8 - Iona #4
“If you only came here to hurl insults at my friend, you may take your leave, sir,” Euphemia says, an uncharacteristic coldness in her voice.
“You would turn your back on your own family?” Silvano asks.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort!” Iona protests.
“By withholding your power, you effectively have,” he sets his jaw and stands. “My sister’s impertinence seems to have been passed down to you.”
“I will not take part in conquest on anyone’s behalf, family or no,” Iona says firmly. “Please take your leave, sir, or I shall call upon my partner to ensure your swift departure.”
Silvano’s eyes reflect a trace of fear at the mention of Ariadne, but not enough to deter him. If anything, it only incites his anger as he sheds what’s left of his polite facade.
“I shan’t be dismissed by the likes of you,” he stands taller, peering down at her with an imperious air.
“I beg your pardon,” Euphemia stands before Iona can hold her back. “But you could find no woman more worth your respect in this room, and you shall treat her as such.”
“Euphemia,” Iona tries to placate her.
“Her mother was a scourge upon our family! She was a whore and a coward,” Silvano’s voice grows louder. “The Lysanders cast us out into the street once Leona stole away their heir! They were appalled and rightly so.”
Iona schools her features, though inside she is reeling at finally know the true reason the Lysanders did not aid their grandfather in his conquest. She had suspected it, but now she knows for certain.
“They were in love,” Iona says.
“And look where that got them,” he scoffs. “The Evoras should have their place in the ranks of sempiterna families, but because of my wretched sister, we have only a fraction of the magic we may have claimed. That which we are owed by birth. We may never recover the loss, not for generations.”
Iona’s brow furrows as she scrutinizes her uncle, the jewels on his fingers and the fine silk of his suit.
“You are hardly living in squalor,” Iona observes, earning light chuckles from their observers.
Silvano turns red with anger and embarrassment. “We… That is not the point! That land is ours by right.”
“My grandfather’s obsession was shameful. To cast his own mother into purgatory… all for the sake of rapacious greed,” Iona says. “You had best abandon this vendetta or you too shall find yourself equally disappointed by a life wasted in discontent.”
“Do you presume to tell us where we should or should not be?” Silvano asks. “You are just another tyrant deciding on a whim who will rise and who will fall. No different than Katrin Zerynthos.”
“I am nothing like her,” Iona protests, the comparison frightening her.
Silvano turns to address the crowd, who have all gone silent to watch the spectacle of their argument. “Are we now meant to blindly abide the illicit offspring of a fallen witch and disgraced warlock? All because of a trinket hanging from her neck?”
“Yes,” Moira says, a simple syllable spoken with calm authority.
Silvano pauses in his rant, confusion and outrage at war in his expression, as Moira saunters over to them, lazy and unbothered, her red silk dress draped on her like a second skin. She holds a gold rimmed wine glass in one hand and her wand in the other.
“You would defend the woman who stole your family’s inheritance?” Silvano asks incredulously.
“Indeed, I shall,” Moira says.
She’s tall enough to meet Silvano’s height, but to his credit, he does not stand down.
“Iona is chosen by Morgan herself. Who are you to question her judgement?” Moira asks.
“I will not accept-”
Moira flings her glass against the closest wall. It crashes into a burst of shards, spilling red wine everywhere, and earning gasps from their audience. Silvano does not dare to finish his sentence.
“Iona is Morgan’s champion,” Moira repeats. “She is only entitled to your respect. Apologize.”
Silvano’s mouth falls open in indignation. He goes to argue, but Moira puts up a finger to stop him.
“I am having quite a lovely evening. Do not ruin it for us both,” Moira says, the threat lingering between them. “Apologize.”
“That is not necessary,” Iona says in a small voice.
“Iona.” Moira shakes her head with disapproval.
She hugs her chest and holds her tongue as the silence drags on. Silvano holds Moira’s unwavering stare, but not without effort. Moira’s lips twitch as she taps her wand against her chin while she waits. A snake rattling its tail.
Iona jumps at the feeling of Ariadne’s hand slipping into hers and is instantly comforted by her proximity. When Iona looks up at her, she appears just as surprised by Moira’s presence and her intervention.
“I apologize for my outburst,” Silvano says through gritted teeth.
Moira looks to Iona expectantly.
“I… I accept your apology,” Iona says, her eyes flitting between them.
“There now,” Moira says, pocketing her wand. “No harm done.”
Silvano storms out of the room. There is the distant echo of his heavy footfalls, then the slam of a door as he leaves.
“Oh dear…” Euphemia says softly.
“It would not be a party without a quarrel or two,” Rebekka says with a nervous laugh. “Carry on, everyone.”
The other party goers whisper amongst themselves as Rebekka approaches them.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
Iona blinks up at her, then says, “Yes.”
Rebekka’s eyes narrow imperceptibly. “Are you certain? I can-”
“She said she is fine,” Ariadne says cooly.
Before Rebekka can respond, Ariadne ushers Iona away to where Moira sips from a new wine glass.
“Good evening, lovelies,” Moira says.
“What are you doing here?” Ariadne asks.
“Defending Iona in your stead,” Moira says.
“I did not need defending,” Iona says.
“If you say so,” Moira shrugs.
“It was not for you to insert yourself into my family’s affairs.” Iona sighs. “I doubt he will ever deign to speak with me again.”
“Good riddance, I say,” Moira says.
Iona huffs angrily. Of course she agrees, but it is not for Moira to decide. Jacira had claimed that others in their family were not so inclined to engage in conquest, but now, after being so publicly humiliated, she imagines Silvano will denigrate her to any of them who will listen.
“I know you were not invited here,” Ariadne says. “Are you following us?”
Moira reaches out to pinch Ariadne’s cheek. “Look at how observant you’ve become. I remember when your eyes were once permanently glued to the floor.”
Ariadne squirms away from her and Iona’s patience runs out.
“You’re a damned hypocrite to preach the supposed respect I deserve while treating us with such insolent disregard,” Iona says.
“My respect for Hecate surpasses all others. You have yet to earn mine.” Moira gestures to the whispering crowd behind them. “Or theirs.”
Iona glares at her, and Moira’s infuriating smile returns.
“Anyhow, I do have a message to impart,” Moira says. “I’ve come to invite you both to dine with us in Rome.”
“Us?” Ariadne asks.
“All of us,” Moira says. “The Zerynthos coven. Tomorrow at your father’s villa.”
Iona watches Ariadne’s face, which has turned to stone.
Part of her wishes Ariadne will rage at Moira for even suggesting such a thing, but another part is overwhelmingly curious as to why such an invitation came to be.
Whatever Moira might claim, there is nothing spontaneous about any of this. There is something more.
“But… I am not welcome,” Ariadne says. “Mother said as much when she visited me at college. If I didn’t claim the pendant-”
“Do not worry about your mother,” Moira reassures her. “My mother spoke with her.”
Ariadne’s skepticism is palpable. Moira rolls her eyes.
“Must you always be so gloomy?” Moira asks. “Do not forget who leads the Zerynthos coven. It is not Cintia Zerynthos, nor will it ever be.”
“She won’t take kindly to being undermined,” Ariadne says.
“Oh, you should have heard her screams. It was quite an impressive tantrum.” Moira chuckles. “Like mother, like daughter.”
“And what of Grandmother’s wish to exile me?” Ariadne asks, ignoring the barb.
At that, Moira’s eyes darken, and she does not immediately respond. “My mother spoke with her also. The family agrees that exile would be rash. Fate did not intend for our family to keep the pendant, and we must accept that reality with grace.”
“And I suppose this has nothing at all to do with Hecate?” Ariadne asks.
“I do not know if she consumes food beyond ambrosia and nectar.” Moira’s brow furrows as she pretends to consider it. “Nevertheless, she will not be dining with us, if that is what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t-” Ariadne sighs heavily. “Why then have we been invited?”
Moira’s gaze flickers to Iona, then back to Ariadne. “Why not ask my mother yourself tomorrow? I am sure she would be happy to answer all your many inane questions.”
And with that, Moira turns and walks away.
“Wait!” Ariadne calls after her. “We did not say we would accept.”
“A dinner will be served regardless,” Moira calls over her shoulder. “I hope to see you there. It shall be great fun indeed.