7 - Iona #3
“She vexes me often enough, as a little sister would,” Euphemia says wistfully, then her eyes brighten. “On second thought, perhaps we should divide our search. If one of you finds her, you could use the bond to summon the other. Is that not correct?”
Ariadne hesitates, “Yes, but-”
“We’ll be swift as anything,” Euphemia takes her arm. “Call to us if you find her!”
Iona nods, noting the apologetic look from Ariadne when she’s pulled away. Iona smiles encouragingly, then turns her gaze back to the painting to examine it a moment longer.
She admires the particularly vibrant shade of Rebekka’s green irises, like the sea in the midst of a storm.
The whites of her eyes lie slightly below her irises, making her stare effortlessly seductive even in painted form.
Almost hypnotic. Iona can see why Ariadne was once so smitten with her, and an unexpected swell of jealousy bubbles in her stomach. She frowns.
“It’s a crude likeness, I find.”
The unfamiliar voice is a sultry rasp far too close to her ear. Jolting, Iona looks up to see who had spoken and blinks in surprise to find the subject of the painting standing right there, her chiseled form draped in similar garb, with a purple lupine flower pinned to her lapel.
“I’d much prefer a portrait of you on this wall,” Rebekka says with a charming smile. “Your hair would bring some much-needed color to the room. No one would be able to take their eyes off you.”
“Um…” Iona takes a step away. “You are Rebekka, are you not?”
Her eyebrows lift slightly, her interest piqued. “Why yes, I am.”
“We were looking for you,” Iona stutters.
Rebekka takes a small step closer. “You found me. Now what shall we do?”
Iona’s cheeks heat. I found Rebekka.
Faster than she thought possible, a portal bursts into existence right beside them and Ariadne leaps through, almost tripping on the hem of her skirt in the process.
“Ariadne?” Rebekka’s eyes go wide at both the display of magic and the unexpected interruption.
“Iona.” Ariadne takes her hand. “May I introduce Rebekka Magnúsdóttir.”
She would have spoken, but the very moment Ariadne’s hand touches hers, an unexpected wave of frisson spreads across her skin, making goosebumps rise and heat cascade over her until she can hardly think straight.
It’s all she can do to keep from pulling her hand from Ariadne’s grip.
When she looks up at her, Ariadne seems altogether unaffected and unaware of it.
Blinking rapidly, she forces her features into neutrality.
“ You are Iona Lysander?” Rebekka’s shock turns to sheepish resignation and barely concealed disappointment.
“Yes, she is,” Ariadne says in a pointed tone.
“Oh,” Rebekka chuckles.
“You did not notice the pendant?” Ariadne asks.
“I am not one to notice a woman’s jewelry,” Rebekka says defensively, then becomes momentarily distracted when a witch with chestnut hair passes by.
Iona takes a deep breath, the luxuriant sensations waning at last as Ariadne’s disposition seems to calm.
“Won’t someone help me, please?” Euphemia asks, eyeing the portal warily. “I’m unaccustomed to this sort of travel.”
Rebekka immediately extends her hand to help her step through. Iona cannot help grinning at the astonished expressions of the party guests watching on the other side, before Ariadne closes the doorway.
“You’d have thought there was a fire,” Euphemia murmurs to Ariadne, who pretends not to hear it.
“Your presence has been sorely missed, Ari,” Rebekka says. “I kept the beds of Europe warm in your absence.”
Ariadne’s grin is mordant. “You needn’t have troubled yourself.”
“Oh, it was certainly no trouble,” Rebekka winks at her.
Iona watches in disbelief as Ariadne blushes and looks away with something close to shyness. In fact, she’s never seen Ariadne in such a state of constant bashfulness, and she finds it both adorable and insightful.
Neither Rebekka, Euphemia, or Crescentia show much fear of Ariadne at all, in great contrast to how most others treat her, and she seems to appreciate it despite her pretense of annoyance.
“Well now, we’re all acquainted.” Euphemia looks between them. “Would anyone care to dance?”
Crescentia passes by with a new cup tilted upwards, gulping down wine as if she had just traversed a desert for days on end. They watch her as she goes.
“What’s the matter with her?” Rebekka asks.
“She ended her courtship with Virtanen,” Ariadne says.
“I must offer her my congratulations,” she says.
“Do so at your own peril,” Ariadne grins. “And quickly, if you’d like her to remember it.”
“Leave her be,” Euphemia chastises.
Rebekka shrugs, unbothered. “Very well, I shall rejoice in secret. Our company is all the better without him, and doubly so with the addition of Iona.”
“I heartily agree,” Euphemia says.
Iona smiles shyly. “You are too kind.”
The string quintet begins a new song, and Rebekka offers her hand to Euphemia. “You mentioned a dance?”
“That I did!” Euphemia lets Rebekka guide her to the dance floor and beckons them to follow.
When Ariadne pulls Iona along to join the line of couples in the center of the ballroom, she puts aside her disoriented thoughts. She is still daunted by the art of dance, but Ariadne knows every step from memory and points with her eyes where Iona must step.
Wait, Ariadne cautions, just before Iona bumps into the woman standing beside her. One step left, then come forward.
Iona nods and tries not to show her discomfort at being the only dancer out of step, while Ariadne moves with practiced grace, as if it were second nature to her.
Out of curiosity, Iona peers into her mind to see the recollection of many a lesson in dance that her mother had once conducted.
She had charmed Ariadne’s feet to send a shock across her soles if she ever made a false move.
“Pardon me, miss,” A gentleman says with a short bow of his head, and Iona realizes she had been so distracted by her horror at Ariadne’s memory, that she’d missed her cue to cross to the other line.
“Apologies, sir.” Iona curtsies clumsily, then shuffles across, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
A moment later the song ends, and a waltz begins. Ariadne takes her hand and pulls her close, pressing her other hand against Iona’s lower back as she guides her across the floor.
She seems much more at ease in her movements, reminding Iona of their first dance together, and when she glimpses into Ariadne’s mind again, she finds the memory of Ariadne’s father teaching her the steps without the use of pain inducing spells.
You did well, Ariadne encourages. It is not an easy dance to learn.
Everyone saw, Iona relents.
She lets out a muffled squeak of surprise when, without warning, Ariadne grasps her chin and presses a soft, luxuriant kiss to her mouth, until Iona remembers herself and pulls away, breathless.
There. Ariadne grins at her stunned expression. Now that is all they shall bother to remember.
They shall think me a doxy. Iona giggles despite herself.
Ariadne scoffs. Surely not. I would need to kiss you far lower to earn you that moniker.
When Iona’s cheeks bloom at the prospect, Ariadne chuckles and coaxes her back into the rhythm. The blunder is indeed forgotten once they’ve danced with the highest of spirits and indulged in rich wine that has Iona swaying on her feet.
Before long they grow tired of dancing and Rebekka guides them to a quieter corner where they watch the remaining couples engage in a quadrille.
Ariadne becomes noticeably more at ease in spite of the intrusive gazes of the other witches and warlocks, in part due to Rebekka riling her with teasing barbs that has Iona laughing so hard her stomach aches.
“If you spoke of that blasted pendant one more time…” Rebekka sighs in exasperation.
“You were under no obligation to listen.” Ariadne turns up her nose.
“On the contrary, as your friend I found I must, or you would bore the women with your ramblings and repel them into the arms of others,” Rebekka says.
“Into your arms, you mean?” Ariadne asks drolly.
Rebekka shrugs. “It is no fault of mine if you still could not manage to charm them, despite my teachings.”
“Teachings?” Iona asks.
Rebekka grins and before Ariadne can interrupt, she says, “I taught her how to flirt.”
Ariadne glowers. “You did not teach me-”
“Taught her many a skill in fact.” Rebekka bumps her elbow into Iona’s. “You’re welcome.”
Ariadne turns beet red, then looks to Euphemia with a pleading expression.
“Now, now.” She gives Rebekka a reproachful look. “Iona is not yet accustomed to your crude attempts at humor. Do not scare her away.”
“I meant no offense.” Rebekka puts up her hands, appearing anything but repentant. “You are not so easily scandalized, are you, Iona?”
“Surely not,” Iona grins shyly.
“Good,” she smiles back.
Ariadne wraps a possessive arm across Iona’s shoulders. Yet again, a rush of sensation travels over Iona’s skin like a stiflingly warm breeze, and she lets out a shuddering breath, gripping her glass so tightly the stem almost snaps.
Rebekka glances at her in slight confusion, and Iona pulls away from Ariadne for fear of swooning in full view of everyone.
She conjures a fan and unfurls it, fluttering it over herself for want of air.
Ariadne’s brow furrows and she appears almost hurt, but Iona cannot yet speak to explain or reassure her.
“More wine?” Euphemia asks, in an effort to distract from the awkward moment.
“No,” Rebekka says with a grimace. “I am still recovering from last night.”
“My, my. Do you aim to surpass the profligacy of last summer?” Euphemia asks, her humor returning.
“I doubted if I could until I found myself in a rather vulnerable state.” Rebekka’s cheeks turn pink. “I awoke in a Tuscan alleyway with a splitting headache and no memory of the previous night’s events. Half my clothes were gone.”
“You were robbed?” Ariadne asks incredulously.