1 - Ariadne #2
Ariadne flushes and looks away. Before she can protest the claim, Euphemia straightens and snaps her fan closed. Ksenia glances between them, but still does not speak, so often a mysterious observer, her thoughts hidden behind her icy gaze. Ariadne envies her that.
“Euphemia, my darling,” Crescentia exclaims as she bursts into the ballroom and runs up to them.
Euphemia laughs when Crescentia throws her arms around her neck and kisses her on both cheeks in greeting.
“I am in love,” Crescentia declares as she finds a seat.
“Already? But you’ve not courted the fellow for very long,” Euphemia says.
“I know it to be true in my heart,” Crescentia insists. “He is exactly the sort of man I hope to marry.”
“If that be so, I wish you every happiness,” Euphemia beams.
“Then pray tell, why did you bid me to part with him?” she whines.
They discuss Napoleon’s recent coup in France, which had not required a single casualty. Apparently, Crescentia’s father had been overjoyed by the event, but Crescentia remains uncertain. She expresses her relief that the revolution is over, but she’s unsure if the bloodshed is at a permanent end.
Ariadne swiftly loses interest as her eyes drift up to the painted ceiling depicting a menagerie of Norse water spirits, trolls, and fairies.
It makes her think of her ballroom at home, which reminds her that the hour has grown late.
She should leave before her father might notice her absence.
Fortunately, her mother is away on one of her journeys and is not due to return for another week, or otherwise Ariadne would not have dared to sneak away, no matter how effective her invisibility spells have become.
“And just when I thought the night was lost to monotony,” a sultry voice whispers in Ariadne’s ear.
A sudden flush makes her skin hot when she sets her eyes upon Rebekka Magnúsdóttir, ravishing in her black suit that hints at her broad shoulders that Ariadne had once clung to while Rebekka kissed her senseless in the gardens just outside.
She cannot recall how many months it’s been since that day, her memory becoming muddled while those sea green eyes are trained on her.
Rebekka straightens to her full, impressive height, her gaze wandering down the column of Ariadne’s neck to where her witch’s mark is prominently displayed on her chest. It’s as if the flame depicted there spreads across her skin, making her burn.
“Good evening, Ari,” Rebekka says, stealing her hand to press a soft kiss against her knuckles, her lips lingering far longer than they need to.
“Good evening, Rebekka,” Ariadne’s voice trembles only slightly and she clears her throat.
“It seems even a lifetime of friendship is nothing compared to Ariadne’s beauty,” Euphemia teases. “I am eclipsed.”
“You are nothing of the sort,” Rebekka says. “There is enough of me for the both of you.”
She winks before making her way round the chaise to kiss Euphemia’s hand.
Ariadne’s cheeks still burn as she observes Rebekka’s confident charm, when she notices Gisela looking between her and Rebekka with a morose expression.
Then Nenet catches her eye, takes a drink of her champagne, and lets her tongue drag along her top lip.
Ariadne looks away, only to spy Lucas standing alone in the corner, still glowering in her direction.
The feeling of so many eyes on her makes her skin crawl.
Then her stomach drops when she notices someone she doesn’t expect. Tatiana Nicolo stares at her with striking blue eyes, a distinctive feature she shares with her younger sister, Vivien.
They haven’t seen one another since that fateful day when Tatiana had cried over her sister’s lifeless body and begged Ariadne to bring her back. Now Tatiana’s expression is unreadable, neither condemning nor repentant. Ariadne abruptly stands.
“Pardon me,” she mumbles, then turns to leave the ballroom.
“Ariadne?” Euphemia calls.
Passing by the line of dancing couples, she hastens down a dark corridor to steal away inside a sitting room where none of the candles are lit. Then she closes her eyes and wills herself to calm.
She admonishes herself, knowing that she must acclimatize herself to the faces that haunt her nightmares. She mustn’t allow them to hinder her. Zerynthos witches are not permitted to show fear or remorse. She instantly regrets running away. It was foolish and will only draw more attention.
“Why did you run?”
Ariadne whirls around to find Rebekka leaning casually against the fireplace.
“How did you…?” Ariadne trails off. She did not hear anyone enter the room.
Rebekka only smirks as she pulls out her wand, made of perfectly clear Icelandic spar, and points it at the fireplace.
“Pyrkagiá,” Rebekka incants, and the logs burst into flame, illuminating the playful glint in her eyes as she takes slow, deliberate steps across the room.
“Why did you follow me?” Ariadne asks, hugging her stomach.
“You know, they call you the Zerynthos ghost,” Rebekka says, ignoring Ariadne’s question. “Suddenly appearing at Euphemia’s parties and disappearing without a trace.”
“Her gatherings must be quite dull if the guests are so preoccupied with my brief attendance,” Ariadne murmurs.
“If only you were plain. Then you could come and go as you please without anyone taking notice,” Rebekka jokes. “A flawless beauty like you should accustom herself to scrutiny.”
A thrill goes through her at Rebekka’s compliment that is as aggravating as it is disarming.
“That is not what compels their stares,” she argues.
Rebekka takes one of Ariadne’s dark curls between her fingers and twirls it round and round. “That is what compels mine.”
They stare deeply into each other’s eyes for a moment, until Ariadne looks away first, her cheeks burning.
“Why do you say such things?” Ariadne asks, swatting her hand away.
“What things?” Rebekka asks, tilting her head.
“You are flirting with me…” She intends it as a statement, but it sounds more like a question.
“Yes, I am.” Rebekka grins with implacable confidence.
“But why?” Ariadne asks. “On account of my name? What is it that you hope to gain?”
She spares a glance down the dark hallway, wondering if she should rejoin her friends, or return to Thessaly.
“Look at me,” Rebekka orders.
Resenting the command but seemingly unable to resist, Ariadne reluctantly meets her gaze and finds that her sea green eyes have softened.
“You can trust me,” Rebekka says.
“Can I?” Ariadne asks.
Rebekka raises an eyebrow.
“I cannot trust anyone,” Ariadne says, in a tone that implies the obvious nature of that simple fact.
“Allow me to be clear then, here and now, that I need nothing from you,” Rebekka says. “I have more than enough magic, I am quite content with my position, and I do not seek a wife.”
She takes another step closer and presses the tip of her wand beneath Ariadne’s chin, coaxing her to hold her smoldering gaze as a slow, sensual smile curves the corners of her mouth.
“I want you. I do not need you,” Rebekka clarifies. “At present, I want to kiss you until you cannot even remember your own name.”
Heat spreads through Ariadne at the prospect.
She remembers it so clearly, surrendering to passion for the sake of it, without theatrics or ulterior motives.
Rebekka’s kiss still lingers on her lips, her mouth occupying Ariadne’s daydreams for weeks on end, and judging by Rebekka’s smug expression, she is well aware of it.
Ariadne's back touches the wooden panel of the wall behind her, though she had not realized she’d moved.
Rebekka has backed her into a dark corner of the room, away from prying eyes.
She pockets her wand away in her suit jacket, then braces her forearm on the wall by Ariadne’s head and leans in closer, making her every move deliberately and cautiously, as if she’s worried that Ariadne might bolt.
“So… you suggest,” Ariadne swallows hard when Rebekka leans in and presses a gentle, lingering kiss upon her neck, “that because you do not need me, I can trust you? That is a complicated argument.”
“Consider it.” Rebekka takes each of her wrists. “The scroungers are the ones you must be cautious of. They will use you for your name, their avaricious greed impossible to satisfy.”
She places Ariadne’s arms around her neck and leans in even closer, but not enough for their torsos to touch.
“I would not expect a scrounger to admit they were one,” Ariadne says breathlessly.
Rebekka chuckles and the sound makes goosebumps trickle down Ariadne’s spine.
“One kiss. That is all I want,” Rebekka whispers against her mouth.
Ariadne’s lips part, but she hesitates. They linger there, breathing in each other’s air and luxuriating in the warmth of their proximity. Rebekka waits patiently while Ariadne’s desire wreaks havoc inside her, at war with her doubts and insecurities.
“Do not hurt me,” Ariadne says, more of a plea than a demand.
Rebekka pulls away, her eyes widening in surprise, and Ariadne stares up at her, all of her fear and longing laid bare in a fleeting moment of vulnerability.
“Never,” Rebekka whispers. “Of that I swear.”
Ariadne goes on her tiptoes and brushes her lips against Rebekka’s. It is even sweeter than she remembers, the feeling of soft lips moving together. Such a simple, pure, sensational thing.
Rebekka’s strong arms envelop her, drawing her in close, caressing her curves with rapt appreciation, making her feel small and delicate, then leaves Ariadne’s mouth to drag her teeth across her jaw and bury her face into her neck.
She gasps when Rebekka sucks on the sensitive skin there, and clings to her shoulders as she’s pressed up against the wall, an unfamiliar, gnawing heat building in her stomach, making her squirm.
“Have either of you seen Ariadne?” Crescentia’s voice echoes down the long corridor, and Ariadne tenses with displeasure.
“No,” a vaguely familiar voice answers.