10 - Ariadne
T he dining room is bathed in the light of innumerable candles burning brightly on the crystal chandeliers and the sconces hanging from the walls.
Yet more candelabra illuminate the mahogany banquet table, which has been laid out with ten settings of fine China painted with pomegranates, apples, and red roses.
Ariadne pulls a chair back and gestures for Iona to sit, observing the others as she pushes in Iona’s chair and walks round the table to sit across from her.
She is relieved when Marina and Uncle Raul sit on either side of Iona and resigns herself to be seated between Moira and Sebastian.
Aunt Zephyra sits beside her son, and Aunt Xiomara takes the seat at the head of the table, leaving two chairs empty, one for each of Ariadne’s parents, who have yet to arrive.
“Where is Father?” she asks.
“Lost in his study again, no doubt,” Moira says.
“Did no one bother to fetch him?” Ariadne sets her napkin on the table so she might go and find him herself.
“Calm yourself, Ariadne,” Aunt Xiomara says, motioning for her to remain seated. “He will be along any moment.”
Reluctantly, she sits and takes back her napkin. When she looks up again, there is a boiled egg covered in herb sauce sitting before her in a bronze egg cup. She reaches for her glass goblet filled with red wine and takes a substantial sip.
“Buon appetito,” Aunt Xiomara says.
There is the clinking of spoons as they begin to eat their eggs. The silence is unsettling and Ariadne fidgets with her spare hand beneath the table.
“Would this be your first visit to Rome, Iona?” Aunt Xiomara asks.
“Yes, it is,” Iona says.
“You should explore the city. You must enjoy the warmth after your years sequestered in Cornwall,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“Indeed.” Iona glances at Ariadne. Gossip is swift amongst witches.
You’ve no idea, she smirks.
“I imagine it was challenging to be confined in one place for so long,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“It was not so bad…” Iona says, but she is entirely unconvincing.
“A necessary sacrifice, I suppose. Your grandmother searched quite vigorously for you three. One mistake and you could have been discovered,” Aunt Zephyra says, then looks around the table. “Do you not recall how consumed by it she was?”
“Like a madwoman,” Uncle Raul agrees.
“You knew her?” Iona asks Aunt Zephyra.
“Not well, but I did speak with her on occasion,” Aunt Zephyra says. “It is a shame you were never given the opportunity to meet her. Such a fuss over the elopement… It was quite the scandal in its time. All of society was buzzing over it for many years.”
“Oh…” Iona’s mortification at the prospect renders her speechless.
Aunt Zephyra continues on, undeterred. “Do you find it very difficult to assimilate into civilization again after being so long a recluse?”
“Um… No, not particularly,” Iona says. “I have… Or rather, I was acquainted with humans while I lived in Cornwall.”
“How dreadful,” Aunt Zephyra says. “If only I’d known how charming you were, I would have spoken on your behalf to your grandmother so she would leave your family be.”
The surety in which Aunt Zephyra spoke of it, as if no one could refuse her, has Iona’s brow furrowing, but she does not respond.
“I imagine old Caitriona Lysander regrets her choices, seeing how you are triumphant where her chosen heir has failed,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“Yes, well… I doubt she could have predicted how events would unfold,” Iona says pragmatically, her grip tightening around her spoon.
“Was she not a talented soothsayer?” Aunt Xiomara asks her sister.
“‘Talented’ is a favorable description. I suspect whatever her bones told her was a prediction of Iona’s success, not Elise’s. Those methods are not the most forthright,” Aunt Zephyra shrugs.
Iona lifts her spoon to her lips. How many courses do you expect they’ll serve?
At least five. Ariadne stifles a grimace.
Iona lets out a small sigh. The next course is a warm bowl of stracciatella soup.
“Zephyra, I meant to ask. Whatever happened with the lycanthropes in Moldavia? Has the population been tempered?” Aunt Xiomara asks before taking a dainty spoonful of soup.
“As best as we can expect…” Aunt Zephyra says. “Such a pesky disease.”
Lycanthropes? Iona asks.
Werewolves, Ariadne clarifies.
Oh… Iona gulps. “How do you hope to temper the population? Is there a cure?”
“Goodness, no! No, we must hunt them before the disease spreads too far. It’s not all bad, I suppose. I do love a good hunt.” Aunt Zephyra’s eyes sparkle at the thought. “Do you hunt, dear?”
“No,” Iona shakes her head vigorously.
“Ah, you must try it, but perhaps another time. Their war with the Russians creates such chaos that there is little to be done to stop it spreading, even with our intervention,” Aunt Zephyra sighs.
“They had best resolve their differences swiftly before Napoleon catches his second wind,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“But is there not a treaty in place?” Iona asks.
“Those are easily broken,” Aunt Xiomara says with a wave of her hand.
“The Treaty of Amiens shall last one year,” Marina says. Everyone looks to her and she sits up straighter in her chair. “The stars told me there will be a war between France and most of Europe lasting nearly two decades.”
“Goodness,” Iona says softly.
“Many will die,” Marina says in a matter-of-fact tone. “The complacency of peace breeds the most insidious darkness.”
“Don’t fret,” Aunt Xiomara says. “The humans will sort out their differences in their barbaric manner as they always have. We have our own conflicts to contend with.”
“Is there nothing to be done to prevent it?” Iona asks.
“Prevent it?” Aunt Zephyra asks. “Why ever would you want to concern yourself with that?”
Iona stares at her, unable to comprehend her confusion.
“If it is so important to you, appeal to your King,” Moira suggests. “Follow in old Merlin’s footsteps as it were.”
Iona blanches. “I could never gain an audience with the King of England.”
“And why not?” Moira asks. “His guards couldn’t stand against a witch of your caliber, surely. He would have no choice.”
“And after I cut down his guards and corner him in his throne room, what then? Why would he listen to me?” Iona asks, her frustration growing.
“If you cannot convince a human king to take your advice, why should any of us give you a second thought?” Moira asks.
Color reaches Iona’s cheeks as she looks down at her soup.
Ariadne elbows Moira in the ribs and she has the audacity to say. “Ow! What was that for?”
“Moira.” Aunt Xiomara gives her a warning look. “You shall be cordial, or you may leave.”
“Yes, mother,” Moira grumbles.
“She has no real experience in war or diplomacy anyhow. Not enough to properly advise anyone, human or witch,” Aunt Zephyra says. “It takes great humility to know when you are out of your depth. You are wise to acknowledge that, Iona.”
“I am not…” Iona sighs with rising irritation. “It does not take a lifetime of experience to know that wars are pointless and only result in the needless deaths of young men and boys. It should be avoided at all costs.”
“You are welcome to try, but fate is not so easily swayed,” Aunt Xiomara says.
“Why are witches so indifferent to the suffering of humans?” Iona asks, baffled by their apathy.
“Did you forget the witch trials? What they did to us? To their own people?” Aunt Xiomara asks, then realization fills her eyes. “Or perhaps you did not learn of our histories.”
When Iona has no answer, Aunt Xiomara cuts Ariadne a disapproving look, then sets her spoon down and steeples her fingers.
“Humans are intolerant creatures. They spurn us, wish us ill, and claim their gods tell them we are evil devil worshipers who prey on children and make unholy unions with animals.” Aunt Xiomara wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Some witches and warlocks deign to involve themselves in human affairs, but I find the practice futile. If they do not want our magic, I am more than willing to oblige them. If they choose to burn us for our mere existence, then they have earned our apathy. We have enough problems of our own. Best to concern yourself with your own kind.”
“The king is mad anyhow,” Sebastian mutters before taking a large gulp of wine.
Iona opens her mouth to protest, but the sound of the door stops her. Ariadne’s father enters, straightening his collar with a sheepish smile.
“Ah, Petro. Impeccable timing,” Aunt Xiomara says with a smile.
“Apologies for my tardiness. My cereus flowers are nearly ready to bloom. I hate to part with them,” Petro says.
Ariadne stands, forgetting her napkin as it falls to the floor beneath the table, and smiles as her father envelops her in a warm embrace.
“Welcome back, fiore,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”
“Cereus flowers?” Ariadne raises an eyebrow.
“They flower only one night a year,” he says, his eyes alight with excitement. “I hope you may see them while you are visiting.”
“A fine enough excuse, I suppose,” Ariadne smirks.
“Come, come. Sit, Petro before your soup goes cold,” Aunt Xiomara says, though she mirrors their smiles.
On the way to his chair, he approaches Iona where she sits. She wipes her mouth and looks up at him, then offers her hand.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lysander,” he says, then bows and kisses her hand. “I will be forever grateful to you for your heroism in protecting my daughter from dark magic.”
“On the contrary, sir. She protected me,” Iona says.
“Oh, I am sure she did,” he says. “But all the same, I am glad to know that she was not alone in her toil.”
“You helped me immensely,” Ariadne interjects. “Do not diminish your bravery.”
Iona smiles shyly, unwilling to accept the praise.
“You may yet learn humility by association.” Her father winks at her, then finds his seat beside Marina, and Ariadne’s apprehension subsides for the first time that night.