Iris turned her attention back to the botanical reference book Lady Rivenna had provided. She reached for a sprig of rosemary to mark her current page, then flipped back to another section she’d previously marked with a loose button—one that had fallen from her sleeve when she’d settled at the desk that morning. Running her finger down the page, she found what she was looking for:When properly crushed, moonroot seeds release a delicate vapor with notes of vanilla and honey, intensifying any blend’s magical properties.Curious to test this out for herself, she reached for the small mortar and pestle on her desk, drawing them closer. The pale blue moonroot seeds rattled softly as she poured them into the bowl. With deliberate, circular motions, she began grinding.
“Must you do that?” Lord Jasvian demanded.
Iris paused. “Do what, exactly?”
“Create disturbances while I’m attempting to work.” He gestured toward her mortar. “I need to finish these accounts early. I have social engagements to attend this afternoon.”
Iris couldn’t contain her surprised laugh. “You socialize? Voluntarily?”
He dropped his quill and looked up. “It is most certainly not—” He cut himself off, snapping his mouth shut. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a careful, measured quality. “Yes. Is that so difficult to believe?”
“Frankly, yes.” Iris set down the pestle. “What does that look like, my lord? You standing rigidly in the corner of a gathering, cataloging all the ways in which everyone else is failing to meet your exacting standards?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “We are not all capable of easy conversation in a crowd, Lady Starspun.”
“Nor easy conversation in a confined space, it would appear,” she muttered.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “If you find my company so objectionable, perhaps you might consider working elsewhere. The kitchen seems better suited to your current endeavors.”
“Lady Rivenna specifically assigned me to this study,” Iris replied. “Though you’re welcome to return to Rowanwood House if my methods disturb you so greatly.”
“That isn’t possible at present,” he said, his voice clipped. “My mother is having work done on the ballroom, which is directly beneath my study. I cannot think for all the banging.”
Iris raised an eyebrow. “Surely your magnificent home has more than one room suitable for work?”
“The lighting in that room is optimal, and the desk itself cannot—” He broke off, seeming to realize how ridiculous this might sound. “I simply prefer my established workspace.”
“As do I, yet here we are, forced to adapt to circumstances beyond our control.” Iris gestured expansively, accidentally sending several petals dancing through the air toward his desk. “Life’s great equalizer.”
Lord Jasvian sent the petals spiraling back toward her desk with a quick spark of magic before they could land on his papers. “There is nothing remotely equal about our situations.”
“Of course not. You merely face the inconvenience of sharing a study, while I contend with an entire society that views my very existence as an affront to proper order.” Iris smiled tightly. “Clearly, your burden is the heavier.”
“That isn’t what I—” He stopped, visibly recalibrating. “Your personal challenges, while regrettable, are hardly relevant to the matter at hand.”
“Which is?”
“Your deliberate invasion of my workspace with … botanical debris.”
Iris threw up her hands. “For someone so obsessed with efficiency, you waste an extraordinary amount of time and energy on pointless complaints.”
“And you,” he countered, “seem determined to justify disorder as some form of artistic necessity.”
“Better than justifying rudeness as—” She broke off with a gasp as her gesturing hand knocked against a delicate vial of shadowberry extract. The vial toppled, its silver stopper popping free as it rolled across her scattered notes. Black liquid pooled across the sheets of paper. “Oh, for the love of?—”
“One might take this as a sign,” Lord Jasvian said, his tone laced with false sympathy, “that even the tea house finds your methods objectionable.”
“Or perhaps,” Iris countered, turning in her seat to face him fully, “the tea house is providing a perfect metaphor for how your presence darkens every room you enter.”
A flicker of something—hurt?—crossed his features before his expression hardened again. “I see. Well, far be it from me to inflict my ‘dark’ presence on someone who finds it soobjectionable.” He shut the ledger with a snap and pushed his chair back.
But Iris was already standing. “Oh, by all means, stay,” she said with exaggerated politeness. “This isyourstudy, after all—as you’ve repeatedly reminded me.”
She gathered her skirts and swept away from her desk, leaving behind the disaster of midnight essence-stained papers and scattered tea ingredients. The mess would likely torment Lord Jasvian’s ordered sensibilities far more effectively than any retort she could offer.
“Do ensure the door is properly closed when you leave,” he called after her.
With a deliberate slowness that bordered on theatrical, Iris pushed the door open to its widest extent. She paused in the doorway, turned to meet his gaze with defiant satisfaction, then lifted her chin and marched away, leaving the door gaping behind her.
