9 - Ariadne #4
“She’s just been through a terrible ordeal, if you can recall. You mustn’t quarrel,” Iona insists.
“I would never,” Ariadne says.
Ignoring Iona’s suspicious look, she conjures a bath of steaming water with a layer of white gardenia petals floating across the surface.
A long soak does wonders for both their muscles, though it does little to quell their dithery nerves.
Across their bond, their anxieties feed on each other as they consider every possibility of what might go wrong.
Running a brush through Iona’s hair is a small comfort, the soft strands like unwoven silk against her fingers, but contrary to other times, they do so in silence.
Iona then conjures a lavender gown of diaphanous satin, reminiscent of her Samhain dress.
Without much thought, Ariadne conjures a purple hydrangea and hands it to Iona for her hair.
She smiles and takes it gingerly, pinning it in place.
Ariadne tries as she might but cannot find herself comfortable in anything but red, her family’s color.
She tells herself the color suits her best and that is why she wears it, but she can hear her mother’s nagging voice in her head telling her that she must wear the color at all official gatherings.
She doesn’t wish to invite any undue criticisms tonight.
The silk dress she conjures is simple but elegant, with a drapery fastened to her right shoulder by a golden brooch embezzled with diamonds, and a demi-train that swishes behind her whenever she walks.
She clasps her favorite ruby necklace around her neck and when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she feels transported a year into the past, before her life had been altered irrevocably.
“You are a vision of beauty,” Iona says with adoring eyes.
Ariadne forces a smile, for she is not like Iona, who flushes with pleasure at every bit of praise. In fact, she tends to recoil against compliments, even when they’re well intentioned, for they only serve to make her feel ornamental.
“And of strength, as well,” Iona continues. “Regal as ever.”
She meets Iona’s gaze and is taken aback by her expression of dauntless conviction.
“I wish to make one thing clear, here and now,” Iona says. “I have no interest in joining their coven. Not in the slightest. So long as your mother is among their ranks, I shall not be. What she did to you is shameful. You may one day choose to forgive her, but I certainly never shall.”
Ariadne’s heart swells in her chest, filling with gratitude in the face of Iona’s loyalty. “I never thought as much, but I am glad to hear you say it all the same.”
Iona reaches for her hand and pulls her close.
“I am not attending this dinner to placate your family,” Iona says. “I only wish to learn why they need me so badly.”
The Villa Mitriora sits two stories high on Aventine Hill in Rome.
Named for Ariadne’s father’s family, the Palladian style villa has been passed down through generations, ever since their ancestors left Triora during the witch trials of the 16 th century.
For the Zerynthos family, it acts as a second home during the warmer months of the year.
It is not so much a prison as the manor in Thessaly but is not a welcome sight either.
Who is that? Iona asks.
A young woman with long dark curls, wearing a garnet red gown, sits alone on the front steps looking up at the sky. A flame mark lies just above her right collarbone.
“Marina,” Ariadne calls.
Marina does not respond or deign to tear her gaze away from the sky.
Moira’s sister, Ariadne explains.
Is she well? Iona asks.
I couldn’t say, Ariadne sighs, then steps closer. “Marina?”
Marina startles, then looks at her and blinks.
“Ariadne?” she asks, “Oh… I thought… Or well I suppose you would… But…”
She trails off, then looks back up at the sky.
“Good evening.” Iona curtsies. “I am pleased to meet you, my name is-”
“The stars are in odd places,” Marina murmurs.
“Pardon?” Iona asks, then looks up.
Ariadne does too, but the azure sky has not darkened enough to reveal the heavens.
“But the stars are not yet visible,” Iona says.
Marina squints, “Are they not?”
Iona shakes her head slowly.
Ignore her, Ariadne suggests. “We shall see you at dinner.”
She takes Iona’s hand and guides her up the steps.
“Your scales are unbalanced,” Marina says softly.
Iona glances back at her once more. She is… strange.
Marina is relatively harmless. Ariadne grimaces. Though I warn you, she has a tendency to impart the wisdom of the stars, and her insight is not always pleasant.
When they reach the threshold, the door opens of its own accord. Iona searches for who had opened it, but there is no one in sight. She goes tense with unease.
“Frightened of a house, nymph?” Ariadne teases.
“Is it alive?” she asks.
“No, only enchanted to remove the necessity for servants,” Ariadne says. “All the grand houses have charms like these.”
She offers her arm and leads them both through the threshold. It creaks closed behind them as they go past the entrance hall and into the atrium, a centralized room with a deep pool of crystal-clear water in the center of the floor. Red and white geometric mosaics decorate the walls.
Just beyond the pool on the far wall is the lararium, an altar to Hecate.
Carved in stone, it depicts her holding a torch in one hand and key in the other, with a snake slithering at her feet.
Incense burns on a shelf just beneath it, smelling distinctly of frankincense and mugwort.
Ariadne surveys the room, but there is no one in sight.
“Moira did not say where we should go,” she murmurs. “Perhaps the drawing room or the solarium… Or perhaps we should see if my father is in his study.”
“Is there no one here to greet us?” Iona asks. “Or was Marina meant to with her cryptic remarks?”
“I regret that my daughters are not the most welcoming.”
From a hall to their left, Aunt Xiomara emerges in a gown of violaceous red. She wears her dark curls loose down her back and has a jeweled ring on nearly every finger, with a massive ruby displayed favorably over all the others. Her flame mark is small but prominent, right beside her left eye.
Ariadne remains frozen with uncertainty, until her aunt extends her arms wide, and she runs to her. Aunt Xiomara laughs and squeezes her tightly.
“Let me look at you,” Aunt Xiomara says, pulling away to scrutinize her. “All in one piece, I see?”
Her gaze rests on the staff, her eyes widen in wonder.
“And the first not to return from Lysander College empty-handed,” Aunt Xiomara says. “It is a triumph, my dear.”
Taken aback, Ariadne asks. “Then… you are not angered?”
“Not at all,” Aunt Xiomara says. “I am quite intrigued by this turn of events.”
Her gaze shifts to Iona, so Ariadne steps aside, allowing her to approach.
“And it is not for us to question fate’s design,” Aunt Xiomara says with a curtsy.
Iona curtsies low and when she rises, there is more than a trace of confusion in her hazel eyes.
“Good evening, and welcome to the Villa Mitriora. I am Xiomara Zerynthos,” she says with a warm smile. “You must be Iona.”
“Good evening,” Iona says in turn. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“You have my congratulations.” Aunt Xiomara gestures to the pendant. “It suits you.”
“Thank you,” Iona smiles shyly.
“Shall we join the others? I’m famished,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“Yes, lets.” Ariadne takes Iona’s arm again.
Aunt Xiomara leads them out into the peristylum, an open courtyard with a garden of well-manicured rosemary bushes and cypress trees.
Then they ascend the stairs and make their way down a long corridor lit by burning candle sconces.
Paintings adorn the walls, most of them depicting witches with the same curled dark hair and red eyes.
I thought you hated your family. Iona gives her a questioning look.
I hate my mother. Ariadne clarifies. There are a few of the others whose company I moderately enjoy.
Oh… which of them do you favor? Iona asks.
My Aunt Xiomara, Uncle Raul, my father, my cousin and grandmother on my father’s side, and I can stomach Marina in brief intervals.
The rest are like your mother? Iona asks.
There are none so terrible as her. Ariadne clenches her jaw.
They reach the end of the hall and Aunt Xiomara opens a door that leads to the solarium, a large sitting room with a collection of chaises and klines scattered about.
Two of the walls and the ceiling are made of immaculately clean glass, similar to her own bedroom in Thessaly.
Except instead of plants obscuring the windows, the sprawling view of Rome is unobstructed.
The final traces of sunlight paint the clouds pink and makes the rooftops glow orange.
It is one of her favorite rooms in the villa, most of all because of the grand pianoforte that sits in the corner.
In the shape of a wing, it’s much larger than the one she’d practiced with in Thessaly and made of dark ebony wood.
She might have played a song or two before dinner, if it weren’t for the people awaiting their arrival.
Moira sits prim and perfect in her scarlet dress and when she sees them enter, her eyes brighten. “Ariadne! I knew you’d come.”
She bounds over to them and envelops Ariadne in a stifling embrace until she squirms away. It is never a good sign for Moira to be in such a fine mood.
Her other cousin, Sebastian, sits slumped in a most ungentlemanly fashion, his unfocused eyes reflecting his boredom.
When Aunt Xiomara introduces him to Iona, he doesn’t see fit to look at them or even to bow his head in greeting.
Her Uncle Raul, a devilishly handsome man with tanned skin and dark hair, is the exact opposite.
“Bona nit, Ms. Lysander,” Uncle Raul says, pressing his lips upon Iona’s hand, and giving Ariadne a mirthful look. “It is a pleasure to meet the woman Ariadne risked exile for.”
Iona’s flush is immediate, and Ariadne smiles wryly.
“Do not make fun,” Ariadne says.
“But of course. Wouldn’t want Cintia to hear. She would have our guts for garters,” Uncle Raul pretends to grimace with fear until his wife smacks him on the arm.
“Did I not describe them perfectly?” Moira asks, coming to stand beside her father. “They are an exquisite pair, like out of a fairy book.”
“Yes, my darling. Well done,” Uncle Raul says, kissing her forehead.
“Where is Zephyra?” Aunt Xiomara asks.
“Late as ever,” Moira shrugs.
“And Cintia?” Aunt Xiomara asks.
“We should be fortunate if she attends at all.” Moira brushes past Ariadne and whispers. “Or rather, unfortunate.”
“We shall all dine as a family,” Aunt Xiomara says firmly.
“I am here!” Aunt Zephyra bursts into the room.
She wears a linen dress that is also red, but lighter in shade than the others, and her curls are pinned in haphazard clusters that cascade from the crown of her head.
The constant dishevelment of her appearance somehow always manages to be effortlessly avant-garde.
When she turns her head, the hint of her flame mark can be seen just beneath her ear.
Flustered, she greets Iona with a curious gaze, giving her a thorough once over.
“Sebastian!” Aunt Zephyra snaps her fingers at him. “Come and greet our guests, you slothful thing.”
He takes his time standing and approaching them with his hands buried in his pockets.
“Good evening,” he says in a monotone voice.
“Stand up straight and fix your shirt,” Aunt Zephyra hisses at him. “Your father, rest his soul, would be appalled by your lack of decorum.”
“Zephyra,” Aunt Xiomara says in a placating tone. “Have you seen Cintia?”
“She won’t arrive at dinner until the third course,” Marina answers for her as she enters the room like a phantom, almost floating across the floor with barely a sound.
Aunt Xiomara sighs. “She cannot be convinced to attend the entire meal?”
Marina shakes her head no, then looks out at the night sky through the towering windows, offended by the translucent barrier between her and the stars.
“I suppose that is to be expected.” Aunt Xiomara sighs, then smiles at Iona. “I apologize for my sister. She does not adapt well to changed plans.”
“She shan’t be missed,” Iona says.
Ariadne’s eyes widen at her boldness, but to her relief, Aunt Xiomara lets out a hearty laugh.
“Come, let us convene in the dining hall,” Aunt Xiomara beckons the family to follow her, then murmurs in Ariadne’s ear. “I like her.”