7 - Iona #2
“It was nothing I could not handle,” Iona grins, “She is quite a gentle soul beneath it all.”
“A Libra,” Euphemia points a gloved finger at her.
“Why, yes, I am,” Iona says, bewildered, and Euphemia gasps with great excitement.
“Twin flames!” She looks between them. “Oh, how romantic! How divine!”
“What are you on about?” Ariadne asks, still peevish.
“Aries and Libra often engage in a karmic relationship, given that you are absolute opposites,” Euphemia explains. “You will help each other grow and evolve into your very best selves. I must refer to my almanac-“
“It’s all nonsense,” Ariadne says.
“Oh, hush,” Euphemia scolds, rapping Ariadne’s knee with her fan, then continues. “Twin flames are known to be drawn to one another with an almost magnetic pull.”
At that, Ariadne and Iona exchange a meaningful look.
Then Euphemia says to Iona, “I can already perceive the change you’ve made in her. I commend you.”
“So do I,” Crescentia says, purposefully provoking Ariadne’s agitation.
“You are all exceedingly rude to speak of me as if I were not here,” Ariadne says, crossing her arms.
“On the topic of rude behavior,” Euphemia levels her with a disapproving look, “now that I have been introduced to your beloved, it is high time you met mine.”
“I shall,” Ariadne agrees, abruptly chastened. “Bring him to the solstice ritual.”
“Of course, I shan’t miss it,” Euphemia says.
Iona’s brow furrows in confusion. “How is it that you have yet to meet her husband?”
Ariadne scratches her cheek. “Well…”
“She was far too preoccupied to attend the wedding,” Crescentia says, seeming more like herself with every passing second. “She neglected to respond to any letters for nearly nine months, from what I’ve heard.”
“You are getting on my nerves,” Ariadne warns.
“Nine months? What happened to…” Iona asks, then identifies the reason in Ariadne’s thoughts.
“That is an exaggeration,” she says, unconvincingly. “There was a brief time after Elise ended our courtship-”
“From January until September of last year,” Crescentia clarifies.
Ariadne glares at her. “When I was slightly… rebellious.”
“A reputation was earned.” Crescentia says haughtily. “Even I considered offering myself to her for a night after the stories I heard, for how could the adulations of so many women be hyperbolic. Some claim to have needed a week’s rest after she was through with-”
“For the love of all that’s sacred!” Ariadne groans, covering her face with her hands.
Iona chuckles wryly, giving Crescentia a warning look before consoling Ariadne in her mortification. “You told me of this already.”
“Yes, but I would rather not recount every insignificant detail,” Ariadne sighs with exasperation. “It was a time in my life that is now over.”
“You may have difficulty avoiding the subject where we’re headed,” Euphemia says, her smile turning sheepish, and there is something else lingering behind her eyes that Iona cannot quite place.
Just then the carriage halts and when Iona steps out, she is struck by the stark change of scenery.
All around them are rolling hills covered in the greenest grass she has ever set eyes upon.
The verdant landscape contrasts greatly with the overcast sky, and there isn’t a single tree to be seen in any direction.
The air is humid and chilled, so Iona conjures a shawl to warm her bare arms.
“Oh…” Ariadne says when she beholds the manor made of dark granite stone built in the center of the secluded valley.
With three stories and many windows filled with candlelight, muted sounds of a raucous party can be heard through the walls. There are no other houses in sight, though it is too dark to see very far.
“Where are we?” Iona asks.
“Iceland,” Euphemia says.
“I am in no mood for this sort of revelry,” Crescentia sighs.
“I will be sure to remind you of that once Rebekka is through with you,” Euphemia says, taking Crescentia’s hand and pulling her along.
“Who is Rebekka?” Iona asks.
Euphemia glances at Ariadne. “You did not tell her of Rebekka?”
“No,” Ariadne says shortly.
Euphemia’s chagrined expression puts Iona on edge, and she is about to silently inquire about it to Ariadne, when Crescentia’s eyes flit between them as she perks up.
“On second thought, I’m feeling much better,” Crescentia says as she takes Iona’s arm and leads her towards her house.
“Rebekka was an old flame,” she whispers. “As I understand it, she was Ariadne’s very first conquest. Ariadne wished to court her formally, before she was stuck with Elise, but Rebekka rejected her.”
Iona’s eyebrows raise. “Is she mad?”
Crescentia giggles. “No, she… Well, you shall see for yourself.”
The moment the front door opens, they are met with a heady scent of smoke and sweat.
Euphemia leads them through the house as if she lives there, while Crescentia takes a goblet from a floating silver tray and downs its contents in one gulp.
The halls and lavish rooms are filled to the brim with party guests, all in varied states of dress or undress.
As they enter a grand ballroom lit by crystal chandeliers, Iona tries not to gawk, though many of the guests stare brazenly at her with interest. A circle of couples weave to and fro in the center of the room, their laughter infectious as they make drunken efforts at dancing a cotillion.
“Where the blazes is Rebekka?” Euphemia mutters. She beckons them out of the ballroom and down another candlelit corridor.
Iona is nearly toppled over by two warlocks entangled an amorous embrace. Neither of them apologizes as one pulls the other into a room and slams the door. She puts a hand over her mouth to hide her bemused grin.
Did Euphemia take us to an orgy? Iona asks.
Ariadne’s tight smile betrays her unease. Rebekka’s parties often devolve into some manner of bacchanalia .
She takes two glasses of wine and hands one to Iona, before Euphemia grasps her arm and pulls her further into the crowd.
Iona hastens to catch up with them when they reenter the ballroom and pass by a lively string quintet.
The pining gazes of many a woman linger on Ariadne, though she seems keen on ignoring them.
One of the women, a petite brunette with green eyes, glares at Iona with brazen resentment and envy. Sensing her discomfort through the bond, Ariadne turns to glare back at the brunette, whose face pales as she looks down at her feet and scurries away.
“We may leave if you wish,” Ariadne suggests, though it sounds more like she is asking in earnest.
“But you’ve only just arrived!” Euphemia protests.
“If I knew where you planned to take us, I never would have agreed to come,” Ariadne hisses.
Euphemia’s face falls. “But… I only wished to surprise you and cheer Crescentia up from her gloom. Why are you in such a horrid disposition?”
“You know well how I hate surprises,” Ariadne says, glancing around at the witches pretending not to stare at them.
“If I may,” Euphemia says in a placating tone. “I think this to be the perfect opportunity to clear the air before the solstice. There have been abundant rumors floating about and your presence here will effectively quell them. Iona should make appearances in society anyhow. It’s expected.”
“A lovely list of sentiments that could have been expressed to us in France,” Ariadne mumbles.
We need not stay. Iona takes a stray curl and tucks it behind Ariadne’s ear .
She sighs heavily, but she’s become conflicted.
Euphemia marks her indecision and continues with a hopeful smile. “You are no longer a piece of meat for them to quarrel over, now that you are bonded.”
“It seems their yearning has been supplanted by bitterness,” Ariadne remarks.
“Have you always been this fearful of them?” Euphemia asks.
Ariadne’s nostrils flare. “I am nothing of the sort!”
Iona bites back a smile at her conflated outrage, and Euphemia shares a knowing look with her.
“I shall protect you,” Iona teases.
I am not afraid , Ariadne insists, but her apprehension floats within her consciousness like a stagnant cloud.
You must protect me then, for I find them all quite intimidating, Iona admits.
You possess greater power than anyone else in this room, Ariadne points out.
As do you. Iona glances at the staff, and notices Ariadne’s viselike grip around the smooth wood. It seems we are irrational fools, the pair of us.
A grin curves Ariadne’s mouth. Was that ever in question?
She lifts Iona’s hand to her lips, which elicits a thrum of whispers from their observers. Ariadne tenses when she hears it, and Euphemia laughs.
“You needn’t flaunt her, Ari,” Euphemia says in mock admonishment.
“I am doing nothing of the sort,” Ariadne protests, her ears turning as pink as the rose in her hair.
You can if you’d like, Iona grins, and Ariadne fails to suppress her smile.
“Alright, alright. I suppose we may stay a while,” she acquiesces, “but no more surprises.”
“I swear it,” Euphemia says, unconvincingly. “Now come along, my friends. We must find Rebekka, if she hasn’t disappeared upstairs. I dare not interrupt her there.”
“That would be unwise,” Ariadne chuckles.
“What does she look like?” Iona asks. “So I might help look.”
“Oh! Of course.” Euphemia takes her hand and leads her to a wall of paintings just outside the ballroom.
There hanging on the wall is a floor to ceiling portrait of a tall woman with short flaxen hair and a roguish smile that is as disarming as it is cavalier.
She wears an immaculately tailored black suit, and though Iona is mildly surprised to see a woman dressed in a masculine fashion, she finds it complements the woman perfectly.
“This is our Rebekka,” Euphemia says with great affection. “My dear friend of nearly twenty years.”
“Why, you are more like siblings then,” Iona observes.