7 - Iona
T hey return to Lyon with matching giddy smiles, after sharing a very long, very intimate bath to wash away the sweat of their training and subsequent lovemaking, but Iona’s contentment is swiftly forgotten when they find that Crescentia’s door is still shut.
Iona considers knocking again, then thinks better of it.
Crescentia will come out when she is ready.
She instead goes down the stairs in search of the dining room for dinner. Ariadne follows close behind.
“Eric is a swine,” Iona mutters when they reach the foyer. “If he wanted a weak woman, he should not have courted Crescentia and wasted her precious time.”
“She was weak when he met her,” Ariadne says, and when Iona frowns, she clarifies, “Her magic was. Now that she has her own mark, her circumstances are vastly different.”
“But she is still the same person,” Iona argues.
“In character, maybe, but not in rank,” Ariadne says, her fingers brushing along Iona’s spine where her crescent mark lies beneath the fabric of her dress. “These marks are more than decorative. They set us apart from all others.”
“Yes, but if you lost all your magic tomorrow, my devotion to you would not change in the slightest,” Iona says.
Ariadne’s red eyes betray a swell of emotion. “And that is why I love you.”
Iona cannot think when Ariadne looks at her that way, without pretense or mischief to undercut her sincerity.
She sighs contentedly when Ariadne reaches for her, cupping her cheeks within her warm hands, and tilts her head back to kiss her tenderly, reverently, so starkly different from the ravenous, bruising kisses they’d shared moments ago.
“Good evening. Where is Crescentia?”
At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Iona startles and pulls away from the kiss. By the front door stands a statuesque, immaculately dressed woman with bold blue eyes and cascading hair that is indeed like spun gold.
“Euphemia!” Ariadne exclaims, a radiant smile spreading across her face as she rushes over to her.
“It is lovely to see you again,” Euphemia says, her voice warm and gracious.
Ariadne curtsies for hardly a second, then pulls her into an embrace.
Her blue eyes go wide but she does not pull away.
It is Ariadne who does, wringing her hands nervously as she remembers herself.
They stare at each other for a moment, then Euphemia slowly, carefully wraps her arms around Ariadne’s neck and begins to cry silent tears.
Iona stands there watching, feeling as if she were intruding upon a private moment.
“I missed you terribly,” Euphemia sniffles.
“I… I did not know we were expecting you,” Ariadne says, her voice raw.
Euphemia steps back and conjures a handkerchief to wipe at her cheeks.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Euphemia says, fussing with her hair. “Now please introduce me for propriety’s sake.”
“Oh! Of course,” Ariadne clears her throat and extends her hand. “Iona, may I introduce Euphemia Drakenstrom.”
Iona takes her hand, then curtsies briefly. “How do you do?”
“Quite well,” Euphemia says, then leans closer to Ariadne. “And here I thought you exaggerated her beauty in your letters, but I now see your lengthy accolades were quite restrained.”
Ariadne nearly blushes as deeply as Iona, and Euphemia giggles. “Oh, this shall be great fun indeed.”
“Euphemia,” Ariadne says in a warning tone.
“Where is Crescentia?” she asks again.
Iona’s smile falls at the reminder of her friend. “She has locked herself away in her room and refuses to speak to anyone. We’ve afforded her time alone, but I am beginning to worry.”
“That won’t do at all.” Euphemia frowns and approaches the stairs.
When they reach Crescentia’s bedroom door, Euphemia raps her knuckles against the wood.
“Go away!” Crescentia calls.
“Open the door, please,” Euphemia says.
There’s a rustling from inside the room and a moment later, Crescentia throws open the door and practically leaps into Euphemia’s arms. Her eyes are still swollen and red from her prolonged weeping and her honey blonde curls are a snarled mess of tangles.
“My darling girl, what has become of you?” Euphemia asks.
“Erik is a lousy, impotent, abominable, feckless bastard!” Crescentia spits.
She recounts the story in a barrage of half-sentences and dramatic flourishes while Euphemia listens intently, only seeming to be surprised by Moira’s involvement. Then she pacifies Crescentia with an air of maternal calm.
“Did you not receive my letter? The party has been canceled,” Crescentia says, then scoffs. “If there even was any plan for it… He’d have hardly made any effort at all and made me do it all myself.”
“I received your letter, but I decided to ignore it,” Euphemia says. “No friend of mine shall spend her birthday alone and distraught.”
Crescentia eyes her warily. “I have no desire to throw a banquet. I do not have anything prepared, nor could I muster the energy to conjure, and the day is nearly over…”
Euphemia shakes her head. “I have other plans. Let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?” Ariadne asks.
Euphemia’s blue eyes sparkle as she takes out her wand made of silver that shimmers in the twilight, and incants, “Kl?da.”
Crescentia’s rumpled chemise transforms into a mauve gown with a brocade overlay on the skirt. She admires the craftsmanship, her sorrows momentarily forgotten.
“Now you two,” Euphemia says, tapping her wand against her chin.
“I can make my own clothes,” Ariadne protests, but Euphemia has already cast her spell.
Ariadne’s dress turns from white to red with tiny roses embroidered on the golden trim.
“Roses?” Ariadne raises an eyebrow.
“Do not mock my favorite flower,” Euphemia says. “They may be unremarkable to a horticulturist like you, but I adore them.”
Ariadne reluctantly replaces the spring crocus in her hair for a perfect pink Juliet rose. A single petal falls while she adjusts it in her bun, but she conjures it away before it hits the floor.
“Will you humor me?” Euphemia asks Iona.
When she gives a shy nod of her head, Euphemia casts another spell with a flourish of her wand.
Iona’s light pink day dress darkens to a midnight blue evening gown with sapphirine crystals scattered across the skirt in geometrical patterns.
The silk is so smooth, she cannot help brushing her fingers lightly across her puffed sleeve in wonder, then reaches up to gently touch the matching blue crystals affixed to her hair.
“Do you like it?” Euphemia asks.
“Yes,” Iona says in amazement. “It’s exquisite.”
“You certainly are,” Ariadne says, giving her an appreciative once over before handing her a blue rose.
Then, as if she were a princess from a fairytale, Euphemia holds out her hand and a white dove glides down the hall to perch on her finger. She gently pets her familiar as she leads the way downstairs and out onto the street where the dove takes flight again and watches them from the skies.
“My carriage is just there,” Euphemia says.
“I could make a portal,” Ariadne suggests, gesturing to her staff.
“That would ruin the surprise.”
“But-“
“Come along,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “I have everything well in hand.”
They approach a wooden carriage painted white and led by two dapple gray horses.
Once they’ve all found their seats, Iona’s stomach flips when the carriage lurches forwards.
She glances out the window as the buildings blur into streaks of color, while Euphemia and Crescentia become engrossed in conversation about the state of Napoleon’s new government.
“He is a bully,” Euphemia insists.
“Yes, yes, he is awful,” Crescentia says. “And yet there has been peace of late with the treaty signed. Perhaps the worst is truly over.”
“Don’t be so naive. His peace is precarious at best. He will likely break it himself. It’s always a never-ending overture of coups and uprisings,” Ariadne says. “His occupation of Rome will be short lived, that I can assure you.”
“You would prefer Habsburg rule?” Crescentia asks.
“I would prefer Roman independence from all this madness,” Ariadne says. “We’ve ruled over ourselves and others quite successfully, if you can recall.”
“Until the end,” Crescentia says.
“Whatever may happen, I only hope it does not reach Sweden,” Euphemia murmurs. “Hugo should not see war at so young an age.”
“How old is young Hugo?” Iona asks.
“Only six months,” Euphemia beams. “He’s at such a precious age, my darling cupid.”
“Did he enjoy the gifts I sent?” Ariadne asks.
“Oh, he adores them! So unique, those little automatons,” Euphemia smiles. “I keep them on his shelf beside his storybooks.”
“You sent him your conjuration assignment?” Iona asks, remembering the intricate metal wind-up toys in the shape of a bird, a mouse, a snake, a spider, and a tree frog.
“I spent hours on those trinkets and did not wish for them to go to waste,” Ariadne shrugs.
“I was rather impressed by your diligence in your schoolwork. I would not have expected you to make such an effort so early in the year,” Euphemia says.
“She was showing off,” Crescentia says.
“Why?” Euphemia asks.
“I was not,” Ariadne protests.
Crescentia’s grin widens. “They were at each other's throats once. A rivalry for the ages. It was quite entertaining to watch.”
“Goodness, what did you do?” Euphemia raises an eyebrow at Ariadne.
“I did nothing! Or… well…” she stutters.
“How did you describe it, love? You simply overreacted?” Iona says sweetly.
Ariadne has the good sense to look embarrassed. “There is no need to revive such distant memories.”
“Distant indeed,” Iona says wryly.
“You committed your fair share of offenses, too,” Ariadne says.
“Only after I attempted to pacify you,” Iona reminds her. “By then, I felt I was well justified.”
Ariadne rolls her eyes but does not dispute her.
“You neglected to mention the most entertaining details in your letters, as usual,” Euphemia says.
“It is none of your concern,” Ariadne grumbles.
“I do hope she was not too unpleasant towards you,” Euphemia says to Iona.