Iris returned to her part of the worktable, hoping to escape Rosavyn’s teasing. She glanced down at her notebook and found that new words had appeared in Lord Jasvian’s elegant script:
Has something happened? You’ve gone unusually quiet.
Beneath this, the notebook had added its own commentary:
Why have you vanished just as this one-sided exchange was becoming interesting? Most inconsiderate of you to leave me in suspense.
And then another message from Lord Jasvian:
Have I offended you? More than usual, that is. It’s unlike you not to have an immediate retort for anything you might find objectionable.
Iris stared at the page, uncertain how to respond to his messages. The situation was becoming absurdly complicated. Lord Hadrian appearing unexpectedly at the tea house, Lord Jasvian’s messages growing increasingly familiar, and now Rosavyn watching her every reaction like a hawk.
“Why are you frowning at your notebook as though it’s personally insulted you?” Rosavyn asked. She had walked around to Iris’s side of the worktable and was now peering over her shoulder.
Iris slammed the book closed with more force than necessary. “I’m not frowning. I’m concentrating.”
“On what, precisely? Because your face suggests either profound consternation or severe indigestion.”
“Rosavyn!”
“Very well, keep your secrets,” Rosavyn said with a theatrical sigh. She glanced toward the window, where the morning light had strengthened considerably. “I should perhaps head home anyway. With any luck, Mother hasn’t yet noticed my absence, and I might still claim a proper breakfast before she sends someone looking for me.”
“Hopefully,” Iris said, trying not to sound too relieved. “Thank you for bravely testing new blends alongside me. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything truly remarkable.”
Rosavyn hesitated a moment longer, her brow furrowing slightly. “Are you truly all right, Iris? I know you didn’t want to share all the details of what those dreadful Brightcrest girls said to you last night, but if there’s anything you need to talk about …”
“I’m fine,” Iris assured Rosavyn, touched by her friend’s concern. “Last night was … unpleasant, yes. But I’ve determinedto put it behind me. I’ve realized I have far more important things to focus on.”
Rosavyn studied her face for a moment longer before stepping forward and wrapping her in a warm embrace. “Should you find yourself in need of a confidante, I am, of course, entirely at your disposal.”
“Thank you, Rosavyn.”
As they separated, Iris felt a pang of guilt for keeping the full story from her friend. Not Ellowa and Mariselle’s cruelty—those words did not need to be repeated—but the visions, and Lord Jasvian’s unexpected defense of her, and her long and illuminating conversation with Lady Rivenna the night before. But some secrets felt too delicate, too new to share just yet. And when she eventually chose to reveal them, she would need to be carefully selective about her confidants.
She and Lady Rivenna had both agreed that this particular type of magic was not to be spoken about freely. Certainly not the sort one displayed for the entertainment of society at the Summer Solstice Grand Ball. But Iris felt sure that when the time was right, Rosavyn would be one of the first to know that her magic went far deeper than mere paper folding.
Rosavyn left the kitchen, but not before first darting past Orrit’s workstation and snatching a freshly baked scone from the cooling rack, earning an indignant squeal from the brownie, who shook his tiny flour-covered fist at her retreating form.
With a smile, Iris pulled her notebook closer, relieved to finally be able to give it her full attention. Sitting on one of the kitchen stools, she opened it. Beneath Lord Jasvian’s most recent note, the notebook had added:
Never in all my existence have I been closed with such unwarranted violence. I fear for the integrity of my binding.
Iris rolled her eyes, refraining from pointing out that the notebook’s existence had spanned barely a week. Hardly longenough to justify such dramatic indignation. She grabbed a quill and wrote:
No offense taken, my lord. No more than usual, at least. I was merely distracted. Contrary to what you might believe, my world does not revolve around our correspondence.
She lifted her quill, her magic responding to her urgency by folding the envelope with unusual speed before it shot across the kitchen and out the door. Not waiting for a reply, she tore another section of blank paper, glanced quickly at his previous message about her ‘particular brand of disorder,’ and continued writing.
I’m pleased my ‘whirlwind’ activities provide you with such entertainment. Though I do apologize for disrupting your early morning peace. It’s my favorite time of day as well, when I’m not engaged in creating blends reminiscent of a garden gnome’s unwashed boots. The tea house has such a different quality in the quiet early hours, does it not?
She began returning ingredients to their jars and stacking the used teacups in a precarious tower while waiting for his reply, occasionally glancing at her successful blend with satisfaction, where it was cooling in the copper teapot.
Words soon formed in the notebook:
Thank the stars for small mercies. I’d make a rather poor celestial body around which to center one’s universe.
Regarding your fondness for morning’s tranquility, we agree on something at last. The morning quiet is indeed preferable to the chaos that inevitably follows. Though I hadn’t expected you to be an early riser. You struck me, initially, as someone who might prefer to linger among dreams rather than face reality at first light.
