Her Spell That Cursed Me (Her Spell Trilogy #2)

1 - Ariadne

A riadne’s fingers dance across the keys of the pianoforte in a vain effort to obscure the incessant whispers of the surrounding crowd. She plays a frilly piece by Mozart, as opposed to the adagios and requiems she tends to favor.

When she glances up from beneath her dark lashes, the onlookers immediately avert their eyes, pretending to rearrange their jewels or straighten their collars. Stifling her wry grin, she returns her gaze to her hands.

Despite the music, she overhears the hushed conversation of two unfamiliar young witches nearby.

“Is that…?”

“I thought she was locked away in Greece.”

“Did you see her eyes?”

“A familial trait.”

“She does not seem particularly frightening.”

Ariadne scoffs softly.

“You wouldn’t dare say so if you were at the other end of her wand.”

“I suppose not. Though I’ve heard speculation that her magic is impotent since… Well, you know.”

Her jaw clenches.

“Only a fool would underestimate a Zerynthos witch.”

Then the two witches wander farther away until they are out of earshot.

Ariadne takes a deep, steadying breath and begins a new song, one of Scarlatti’s sonatas in F minor.

It isn’t the most appropriate piece to perform at a party, but the melancholic melody is a comfort amid the loathsome scrutiny.

“Ariadne Zerynthos,” a man’s voice drawls.

She frowns, glancing up to a pair of imperious gray eyes.

“Lucas Van Hove,” she says, mocking his formal cadence.

“A pleasure as always,” he smirks.

A short spindly man, his clothes never seeming to be properly tailored, despite his supposed magical ability.

He’s as skilled in spell work as he is in conversation, his lavish lifestyle never requiring him to lift a finger, or a wand.

He’s the sort of warlock Ariadne particularly despises, indolent and vain, a man of leisure with nothing to show for his freedoms. All his magic squandered, as is so often the case for these aristocratic lollers.

When he goes to scratch his cheek, he makes a show of exhibiting his witch’s mark on the index finger of his right hand, a red rooster. She cannot recall its significance, whether it be specific to the Van Hove family or a symbol of Belgium, his home country.

He wastes no time in leering at her mark, a bright orange flame evinced right over her heart. His covetous gaze lingers until Ariadne clears her throat in annoyance, and he remembers himself.

“I do relish your little excursions into society, though I must admit my concern,” he says, leaning against the pianoforte far too close for her liking.

“Whatever concerns you have are of no interest to me,” she mutters.

“You are a fawn amongst wolves, Ariadne.” His voice drips with condescension. “Look at them all circling you.”

Despite herself, she peeks around the ballroom again and sure enough, the witches and warlocks are all watching her with trepidation, scorn, or curiosity. She decides she does not feel like a fawn. More like an insect pinned to a board and encased in glass, unable to move or flee.

“I would be honored to accompany you on your visits, as an escort,” Lucas says. “To keep the wolves at bay.”

“As I’ve told you countless times before, I am not interested,” she says, her voice hard.

“There are those with the capacity for attraction to both sexes…” he trails off.

“I am not one of them,” she says firmly.

“Are you absolutely certain?” he asks in an infuriatingly patronizing tone. “I am sure I could convince you otherwise-”

“If there were ever such a man who could compare to women in the slightest, I doubt he would be you,” Ariadne scoffs. “Why do you insist on tormenting me?”

“I trust my persistence is indicative of my undying admiration for you,” he says, though his confidence wanes.

“It is only indicative of your tiresome obstinance,” Ariadne snaps. “Do you enjoy rejection? It must be so, or perhaps you’ve a defective memory. Which is it?”

His mouth falls open in indignation, then he glowers at her, all pretense of geniality gone.

“Such poor manners,” he sniffs. “First your little display with Euphemia, which was most undignified, and now this. Perhaps that is why your mother keeps you far from civilized people.”

“Oh yes, she means to protect you from my barbaric sensibilities. Best keep your distance,” she snorts, grinning at the memory of her recent scheme.

Her friend, Euphemia Drakenstrom, the hostess of the evening, had been nearly forced into an arranged marriage by her family, but when Ariadne learned of their intentions, she did not hesitate to intervene.

They’d caused quite a stir that night, when they’d been ‘discovered’ in an amorous embrace while in the midst of a particularly wild party.

It was an entirely contrived, strategic performance with not even a single kiss shared between them, but the subsequent whisperings and conflations would have one believe they were practically naked, rutting against one another, and scrambling to cover themselves when their liaison was unduly interrupted.

The exaggerated rumors of their tryst have given them both what they want. Any engagement the Drakenstroms attempt to orchestrate is met with resounding declinations, allowing Euphemia to find a husband in her own time, if she so chooses. One who truly deserves her.

Ariadne is afforded a respite from the incessant badgering of ambitious bachelors, who’ve promptly redirected their attentions to more eligible, decorous, willing women. Though it seems Lucas is particularly thick headed, the final man vying for her affections.

“What would your dear mother say… if she knew what you were up to?” Lucas muses.

Her spine stiffens, her fingers halting on the keys so she may give him her undivided attention. He shrinks beneath her gaze.

“I beg your pardon?” she asks.

“I…” Lucas swallows hard. “I only meant-”

“If you mean to threaten me, do it properly,” she challenges.

“I would never…” he stutters. “I could never…”

“No, you couldn’t,” she agrees. “To threaten a Zerynthos witch would go far beyond obstinance. It would border on insanity.”

She glares at the man, knowing full well the effect her red eyes have on the weak. Lucas crumbles in seconds.

“My deepest apologies. I didn’t intend… I would never dream of…” His forehead glistens with sweat.

“Of course,” she says. “It was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Yes! That’s it. A misunderstanding.” His shoulders slump with relief.

“Let us put it behind us,” she says with a saccharine smile.

“Yes,” he steps away. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

Lucas nearly jumps out of his skin when she slams her fingers on the keys and begins a new song. Then he skitters off in fright.

She fights to keep her expression neutral while her own fear simmers beneath the surface. She should have known that she could not keep her travels a secret forever. She’s only bought herself more time.

“Ariadne!”

Reluctantly, she looks up. There at the other end of the ballroom, Euphemia smiles brilliantly and beckons her over. She hesitates, not wishing to leave the relative safety of the piano bench.

“Ari!” Euphemia calls again, this time with a trace of impatience.

She stands and smooths out the skirts of her vermillion dress as she approaches Euphemia and her companions where they sit on tufted chaises. She recognizes Gisela Holm, the neckline of her emerald green gown cut scandalously low. Her ostentatious diamond tiara glitters in the candlelight.

Nenet Nassry sits beside her in a bright yellow dress, with amethyst beads braided into her dark hair. Gisela whispers something in her ear and they dissolve into giggles, Nenet just barely managing to grasp Gisela’s glass before its contents spill across the oak parquet floor.

On the other end of the chaise, as far from the two giggling witches as she can manage, sits Ksenia Ulanova in a far more practical black velvet gown. She swirls the champagne in her crystal glass with barely concealed boredom, until she notices Ariadne approaching.

Avoiding Ksenia’s penetrating gaze, Ariadne chooses instead to admire the delicate petals of the blue daisies she’d gifted Euphemia, the exact shade of her mischievous eyes.

She’d helped pin the flowers within the expanse of golden hair that shines as bright as the diamonds in Gisela’s ridiculous tiara.

“Come sit with us.” Euphemia pats the space beside her on the chaise she’s perched on.

“You play exquisitely,” Gisela gushes.

“Thank you.” Ariadne forces a polite smile as she sits.

“Are you self-taught?” Nenet asks.

“Yes, mostly,” Ariadne says, shifting in her seat. “My father plays a bit.”

“I suppose music would be a great comfort,” Gisela says, “Sequestered in the Thessalian mountains all these years… It must be awfully lonely up there.”

“On the contrary, I prefer the solitude,” Ariadne lies. “My studies keep me well occupied.”

“Is that why you only manage to abscond in the night?” Nenet asks with an inquisitive stare.

“Parties tend to be held after sundown, if you hadn’t noticed,” Ariadne bristles.

Euphemia takes her hand and holds it tightly in her lap. “Where is Crescentia?”

“Flirting with Erik Virtanen,” Gisela grins.

“Be a dear and go fetch her,” Euphemia says.

Gisela’s eyes narrow nearly imperceptibly at the command, but she does as she’s told. Following her departure, Euphemia leans in close and puts her fan over her mouth to muffle her whisper.

“How bold of Gisela to judge Crescentia’s flirtations whilst exalting you in the same breath,” Euphemia giggles.

Ariadne smirks and tries to ignore the pleasant warmth of Euphemia’s breath against her ear.

“Do you return her affections?” she asks, her sapphire eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Ariadne shrugs noncommittally. Gisela is pretty enough, and her family is fairly distinguished. There is nothing much wrong with her, apart from her obvious lust for power.

“I suppose you are far too preoccupied with a certain Valkyrie to concern yourself with other beauties,” Euphemia teases.