10 - Ariadne #3
“Is that true?” Iona asks, and the hurt in her voice turns Ariadne’s anger to contrition.
“I… I am capable of forming new opinions,” she says.
“Your every firmly held belief seemed so easily discarded in the face of such beauty.” Cintia gestures irreverently at Iona. “I suppose I can hardly blame you for your weakness.”
“I am not weak,” Ariadne grits out.
“Thoughtless… Impulsive… You never learn,” Cintia sighs.
“I did not bond with her on an impulse,” Ariadne insists.
“How long did you court her before joining your souls?” Cintia asks.
Ariadne hesitates as she struggles to find some way of embellishing the truth.
“Well now, let’s not forget,” Aunt Zephyra interjects. “You and Petro courted for a mere three months before you were engaged.”
“Engagement is not the same as a blood bond,” Cintia sniffs, then points her finger at Ariadne.
“How could you, who thinks in seconds rather than years, possibly comprehend the true breadth and permanence of eternity? And to enter into such a bond without consulting me, your mother. Or Xiomara, the leader of your coven.”
“I am not part of this coven. Or have you forgotten?” Ariadne seethes.
Cintia’s jaw ticks. “I remember your every failure, of which there are many.”
Ariadne’s fist clenches around her fork, the metal digging into her palm.
“She bonded with me to counteract a blood magic spell,” Iona interjects. “Elise attempted to use me to murder her and nearly succeeded.”
Aunt Zephyra gasps with ample melodrama. “I never liked her.”
Cintia only studies Iona’s face, then takes a long drink from her goblet. Judging from her slight grimace, whatever she has in her cup is much stronger than wine.
“It was not done thoughtlessly, nor solely out of love. She’s saved my life many times over. She is the bravest woman I know,” Iona says.
“You do not know many people,” Cintia scoffs with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“I am uninterested in your opinion of my own daughter. You who manipulated her into abandoning her duty. An inherited trait, it seems. Your mother did the same to your father and had she not, perhaps he might still be alive.”
“Take care in how you speak of my mother,” Iona says, but the intended venom is overshadowed by the pain in her voice at such a horrible accusation.
“If you were a danger to Ariadne, then you should have remedied it yourself,” Cintia continues. “Not used her soul to save your own.”
“Do not speak to her that way.” Ariadne has to fight to keep from shouting.
“I shall do as I please in my own home!” Cintia yells.
Ariadne slams her hands on the table, rattling the plates and silverware, as she leaps to her feet. “You shall not disrespect Iona in my presence!”
Aster snarls from where he sits behind Ariadne, but Cintia hardly notices. She stands as well and points a sharp nail in Iona’s direction.
“She stole your inheritance! Distracted you from your studies and turned you against your own Goddess! You are a fool to let her outwit you, overpower you, turn you into a loyal lapdog. After all I did to prepare you for the trials, all those years of tireless instruction, all for nothing!” Cintia screeches. “Because of her, the little thief!”
“She did not steal anything!” Ariadne yells. “It was my choice to give it away and-”
“Ariadne…” Iona winces, but it is too late.
Cintia’s mouth falls open in horror. “Give it away?”
Ariadne’s anger turns to regret in an instant. “Or rather… I didn’t…”
“You gave the pendant away?” Cintia asks, her voice an incredulous whisper. “You must be joking…”
Ariadne slumps into her chair and rubs her face with her hands.
“How is that possible?” Aunt Zephyra asks.
“Morgan allowed this?” Aunt Xiomara asks.
“You are in so much trouble,” Moira whispers with glee.
“Skáse!” Ariadne incants as she pulls her hands away to glare at her vexing cousin.
Moira’s mouth melds shut, her scream of outrage muffled by the newly conjured skin where her lips once were. Ariadne takes great pleasure in watching her cousin struggle to reverse it.
“Ariadne Zerynthos! You know better,” Aunt Xiomara scolds.
“As does she,” Ariadne says.
To her disappointment, Moira manages to reverse the spell without needing to speak it aloud. She rips the skin apart and her lips reform.
“Scoundrel,” Moira spits at her.
“Demon,” Ariadne retorts.
“We must all calm down,” Aunt Xiomara says, though even her patience wanes.
“I deserve an explanation, mongrel.” Cintia’s voice is chilling.
“I did not want it,” Ariadne says. “There is nothing more to discuss.”
“And what of my wants?” Cintia asks. “What of the needs of your family?”
“I did what was best for me,” Ariadne says.
“And for her,” Cintia says, gesturing to Iona.
“Yes, for her as well,” Ariadne says.
“She is an imposter, then. Not a true champion,” Cintia says.
“No!” Ariadne yells, then with effort she lowers her voice. “Iona prevailed in the trials just as I did. Morgan left it to us to decide who should claim it. I chose to give it to her. She is Morgan’s champion, as much as Grandmother or any other witch who wielded it.”
“Fascinating,” Aunt Xiomara muses.
“Who else knows of this?” Cintia asks.
“No one,” Ariadne says. “And it shall remain so.”
Cintia studies her, her gaze flickering to Aunt Xiomara, before saying, “Indeed. It shall never leave this room.”
“There now,” Aunt Xiomara says, relieved. “With that settled, may we please continue our meal without all this ruckus?”
“I always did enjoy a show with my dinner,” Moira says under her breath.
“Your grandmother will be appalled when she hears about this.” Cintia rubs her temples.
“I do not concern myself with the opinions of the dead,” Ariadne says.
“Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear,” Cintia sneers. “And that is precisely why Hecate cannot be bothered with the sorry likes of you.”
Her words may as well have been a physical blow, stealing all the air from Ariadne’s lungs, but she refuses to let it show.
“Please let us eat in peace,” Aunt Xiomara pleads.
Glaring at her food, Ariadne is entirely uninterested in finishing it now. Instead, she admires the red hue cast upon her fingers from the candlelight shining through the wine in her glass. She swirls it around, then brings the goblet to her lips, drinking deeply, finding it bitter.
She pleads inwardly that her mother will just let it lie. They will never agree. She will never be enough for her, or Hecate apparently. There is nothing more to be said.
“I cannot fathom why you thought that hideous dress would be appropriate,” Cintia mutters.
“I could eat naked instead,” Ariadne retorts, which earns her a chuckle from Moira.
Withdrawing her wand in a practiced, fluid motion, Cintia casts a silent spell before Ariadne can react, and she sucks in a pained gasp as her stays constrict so tightly around her chest and stomach that they will doubtless leave awful marks.
“At least lace yourself properly,” Cintia says. “Your posture is slipping.”
Ariadne tries to protest but she cannot breathe. Her fork clatters against the table as she places a hand over her chest, each inhale shorter than the last.
“Stop!” Iona exclaims.
She extends her hand out in front of her in the direction of Cintia, who is thrown backwards out of her chair and flung across the room where she slams violently against the far wall and crumples to the floor in a heap. Iona screams in fright, then looks down at her hand in dismay.
“Good heavens!” Aunt Xiomara cries, jumping from her chair, unable to decide between running to Ariadne’s aid or Cintia’s.
There are shocked gasps and exclamations from one end of the table to the other.
Ariadne breathes a sigh of relief when her laces slacken enough for her to inhale fully, her breasts and ribs aching from the smothering constriction.
As she sucks air into her lungs, her head spinning and hands trembling, Iona rushes to her side.
“Are you alright?” Iona asks, frantically inspecting her.
“I’m fine,” Ariadne pants.
“I thought… But I did not intend…” Iona puts her hand on her cheek as they both look to where Cintia is splayed across the floor.
Ariadne’s father, Aunt Xiomara, and Aunt Zephyra all gather round her mother to try and help her back to her feet.
“Get off me!” Her mother shoves them away and tries to stand, then cries out in pain.
“What is it?” Her father searches frantically for the injury.
“My ankle.” She winces and pulls up the edge of her skirt to reveal the bone jutting out of her skin.
“I shall fetch a potion,” Her father says.
“No need,” Aunt Xiomara says, pulling out her wand. “Philisa.”
Cintia cries out as the bones snap back into place. She rubs the newly healed skin and sighs when the pain dissipates.
“Go,” Aunt Xiomara says.
Cintia’s eyes almost glow. “I beg your pardon?”
Aunt Xiomara only stares at her, showing a rare menace that makes all others in the room go still and silent. Cintia’s breathing is ragged as she staggers to her feet and glares at Iona with barely contained rage.
A low growl draws Cintia’s attention downward as Wisp shifts only partially, her fur bristling as she grows twice her size and bares her sharp white teeth in warning. She takes a wary step back, then huffs with enduring outrage.
“I shall not soon forget this,” Cintia spits, then storms out of the room with her husband at her heels.
Aunt Xiomara, Uncle Raul, and Aunt Zephyra follow after them, whether to speak in private or ensure her mother’s departure, Ariadne cannot tell. Sebastian had already slipped out of the room at some point, unbeknownst to anyone else.
“Welcome to the family.” Moira smirks at Iona, then gently takes Marina’s hand and leads her down the hall.
Once they’re alone, Ariadne stands, wincing in pain at the bruises forming across her torso from the boning of her stays digging into her skin. Iona wrings her hands, her nerves and guilt more than apparent in her expression and impossible to misinterpret through their bond.
“I think you’ve made an excellent impression,” Ariadne says, laughing nervously.
Then she finds that she is unable to stop, her laughter becoming almost painful as she gasps for air and braces an elbow against the back of her chair.
“Ari,” Iona says with a worried look.
“Did you see how high she flew?” Ariadne dissolves into hysterics.
Iona hesitantly reaches for her. “I am so terribly sorry.”
Ariadne’s laughter is unhinged even to her own ears, but she cannot stop.
Iona keeps hold of her even when she tries to pull away. “Please, you are frightening me.”
“No… No, it’s funny. You should have seen the looks on their faces when,” Ariadne gasps. “When they… When they-”
She bursts into tears and Iona seems almost relieved to see it as she holds her gingerly, not wanting to aggravate her bruises, but Ariadne doesn’t care. She clings to Iona, and weeps into her shoulder as lividity and shame take their toll.