5 - Ariadne
M oira Zerynthos stands nearly as tall as Ariadne with the same voluminous black curls and cavernous ruby red eyes. Her smile is undercut by the bold hauteur in her gaze, that with which Ariadne is quite familiar.
“Good evening, Ariadne,” Moira says.
“What are you doing here?” Ariadne asks.
Moira’s eyes narrow nearly imperceptibly. “Still not the flower of courtesy, I see.”
“Does your mother know you’re here?” Ariadne asks.
“I go where I please.” Moira trains her eyes on Iona. “And at present it pleases me to visit my dear cousin and her newfound sweetheart.”
“To what end?” Ariadne asks.
Moira rolls her eyes. “Your paranoia is as unnecessary as it is vexing.”
Ariadne gives her a withering look that has no effect whatsoever.
“You must be Iona,” Moira says, looking her up and down before curtsying low.
Iona does the same, her doe eyes betraying her unease. “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you,” Moira says, her gaze lowering to admire the pendant.
It is only then that Moira bothers to acknowledge the others observing their exchange.
“Erik, how lovely to see you,” she says, extending her hand to him.
“Moira,” Erik smiles, leaning down to press his lips against the silk of her glove.
“Crescentia, you are looking well,” Moira says, kissing both her cheeks in greeting.
While in close proximity, Moira takes Crescentia’s wrist and holds it up to the candlelight to inspect the laurel mark.
“It is true then,” Moira murmurs.
“You may have a better look at my party tomorrow,” Crescentia says, pulling her wrist free of her grip. “My mark is prettiest in the sunlight.”
“I meant to send a letter, dearest. I’m afraid I shall be indisposed,” Moira says.
“Pity,” Crescentia says.
“Quite,” Moira says.
Their counterfeit smiles are nearly identical. Moira turns her attention back to Iona.
“Come, let us sit. It’s high time we become properly acquainted,” Moira says, motioning to Marcel to bring her a drink.
“We were just leaving,” Ariadne says.
“Do not be rude. It is unbecoming,” Moira admonishes.
She picks a wooden table in the corner and takes a seat.
The other patrons fall silent as they peer over at her, though she hardly seems to notice.
Gingerly, she tugs off her gloves finger by finger and tosses them on the table in front of her.
There in the center of her palm is her witch’s mark.
The air in the room seems to shift the moment that red flame is unveiled.
Then it seems the patrons collectively decide that two Zerynthos witches in one place is one too many. Before long, they are all trickling out and onto the street. Even the humans leave, though they likely do not understand why they feel compelled to do so.
She is up to something, Iona observes.
The obvious hasn’t escaped me, nymph. Ariadne watches her face.
I want to know what it is. Iona glances at her.
At what cost? Ariadne asks.
Her heartbeat quickens when Iona approaches the table and sits down beside Moira.
This is not a good idea, Ariadne warns.
Why would she travel all this way? Iona asks. Do you not wonder at her intentions?
No. Ariadne clenches her fists.
Are you frightened of her? Iona asks.
No. Ariadne’s indignance nearly obscures her lie.
She cannot harm us. Iona gives her a reassuring look. Not here in such a public place.
Ariadne glances around the now empty establishment. All that remain are their friends and Marcel behind the bar.
She does not want to stay, but neither does she want to appear weak. She wonders why she ever expected to find rest on her holiday as she reluctantly crosses the room to sit beside Iona and across from Moira. Erik and Crescentia follow suit, sitting beside each other across from Iona.
“There now, was that so difficult?” Moira asks.
Ariadne looks down at the table, unable to bear the sight of Moira’s ruby eyes dissecting her.
Moira will undoubtedly report every insignificant detail of her countenance to their mothers.
She only hopes that Moira will also tell of the staff that rests against her chair, though she had not bothered to ask about it once.
It is that seemingly inconsequential to her.
“Your father sends his love,” Moira says.
Ariadne’s eyes lift up to meet Moira’s knowing gaze. She shifts in her chair to appear casual but knows she’s said a thousand words with one look.
“Send my love back to him, will you?” Ariadne asks.
“I shall,” Moira says, but her tone betrays her indifference. She may tell him, or she may not.
Ariadne crosses her arms and schools her features as Moira finally acknowledges the now empty room.
“We seem to have lost our audience,” she chuckles. “It is just as well.”
With a lazy wave of her hand, a harp is conjured by the hearth and begins to play. Ariadne recognizes one of Mozart’s concertos.
“Much better,” Moira says with a contented sigh, taking a moment to enjoy the music before saying, “I remember the very first time I heard this piece in concert. I was with my sister and-“
Moira abruptly stops and gives Crescentia such an impressive glare that it makes all of them stiffen in alarm.
“Do not try that again,” Moira says, each syllable a threat.
Crescentia’s cheeks turn bright red, and she nods once before looking down at her hands in her lap. Ariadne nearly rolls her eyes when she realizes what happened. Crescentia had tried to read Moira’s aura. The foolishness of such an act is beyond her comprehension.
“As I was saying,” Moira says, then stops again.
She taps her long nails against the wood of the table, then smiles.
“Crescentia, you've given me a marvelous idea,” Moira declares.
“Have I?” she asks, cringing with regret.
“Yes, I know the perfect way for all of us to become better acquainted,” Moira says as she pulls out her wand, a cylindrical piece of black hematite, and conjures a crystal glass of amber liquid for each of them, then incants, “Verità.”
There is a collective gasp as everyone at the table feels the truth spell take hold.
“We shall play a game of truth and spirits.” Moira pockets her wand, then explains to Iona, “We are each given the chance to ask a question of anyone at the table. They must answer truthfully or take a drink and forfeit their turn.”
“I do not trust you enough to play this game,” Iona says, then flushes at her candor.
“All the more reason to play,” Moira says.
“The hour grows late. Perhaps we should retire,” Erik suggests.
“Perhaps not,” Moira says sharply, then smiles. “Come now, we are all friends. There is nothing to fear.” She scrutinizes their faces and raises an eyebrow. “Unless you have something to hide.”
They go silent and still as statues.
“I shall ask first,” Moira says. “Iona, how do you believe Elise Lysander should be punished for her use of maleficium?”
Iona’s face drains of all color, while Ariadne’s blood boils with outrage.
“How dare you ask her that!” Ariadne snaps.
“She must have considered it,” Moira says. “I am curious to learn of Iona’s views on justice. Should Elise be killed?”
“No!” Iona says, appalled.
“Imprisoned?” Moira asks.
“…Perhaps,” Iona says.
“For how long?” Moira asks.
“I… I know not,” Iona says. “I am not the one to decide such matters.”
“Aren’t you?” Moira asks, her gaze lowering to the pendant.
“No.” Iona narrows her eyes. “And that was more than one question.”
“Quite right, my apologies,” Moira says. “Ask away.”
“Why did you wish to meet me?” Iona asks.
“I am curious about you,” Moira says. “I wondered who could possibly defeat our own Ariadne at a test she’d trained for her entire life. And to win her heart as well… that woman must be quite extraordinary.”
Though unsatisfied with the answer, Iona keeps her composure as she holds Moira’s gaze. Ariadne goes next.
“Did our family send you here?” Ariadne asks.
“No, as I said before. However, they are concerned about you,” Moira says, and when Ariadne scoffs, she sighs. “Even with a truth spell, you refuse to believe me?”
“Is a mind as warped as yours even capable of telling the truth?” Ariadne asks.
“That is another question,” Moira tsks. “But yes, I am. I have no reason to lie.”
Ariadne clenches her jaw. “So you say.”
A moment passes, then Crescentia asks Moira, “Do you truly have a prior engagement tomorrow?”
Moira smirks. “No, dearest. I was trying to be polite.”
“I thought so,” Crescentia says.
“You are not offended, I hope,” Moira says.
“No, our indifference is mutual,” Crescentia says.
“However, I must wonder at your desire to meet us here, now, rather than simply waiting one day. Were you so impatient to make Iona’s acquaintance?
Or perhaps there is a pressing matter of a delicate nature that you wish to discuss in a more private venue. ”
Moira’s smile persists, but her eyes harden, “I always did prefer intimate gatherings to discuss all matters, delicate or otherwise. I am not quite the reveler you are.”
“Do not sell yourself short.” Crescentia takes a sip of her drink with impeccable poise.
Then everyone looks to Erik, who appears the most disturbed by this predicament.
He hesitates, then asks Iona, “Now that you knowingly possess the ability to bestow a witch’s mark, will you do so for others?”
Ariadne had not been expecting that question in the least and neither it seems had Iona. Crescentia narrows her eyes at him, then looks to Iona with thinly veiled curiosity.
“I have considered it,” Iona admits. “I hope to lessen the disparity between sempiterna bloodlines and others, but I do not yet know the best method to reform the order we currently find ourselves in.”
“To give marks away to any who ask would be unwise,” Erik says, his fingers drifting along his cheek where his antler mark lies.
“Why do you say that?” Crescentia asks.
“Look how it’s affected you,” Erik says, then grimaces at his own words.
Crescentia’s face falls. “What do you mean by-”
“Well now,” Moira says, “let us not forget the rules of the game entirely. We are meant to ask one question each turn.”