8 - Iona #3
With a yawn and arching stretch, Wisp curls up against an already sleeping Aster and lays down her head against the tufted chaise they’ve commandeered.
Iona yawns, too, and searches for a clock, knowing that it must be quite late, but the party is still in full swing.
She does not want to keep Ariadne waiting much longer, though she appears quite patient where she sits, bathed in candlelight.
“What is it that you wished to discuss with me?” Iona asks.
“Hmm?” Euphemia frowns, then her eyes widen in remembrance. “Oh! I had hoped to discuss your plans for the impending solstice, namely the reception.”
“Reception?” Iona asks.
“Yes.” Euphemia furrows her brow. “Did Ariadne not tell you? For such grand rites as these, there is always a ball held thereafter.”
“Oh…” Iona grimaces. “I hadn’t thought of it. I wasn’t aware-”
“Oh, but you must arrange a ball! It’s expected,” Euphemia says.
“I… We have no manor to hold a grand party,” Iona stutters.
“Leave it to me,” Euphemia says.
Taken aback, Iona shakes her head. “I would not wish to impose upon you and-”
“Nonsense! I absolutely adore parties,” Euphemia says with a wide grin.
“Hosting is one of my talents, and I’ve long been searching for an excuse to unveil my new ballroom.
I’ve taken residence in my family’s old estate, and we’ve recently finished our renovations.
My Leonid has indulged my every wish, and I am quite proud of his handiwork.
And after all, us Swedes are quite prolific at Midsummer festivities.
We have a rich history of it. You concern yourself with your ritual, and I shall handle the rest.”
“Alright… If you’re sure,” Iona says, unable to keep from smiling at her enthusiasm.
“Quite sure. Consider it my first gift to you in what I truly hope will be a long friendship,” Euphemia says. “Tomorrow I shall draw up the invitations, have them sent by noon, and begin the decorations, and… Oh, I have so much to do!”
“Of course, I shall assist however I can,” Iona assures her.
“You are too kind,” Euphemia says, as if it is Iona extending the favor and not the other way round. “And it is the perfect occasion for you and Ariadne to meet my Leonid, of whom I may never have had the good fortune to court without Ariadne’s intervention.”
Euphemia chuckles and takes another swig of wine. Iona glances at the pianoforte, but Ariadne’s eyes are cast down as she concentrates on her playing, oblivious to their conversation.
“She truly did not speak to you for nine months?” Iona asks in a low voice.
Euphemia’s smile falters and she glances at the piano as well, then scrutinizes Iona’s face before responding. “Longer than that. She did not attend my wedding. She did not visit me after Hugo was born. For a time, she did not even respond to my letters, though I still sent them anyhow.”
“But why?” Iona asks.
Euphemia shrugs and attempts nonchalance. “Ari is a troubled soul. I try not to take such things personally.”
Frida nestles against Euphemia’s neck, and she smiles, running her finger against the dove’s feathered cheek.
“But you are one of her closest friends,” Iona says, her brow furrowing in confusion.
She cannot fathom why anyone would avoid such a kind, gentle soul. Though she’s only known Euphemia for a day, she feels as if she could trust her implicitly.
“And I will always be a friend to her if she needs me, but I will not make a nuisance of myself. I watched over her from afar and waited,” Euphemia says. “She still spoke to Samaira on occasion, and to Ksenia often, and they assured me of her wellbeing when I asked.”
“Ksenia was a spy for Ariadne’s mother,” Iona says with great bitterness.
“I am not surprised to hear it,” Euphemia’s sapphire eyes darken.
“I was not pleased when I learned of her snaking her way into Ariadne’s good graces but knew it would only last for a time.
It’s just as it has been between The Ulanova and Zerynthos families for generations.
If they were not allies, they would certainly be enemies.
Ksenia and I were only acquaintances of convenience, her being Leonid’s cousin and all. ”
“But why would she trust Ksenia in the first place, when she had you?” Iona asks, her insistence wearing down Euphemia’s discretion.
“You may know Ariadne’s thoughts better than I, being bonded with her.
” Unfurling her fan, Euphemia leans in close to whisper in her ear.
“I suspect she was preparing herself for the days ahead. She was trapped by her family’s expectations, and though I tried as I might to provide her the illusion of liberation, it was never enough.
As she withdrew from me, she grew closer to Ksenia.
Samaira would not let her go, even when she embraced cruelty.
I credit Samaira for it. I could not stand to be around Ari when she became the shadow of herself. ”
Iona’s heart constricts as she remembers how Ariadne was then. Overcome with anger and lacking any capacity for patience. Filled with impulsive aggression and no tenderness. All symptoms of her innermost pain.
“Her Goddess’ silence… it tormented her, though she would never admit it.
She hardly ever spoke of it and never in detail.
If any of us ever dared to raise the subject, she would immediately withdraw into herself and vanish,” Euphemia says.
“When we left in search of Rebekka earlier, Ariadne told me of Moira’s terrible game.
She did not finish her full account of the ambush before she hurled herself through that portal.
” Euphemia lets out a wry chuckle. “But I can only imagine how upsetting that must have been for you.”
“It was an awful way for the truth to come out,” Iona says. “I wish Ariadne had seen fit to tell me of her own volition.”
Pursing her lips, Euphemia glances yet again at Ariadne where she plays in the corner.
“May I make an observation?” Euphemia asks, and when Iona nods, she takes a moment to gather her thoughts before saying, “Ariadne has never been trusting with anyone, except perhaps Samaira. She craves affection with such intensity, but she is also terrified of it. I am frankly shocked she bonded with you at all, and it shows immense growth on her part, but she cannot be expected to transform overnight. She may always have a fear of vulnerability, one that she must shed away. In the interim, I beg you be patient with her.”
“Of course,” Iona says, and Euphemia takes her hand.
“I only wish for her happiness,” she says. “Her mother… That insufferable hag.”
Iona grits her teeth, a bought of anger making her skin hot. “Quite the understatement.”
“Indeed. When I first found Ariadne in my woods, when we were children, she was a heart-stricken, skinny wretch. She had clearly been…” Euphemia averts her gaze, and to Iona’s dismay, she appears to be holding back tears.
“She had been harmed in some way. She cowered when I reached for her, as if she thought…”
Taking her lace fan, Euphemia snaps it open and flutters it beneath her chin in agitation.
“When one endures unimaginable cruelty, it leaves scars, both physical and mental,” she says. “Magic can take the physical away, but there’s naught to be done for the mental ones except to heal however one can, and that takes time.”
“I understand,” Iona says.
“Do you?” Euphemia asks with a penetrating stare. “I truly hope so.”
“Iona Evora?”
They look up to address a red-haired man wearing a simple black suit. Looking to be no older than forty years of age, his smile is far too tense to reflect sincerity.
“I am she,” Iona says.
The man bows low and says, “Good evening. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Glancing sideways at Euphemia, Iona stands, curtsies, and offers her hand.
“Silvano Evora,” he says, taking her offered hand and kissing it.
“Evora?” Iona’s eyes widen.
“Oh, how lovely! Were you not in search of your kin, Iona?” Euphemia asks.
“Yes…” Iona says, trying to gauge the man’s intentions, but he only smiles.
“Please sit!” Euphemia offers, pointing to an empty chair with her fan.
“If I may,” he looks to Iona for approval, and she reluctantly nods, suddenly wishing Ariadne were sitting beside her, but not wanting her to scare the man off before she can manage to discover his true purpose here.
“My condolences for your loss, sir,” Iona says.
Silvano lowers his head a moment, then says, “It was an awful shock. The funeral will be held next week if you… if you’d like to attend.”
“I would be honored,” Iona says, though she isn’t sure if Goncalo Evora would have welcomed her to his funeral, given the unfortunate nature of their first meeting.
A twinge of discomfort makes her grimace at the thought of him visiting on Samhain to hear yet another plea for her intervention on his family’s behalf.
She hopes he will know such a meeting would be futile.
“He would have wanted you there,” he says, reading the uncertainty in her expression.
“I’m not so sure of that. We did not become acquainted under the best of circumstances,” Iona says honestly. “However, Jacira held a service for him-“
“Jacira did?” His tone is clipped with distaste.
“Yes…” Iona says, giving Euphemia a furtive glance.
She deftly intervenes. “I’ve only ever visited Brazil once on holiday, and I must say it is the most beautiful of places. The landscape alone is breathtaking and-“
“You’ve allied yourself with the likes of her?” Silvano interrupts, pinning Iona with an accusatory stare.
“I’ve not…” Iona sighs. “I do not wish to insert myself into generational grievances. Jacira has been most kind to me, and has explained the history of-“
“I highly doubt she told you everything, or you would have come home with Father when he called on you,” he says, his restrained bitterness slipping into his tone. “Perhaps if you had, he would not have been left alone to be ruthlessly slain.”
Iona’s jaw drops, and Euphemia takes her hand, grasping it tightly.