“We’ll hardly be alone,” Jasvian countered. “The tea house is positively teeming with watchful eyes. Besides, I’ll remain down here. I brought something to read.” He withdrew a slim volume from his coat pocket, the leather binding soft with age. His grandmother leaned forward, squinting slightly to read the faded gold lettering.
“Poetry?” Disbelief colored her voice. “You?”
Jasvian slipped the book back into his pocket, discomfited by her reaction. “I thought I might expand my literary horizons.”
“Did you indeed?” Lady Rivenna sounded as though she were suppressing a laugh. “How very unlike you.”
“People change, Grandmother,” he replied stiffly.
“Some more believably than others.” She fastened her cloak. “Well, if you insist on playing guardian, I won’t stand in yourway. Simply ensure that all doors are locked when you leave. Lady Iris has her key, and she knows what to do.” She moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch as she looked back at him. “And do remember, dear boy, that the tea house sees everything. I do not wish to hear whispers of impropriety greeting me upon my return tomorrow morning.”
Jasvian winced at the thought of the tea house reporting his actions to hisgrandmotherof all people. But there would be no actions to report, he reminded himself firmly. Besides, the tea house was abuilding, not a sentient being capable of ‘reporting’ anything, he added almost as an afterthought. “Your concern is entirely misplaced,” he said, his voice cool. “I intend only to ensure Lady Iris’s safe return home.”
“Of course,” Lady Rivenna agreed, her tone making it abundantly clear she didn’t believe him for a moment. Then she slipped out into the evening, leaving him alone in the dimly lit kitchen.
He stood motionless for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of the tea house at rest. The occasional ping as cooling pots contracted, the soft murmuring of sleepy hearth sprites, the almost imperceptible creaking of floorboards as the building settled. From upstairs came the faint sound of movement. A chair scraping, perhaps.
He crossed the kitchen and entered the main floor of the tea house, aiming for a window along the front wall where a wide cushioned seat offered a view of one of Bloomhaven’s cobbled streets, now bathed in the warm glow of faelights. He settled himself, arranging his long limbs as comfortably as possible, and withdrew the book from his pocket once more.
The cover was bare, and the delicate gold script on the spine was so faded that he couldn’t make out the full title aside from the words ‘Poems’ and ‘Heart.’ He’d found it in his mother’s section of the library at Rowanwood House that afternoon, afterhours of distraction had rendered productive work impossible. The conversation with his masquerade dance partner about poetry had lingered in his mind—her passion for how emotion could be contained in so few, carefully crafted words. Now that he knew that partner had been Iris all along, her enthusiasm held even greater weight.
He opened the book carefully, the spine crackling slightly with age, and began to read. The poem on the first page began: “Thy gaze, like dew-kissed petals at dawn’s first blush, envelopes my trembling soul in silken whispers of unspoken desire.”
Jasvian stared at the words, his brow furrowing. He struggled to decipher what the verse was actually attempting to convey. How could anyone find this appealing? If someone had actually whispered something like that to him at a social gathering, he’d have excused himself immediately to check the wine for hallucinogenic properties.
He scanned further down the page until his eyes landed on: “My heart, a caged nightingale, beats against its gilded prison, yearning for the sweet nectar of thy tender affection.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. A caged nightingale? Did the author have any idea how birds behaved when caged? They certainly didn’t pine romantically. Most of them thrashed about in panicked desperation. This was precisely why he preferred ledgers and accounts; they never pretended a bird was anything other than a bird.
But then his eyes fell on the verse at the bottom of the page: “Thy presence fills all spaces, contracts all distances; when near thee, the very world recedes until only thy light remains.”
He looked up thoughtfully, the words resonating in a way he hadn’t expected. Nowthat, at least, he could understand. The strange sensation of being so acutely aware of someone’s presence that they seemed to occupy far more space thanphysically possible. The way a single person could somehow fill a room entirely, drawing attention like a lodestone no matter how one tried to focus elsewhere.
He’d felt precisely that with Iris in recent weeks. Her presence in the study, the tea house, even in his thoughts, had gradually expanded until it seemed she was everywhere, inescapable. The awareness of her had grown until it rivaled even his constant concern about the mines.
As the evening deepened outside, the tea house grew increasingly still around him. The hearth sprites had all drifted into the kitchen to nestle near the banked coals, though two of them, he’d noted with some comfort, had scurried upstairs, hopefully to keep Iris company. The kitchen pixies were nowhere to be seen, and the vines had ceased their restless movement, their leaves hanging motionless in the quiet air.
Jasvian turned another page, but the words blurred before his eyes. The events of the previous night—the masquerade, the dancing, the conversation that had flowed so easily between them—combined with the morning’s revelation about Iris’s identity had left him mentally exhausted. The comfortable cushions beneath him and the hushed atmosphere of the tea house seemed to wrap around him like a blanket.
His eyelids grew heavy, the book drooping in his hands. He should move, he thought distantly. He should at least call upstairs to inform Lady Iris of his presence. But the poem before him pulled at his attention once more, something about stars and destiny, about two souls orbiting each other, unaware of their inevitable collision.
The tea house sighed around him, a sound almost like contentment, as Jasvian’s eyes finally closed, the book of poetry slipping from his fingers to rest in his lap.
In the study upstairs, Iris’s frustration had reached its peak. She paced between her desk and the window, barefoot and disheveled, her dark hair escaping its pins to fall in wayward strands around her face. Papers covered every surface—her desk, Lord Jasvian’s usually pristine workspace, the armchair, even the floor—each one a half-formed creation caught between what it was and what it might become.
“This should work,” she muttered, flexing her fingers before attempting once more to coordinate the movements of dozens of paper figures simultaneously. “I can do this. I know I can do this.”
The sun had long since set, its warm glow replaced by the cooler silver of moonlight. Iris had sent a messenger pixie to her grandparents earlier that afternoon, explaining she was working late and would stay the night if she finished after dark. It was apparent now that she would indeed be spending the night.
Despite exhaustion pressing against her temples, she refused to abandon her task. The Summer Solstice Grand Ball was her final opportunity to prove herself, not just to Bloomhaven society but to Lady Rivenna, who had invested so much in her development. She couldn’t fail now.
Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her magic once more, focusing on the scene she wanted to create. A grand ballroom in miniature filled with paper figures, their movements telling a tale of two strangers meeting beneath enchanted stars, unaware that fate had determined their paths would cross long before they ever set eyes upon one another.
Yes, her tale was indeed influenced by her own experience at the masquerade and by her growing fascination with a certainbrooding lord, but she had finally surrendered to the truth of it. There seemed little point in denying what her magic clearly wished to express. If Lord Jasvian Rowanwood had claimed a permanent residence in her thoughts, perhaps allowing him this space alongside her creations might actually quiet the constant awareness of him that plagued her mind.
Her magic responded, dozens of paper creations rising from various surfaces around the study to hover in the air before her. The ballroom took shape, elaborate paper chandeliers unfurling from flat sheets, tiny dancers transforming from simple folded forms into more intricate forms. In the center, two figures moved toward each other, refolding themselves with each step to create the illusion of movement.
“Yes,” Iris whispered, her concentration absolute as she guided the figures through their dance. The scene needed to shift from the glittering ballroom to a garden setting beneath paper stars, then transform again to show the dancers parting at midnight.
