Tempests & Tea Leaves

The word ‘interesting’ dropped from his lips like a dead flower, carrying the same inflection he’d used on the terrace. Iris felt heat rising in her cheeks, but she refused to let it show in her voice. “Lord Rowanwood,” she replied, dipping into a curtsy that was just a fraction too shallow to be proper. “How fortunate that you were able to witness it. Though I realize my diluted powers pale in comparison to proper fae magic.”

He hesitated, a spark of life igniting in his bored gaze, and she saw the moment he realized she must have overheard his earlier conversation. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I stand by what I said, Lady Iris. Decorative magic serves little purpose in society. Surely you agree.”

“On the contrary,” Iris replied coolly. “Doesn’t all magic serve some purpose? Even the smallest flower can bring joy.”

“Joy.” He drew out the word as if he’d never heard of it. He probably hadn’t, given his sour expression. “Perhaps. My point,” he said, each word precisely measured, “is that presentation to the High Lady is meant to herald the awakening of significant power. Magic that will shape and strengthen our society.” His gaze swept over her with disdain. “One questions whether the ability to fold paper rises to the level of a true manifestation at all.”

Her father made a choked sound of horror that Iris barely registered, all her attention fixed on the insufferable lord before her. “I see.” Iris matched his measured tone. “And you consider yourself the authority on what constitutes ‘true’ magic?”

“I consider myself informed enough to recognize the difference between power that sustains our way of life and mere parlor tricks.”

“How convenient,” Iris said, her careful composure beginning to crack, “that your definition of ‘true’ magic happens to align precisely with your own abilities.”

“My abilities serve a vital purpose,” he said stiffly. “Without my magic, the lumyrite mines—”

“Oh, come now,” Iris cut in, unable to contain herself any longer. “This entire ritual is nothing but an elaborate display of peacocking. If we’re going to parade ourselves about like prized show creatures at auction, what difference does it make if some of us create paper butterflies while others boast about their ability to sense rocks?”

His jaw clenched. “No one needs your sanctimonious opinions on traditions that have sustained our society for centuries.”

“And no one needs your suffocating self-importance!”

Somewhere to the side, Lady Rivenna made a sound that was part strangled laugh, part cough. Iris had forgotten she was even there. “My dear Lord Starspun and Mrs Starspun,” she said brightly to Iris’s parents, while Iris maintained unwavering eye contact with the imperious Lord Jasvian. “Allow me to direct your attention to the enchanted ice sculpture garden, through that archway over there on the terrace. Did you know they’ve managed to create flowers that actually bloom and wilt in an endless cycle?”

Lord Jasvian, clearly unwilling to break Iris’s gaze as she attempted to stare him down, inhaled deeply. “I suppose,” he said finally, “you’re expecting an apology.”

“Not at all,” she replied. “That would require you to possess both manners and regret. I suspect you have neither.”

His mouth tightened into a thin line. “You’re remarkably forthright for someone in your position.”

“My position?” Iris arched an eyebrow. “You mean as someone whose magic you’ve deemed unworthy of society? Or perhaps you’re referring to my status as a—what was the charming term you used? Ah yes, a ‘half-breed.’”

A flash of something—discomfort, perhaps—crossed his features before they settled back into aristocratic disdain. “I was merely expressing concern for the preservation of traditional magic.”

“Traditional magic? Like the skills relating to lumyrite and the mining industry? How thrilling.”

“It serves a purpose,” he said stiffly. “A very important one at that. Where would today’s society be without lumyrite? Your frivolous little paper creations, on the other hand, we can do without.”

Oh how she hated that she’d had the very same thought. But she would sooner swallow broken glass than give him the satisfaction of knowing they shared any opinion at all. “Ah yes, how foolish of me to think some magic might be about more than profit. Tell me, my lord, do you disapprove of all art, or just the kind created by those with diluted bloodlines?”

A delicate tinkling sound reached Iris’s ears, and she realized the crystals in the chandelier above them were shivering. She refused, however, to tear her gaze from Lord Jasvian in order to look up.

“This has nothing to do with an appreciation of art. Can you not see that with each generation, with each … mingling of bloodlines, our magic grows weaker? Our ancestors could move mountains and command storms. Now we celebrate mere conjuring tricks. You, Lady Starspun, come from a line of celestial illuminators and navigators whose magic charted the stars themselves. The Starspun legacy deserves better than paper manipulation.”

The reminder that her family indeed deserved more than the simple magic she’d manifested sent a flush of shame burning across her face, but she refused to yield now. “Oh? Please enlighten me about my family’s legacy, Lord Rowanwood. I’m certain you know it better than I do.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I do not need to tell you that your ancestor transformed nautical travel across the United Fae Isles when they were still separate territories after producing the first magical star charts. I do not need to tell you of the celestial harvesters, nor of the starlight spinners.”

Indeed, he did not need to tell Iris any of these things. With each word, she felt the weight of her inadequacy more keenly.

“Imagine what magnificent starlight-related magic might have been passed to you,” Lord Jasvian continued, “if your father had chosen to marry well instead of diluting your bloodline with a human woman. Now the once-great Starspun name will dwindle to nothing more than a footnote in magical history.”

Something snapped inside Iris. “And the Rowanwoods will be remembered for what, precisely? For hoarding lumyrite-derived wealth while contributing nothing of beauty or wisdom to the world? For producing descendants so utterly convinced of their superiority that they cannot recognize true magic unless it comes packaged in profit margins?”

A flush crept up Jasvian’s neck. “How dare you assume—”

“Perhaps if you spent less time mourning the purity of other families’ bloodlines and more time developing a personality beyond staggering arrogance, you might actually be worthy of the legacy you so desperately cling to!”

Something in Lord Jasvian’s expression shattered. Above them, an ear-splitting crack rent the air as the chandelier rattled violently, its crystal pendants suddenly bursting with light before shattering into thousands of glittering shards. Iris flinched, her gaze darting up even as Lord Jasvian’s arms flew outward, fingers curling expertly. The falling glass transformed instantly into a cascade of golden dust.

When Iris’s eyes landed on him once more, they were both breathing heavily. Her hands shook at her sides, while the remains of his control were clearly hanging by a thread.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” she said coldly, “I believe I hear someone calling for more paper flowers.” And with that, she turned, brushed past Lady Rivenna and her horrified parents—who, it seemed, had not allowed themselves to be distracted by any ice sculpture garden—and marched away through the crowd.