I’m thinking of my mother,Iris wrote, her quill pressing harder into the paper.She was brilliant once. A respected scholar with thoughts and opinions of her own. Now she can barely decide what to wear for dinner without consulting my father. She has become a mere shadow of herself, an echo of his thoughts. I do not want that for myself.
The notebook’s script appeared more slowly this time, as if it were choosing its words with particular care.
How fascinating that you believe there are only two possible outcomes: complete independence or total self-effacement. Has it occurred to you that your mother’s situation might be unusual rather than inevitable?
Iris frowned at the page before writing,You don’t know my mother.
True. But I have existed within these walls for quite some time. I have witnessed countless marriages—some that diminish, yes, but others that strengthen. Some where two become less than they were, and others where they become more.
Poetic, but hardly convincing,Iris wrote.Better to rely on oneself than risk such a gamble.
Is that what you’re doing with your position at The Charmed Leaf? Relying solely on yourself?
Iris paused, her brow furrowing.That’s different.
Is it? You are learning from Lady Rivenna, depending on her guidance. You consult with Saffron, Lissian, and Lucie. You accept help from Rosavyn. Yet I do not see you diminishing as a result of these connections.
Those are not the same as marriage.
Indeed. They lack certain … anatomically improbable cardiac elements.
Iris felt heat rise to her cheeks.You’re being deliberately obtuse.
And you are being deliberately blind. Your mother’s experience is ONE story, not THE story. Lady Rivenna has maintained both marriage and formidable independence. The High Lady rules without surrendering her identity to anyone. Even the tea house itself exists in perpetual partnership with its proprietress without either losing their essential nature.
The tea house is hardly a person,Iris scribbled.
And yet I am more perceptive than most fae, humans or those of mixed lineage. Consider this: perhaps the problem was not marriage itself, but rather your mother’s belief that she had to surrender her identity to be truly loved. A belief, I cannot help but notice, that you appear to have inherited.
Iris stared at the words, something uncomfortable settling in her chest.You’re suggesting that my mother chose to fade?
I’m suggesting that stories are more complex than they first appear, and that people often mistake correlation for causation. Perhaps ask yourself why you are so eager to believe that connection must inevitably lead to loss of self. It is a rather convenient excuse for avoiding vulnerability, is it not?
That’s unfair,Iris wrote, her handwriting growing messier with her indignation.
Fairness is not among my primary concerns. Accuracy, however, is. And accurately speaking, your fear of losingyourself may be precisely what prevents you from discovering who you might become.
Iris threw her quill down and closed the notebook with more force than necessary, unwilling to continue a conversation that had ventured into territory she was not prepared to explore. The notebook’s observations had struck uncomfortably close to truths she wasn’t ready to acknowledge—that perhaps what she feared was not losing herself in someone else, but rather the terrifying vulnerability of being truly seen.
She pushed the book away, but its final words lingered in her mind:your fear of losing yourself may be precisely what prevents you from discovering who you might become.
She reached past the open tome on tea leaf family history for the stack of fine paper that sat on the corner of her desk, determined to focus on something other than the notebook’s uncomfortable dissection of her carefully constructed defenses. Relaxing her mind, she set her magic loose as her fingers touched the edge of a crisp cream sheet. Instantly, she felt the familiar tug of potential. All the ways this single sheet might fold, all the shapes it might become. She lay the sheet flat on her palm and let her magic flow, guiding rather than forcing the paper as it began to crease itself along invisible lines.
She’d been adding to her collection of pieces in preparation for her display at the Summer Solstice Grand Ball, gradually working toward more and more complex creations. On the shelves on one side of the study, along with leather-bound volumes and delicate trailing ivy, sat a variety of paper creatures: swans, foxes, pegasi, a stag, a grasshopper and even a particularly complicated dragon.
The paper on her palm folded and refolded, creases appearing and disappearing as Iris considered different possibilities. She had decided on a miniature garden scene. An entire landscape rendered in paper that would transform andshift at her command. Paper trees would grow taller, flowers would bloom and fade, tiny creatures would move among the foliage. It would be a stunning display of control and precision, hiding the true depth of her abilities behind something beautiful but ultimately harmless.
As her fingers twitched, instinctively guiding the paper into intricate folds without touching it, her mind drifted back to the masquerade. To Jasvian’s hand at her waist, his surprisingly graceful movements, his confession that social gatherings caused him anxiety. She had glimpsed something beneath his carefully maintained facade. A vulnerability, a depth of feeling he rarely allowed others to see.
And she had run away before midnight. Before the enchantment could fade.
Why? If she were truly honest with herself—something she had been avoiding with remarkable determination—she knew that it was fear that had driven her hasty retreat. Fear of Jasvian’s reaction. Fear of seeing the open warmth in his gaze cool to dismay or disappointment or perhaps even regret upon realizing that the enchanting woman he had shared parts of himself with had merely been Iris, the half-fae he had once deemed unworthy.
Though none of that should matter if she didn’t care to pursue anything more than their careful truce of ink-stained exchanges and cautious civility. And she did not, she reminded herself firmly. She did not wish to pursue anything involving romantic attraction or concerning cardiac acrobatics with anyone, least of all Lord Jasvian Rowanwood.
… a rather convenient excuse for avoiding vulnerability …
The half-formed paper creation hovering above her palm suddenly crumped in on itself as her concentration faltered. With a sigh, she smoothed it out, her magic clearing the creases and wrinkles, and began again, focusing more intently on thesensation of fold lines she could somehow ‘feel’ in her mind without feeling beneath her fingers.
