gown of soft pearl that shimmered with subtle enchantment, tiny forget-me-nots woven into the fabric. She was laughing at something Hadrian had just said, her entire countenance suffused with warmth.

A familiar ache bloomed in Jasvian’s chest, equal parts longing and bitter resolve. He tore his gaze away and sought out his grandmother, who stood conversing with her friend Lady Amarind Thornhart. When she caught his eye, her expression remained perfectly neutral, but he detected the faintest hint of satisfaction in the curve of her mouth.

He strode toward her, maintaining rigid control over his features despite his rising indignation. “Grandmother,” he said, inclining his head in a formal greeting before addressing Lady Thornhart. “Lady Amarind, you look well this evening.”

“Lord Jasvian,” Lady Amarind replied with a knowing smile. “We were just discussing the remarkable recovery of your family’s mines. Such a relief that you managed to contain the damage.”

“Indeed,” he replied tersely. Then, turning to his grandmother, he lowered his voice. “A moment of your time?”

Lady Rivenna excused herself from her friend and stepped slightly aside with Jasvian, her silver eyebrows raised in perfect innocence.

“You assured me she would be at the tea house this evening,” he said without preamble, not bothering to specify whom he meant.

“Did I?” his grandmother replied airily. “How careless of me. Lady Iris must have completed her work earlier than anticipated.”

“This is not a coincidence.”

“Few things in life truly are,” she agreed. “Perhaps you might try enjoying the evening rather than glowering at every guest unfortunate enough to cross your path.” With a final arch look, his grandmother turned away, gliding back to Lady Thornhart. He stood rigid, fighting the urge to follow and demand further explanation, when a lilting voice interrupted his brooding.

“Lord Rowanwood!” A fresh-faced young woman with pink curls and an exuberant disposition stepped directly into his path. “I was hoping for a moment of your time.”

Without conscious thought, Jasvian found himself offering his standard reply to the woman whose name currently escaped him. “I regret that I will not be dancing this evening, my lady.”

A trill of laughter escaped her. “Oh! No, I wasn’t seeking a dance. I merely wanted to inquire if you’ll be attending your grandmother’s annual tea leaf reading tomorrow night?” Her eyes brightened with unmistakable enthusiasm. “I was fortunate enough to attend last year, and it was absolutely delightful. I’ve been looking forward to it since the Season began, truly. Lady Rivenna has such a theatrical flair for the readings, doesn’t she?”

Jasvian’s thoughts turned briefly to the elaborate production his grandmother made of the event each year. The dramatic pauses as she interpreted the most mundane of leaf patterns, the exaggerated gasps from her audience, the inevitable chaos as everyone peered into each other’s cups to compare fortunes. He would rather submit to an entire day of Evryn’s unfiltered opinions on his wardrobe choices than endure another evening of such frivolity.

Nevertheless, he stiffly replied, “Yes. I will be in attendance.” Then, with a polite nod, he added, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Before he could take two steps, he found himself face to face with Lady Lycilla Whispermist, his grandmother’s other close friend.

“Lord Jasvian,” she exclaimed, “how marvelous to see you in society once more. We were all quite concerned after that dreadful business with the mines.”

“Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary,” he replied politely. “The situation is well in hand.”

“Splendid to hear. Now, tell me about this revolutionary warning system your grandmother has mentioned. Something about transferring your particular magical sensitivity into … something? It sounds absolutely fascinating.”

Jasvian suppressed a sigh and launched into a carefully edited explanation of Hadrian’s work, knowing his grandmother had likely orchestrated this conversation to keep him occupied. Lady Lycilla nodded attentively, punctuating his explanation with questions that revealed a surprisingly keen understanding of magical theory. He found himself drawn into a genuine discussion despite his earlier irritation.

He was busy describing how he and Hadrian had decided upon the optimum distance between detection rods when the orchestra concluded one piece and immediately struck up another. Lady Lycilla stepped slightly aside, and Jasvian suddenly found himself face to face with Iris, who had apparently been engaged in conversation with Lady Amarind directly behind them.

“Oh!” Lady Lycilla exclaimed with patently false surprise. “Lady Iris, there you are. Lord Jasvian, you should dance this one with Lady Iris.”

“Indeed,” Lady Amarind added immediately. “Lady Iris was just telling me her dance card remains empty for the remainder of the evening.”

Jasvian’s jaw clenched as he recognized the very obvious scheming at work. His grandmother and her accomplices had maneuvered this encounter. He glanced at Iris, whose expression betrayed nothing beyond polite interest, though a telltale flush colored her cheeks.

He should refuse. He should invent some pressing obligation. He should?—

“Lady Iris,” he heard himself say, extending a hand toward her. “Would you do me the honor?”

Her eyes met his for the briefest moment before flicking away. “Of course, Lord Jasvian.”

The cool formality of her tone twisted something in his chest. He led her to the dance floor, aware of his grandmother and her friends watching with barely concealed satisfaction. As they took their positions among the other couples, Jasvian maintained a careful distance—close enough to be suitable for the dance, far enough to minimize the contact that threatened to shatter his resolve.

The music began, a stately waltz that required them to move in careful synchronicity. His right hand rested at her waist, where he could feel her warmth through the fabric of her dress. His left held her gloved hand, the smooth silk a maddening barrier between their skin. As they began to move across the floor, the practiced steps offering a welcome structure to follow, Jasvian fought to keep his expression neutral.

“I trust your work at the tea house progresses well?” he asked, directing his gaze slightly over her right shoulder.

“Yes, quite well,” she replied with equal detachment. “The preparations for Lady Rivenna’s Annual Tea Leaf Reading tomorrow evening are nearly complete.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

The conversation came to a halt as they turned together, her gown brushing against his legs. Even through layers of fabric, the contact sent an electric awareness coursing through him. He inhaled sharply, catching the faint scent of orange blossom and spiced tea that he had come to associate uniquely with her.

It had been little more than a week since he had held her hand at the Night Market, had felt the overwhelming rightness of being close to her. But it felt like an eternity. The ache of her absence had not diminished as he had hoped it would. Instead, it had expanded, hollowing him out from within until every mundane task seemed to require twice the effort.

“And how are things at the mines?” she asked, breaking the silence, her voice so perfectly pleasant it bordered on frigid.

“Repairs continue,” he replied, equally distant. “The damaged supports have been replaced, and we’ve reinforced the affected tunnels.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Her hand fit so perfectly into his. Had he been a fool to throw this away? To push her from his life in the name of duty? But then he remembered the terror that had gripped him at the market, the desperate race to The Confluence, the knowledge that his distraction—his happiness—had nearly caused another disaster.

The music swelled as they circled the floor. Iris was light in his arms, her movements perfectly in time with his. He longed to draw her closer, to feel her warmth against him once more. He imagined leaning down to whisper in her ear the truth that burned inside him: I miss you. I want you. I am only half alive without you near.

“The orchestra plays beautifully this evening, do they not?” Iris remarked.

“Yes,” Jasvian managed, the word catching slightly on an unsteady breath. “Quite skilled.”

The banal politeness of their exchange stood in stark contrast to the riot of emotion within him. As they turned again, he allowed himself one brief, unguarded moment to truly look at her—the elegant line of her neck, the subtle hollow at the base of her throat, the stubborn set of her chin as she maintained her distance. She was exquisite, and oh how he longed to lower his mouth to her skin, to press his lips to the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

The music drew toward its conclusion, and Jasvian felt a rising panic at the thought of releasing her. Once the dance ended, propriety would demand they part ways. He would have no further excuse to remain in her presence, to feel the warmth of her hand in his, to breathe in the scent that had haunted his dreams.

But the final notes sounded, and Iris stepped back from him immediately, offering a perfect curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”

“The pleasure was mine, Lady Iris,” he replied, bowing in return.

She turned and walked away without another glance, her back straight, her steps measured. He watched her join her grandparents, who were engaged in a lively discussion with Hadrian’s mother.

The ache in Jasvian’s chest threatened to overwhelm him. He could not remain here, breathing the same air as Iris while maintaining this cruel distance between them. Without acknowledging anyone, he turned and strode from the ballroom, his long legs carrying him swiftly through the grand reception hall toward the main entrance.

“Jasvian!” His grandmother’s voice rang out behind him.

In the relative quiet of the entrance hall, away from the music and chatter of the ballroom, he stopped and turned to face her.

“That was a deliberate manipulation,” he accused, his voice low and taut with anger. “You knew she would be here. That dance—it should not have happened. You are only making this more difficult, Grandmother.”

“ You are the one making things difficult, Jasvian!” Rivenna countered, her eyes flashing. “Someone needed to take action before your stubborn pride destroyed?—”

“This is not about pride. This is about duty. About responsibility.”

“It is about fear,” she retorted sharply. “Fear dressed in fine clothes and calling itself duty.”

“You have no right to?—”

“I have every right. I watched your father make the same mistake, and I will not stand by while you repeat it.”

Jasvian stiffened. “My father dedicated himself to our family’s legacy. To ensuring the prosperity of our bloodline and the safety of the mines.”

“Your father dedicated himself to work at the expense of those who loved him,” Rivenna said, her voice softening slightly. “He missed so much of what truly mattered.”

“The mines required his constant attention,” Jasvian defended. “He didn’t have my ability to sense the tempests before they formed. It was all the more important that he remain vigilant.”

“He chose that level of vigilance,” Rivenna countered. “He could have delegated more. Could have trained others. Could have developed systems instead of shouldering everything himself. But he didn’t, and he came to regret it.”

Jasvian frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rivenna sighed, the sound heavy with old grief. “In the months before his death, your father finally recognized what his choices had cost him. He came to me, troubled by the realization that he had missed so much of your childhood, that he had been a distant husband to your mother. He did not have the chance to tell you this himself before tragedy struck and took him from us far too early, and only now do I see that you’ve spent the past several years building your entire identity upon a philosophy your father himself had begun to abandon.”

Jasvian was shaking his head, even as his grandmother spoke, struggling to reconcile this new information with the image of his father he had carried for years. “That is not what he taught me.”

“Because he taught you the wrong thing! Have you truly heard nothing I’ve just said? Your life need not mirror his. Indeed, your work is fundamentally different. Many of his responsibilities have already been passed to others, precisely so you might focus your attention on the tempests. But with Lord Blackbriar’s work transferring your magic and building an entirely new system, there is simply no longer the same need for your constant presence. You hold onto it because you are too afraid to relinquish control.”

Jasvian clenched his jaw. “I told you, this is not about fear. This is about me choosing to uphold my father’s example.”

“Good gracious, dear boy, have you always been this willfully blind?” His grandmother stepped back, hands settling firmly on her hips as she inhaled deeply. Then she paused. Her eyes narrowed, the lines around them deepening as she seemed to reach some internal decision. Her lips pressed together in a determined line as she studied him with an appraising gaze that made him feel like a puzzle she’d finally solved.

She turned and signaled to a footman standing near the entrance. “Call for Lord Rowanwood’s carriage immediately.”

Before Jasvian could protest, she had taken his arm in a surprisingly firm grip and was steering him toward the door.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Taking you to The Charmed Leaf,” she replied. “You need to hear something.”

“Hear—Grandmother, what has?—”

“There is something I believe the tea house can relay better to you than I ever could.”

“The tea house is a building !” Jasvian erupted in frustration. “It has no consciousness of its own and certainly is not capable of relaying anything to me!”

“Do not take that tone with me, boy,” his grandmother said, tugging him back to face her, voice sharper than he had heard it in years. “You will listen before your sheer stubbornness and determination to isolate yourself ruins your life beyond repair.”

Jasvian attempted to pull away, but his grandmother’s grip only tightened. “I have no interest in?—”

“Your interests are currently irrelevant,” she cut him off. “For someone so intelligent, you can be remarkably dense. Now, you will accompany me to the tea house, you will sit down, and you will, for once in your life, truly listen.”