13 - Iona #2
“I feel as if I know you already,” he says.
“Is that so?” Iona asks.
When they reach the pianoforte, she cannot help blushing at the sight of the wood she’d lain across mere hours ago.
“Yes, from Ariadne’s many letters,” Frankie says, “and this.”
With an impish grin, he reaches into his blazer to slowly pull out the missing chemise, though it seems impossible for it to fit within such a small pocket.
“Which of you harlots left this here?” He looks between them with mocking contempt.
Ariadne’s hands slow as she sighs heavily with a mixture of relief and chagrin. Frankie makes the chemise disappear before anyone else can see and leans in close.
“Do not stop playing, or they will grow suspicious,” he whispers urgently.
Iona snorts out a laugh and Frankie looks to her in confusion.
“Yes, Ariadne, did we say you could stop?” Iona whispers, tilting her head.
“Do not… Just be quiet,” Ariadne says with a bashful smile as she continues her song.
“I thought your wild days were behind you,” Frankie whispers, then gives Iona an apologetic look. “Forgive me for jesting. I know we’ve only just met, but I couldn’t resist.”
“This is your fault.” Ariadne glares at Iona from beneath her dark lashes.
“It wasn’t my idea to-”
“I did not hear you protesting-”
“Now, now,” Frankie says. “No need to quarrel. I shall only make jokes for a year, two at most. No real harm has been done.”
Ariadne sighs heavily, and Frankie giggles with delight.
“I’m mortified,” Iona admits, but she giggles along with him.
“No, no! Do not be,” Frankie assures her. “I was in a much worst predicament just yesterday in fact. Was nearly thrown out a rare beauty’s window in her haste. Fortunately, she allowed me to use the stairs.”
Ariadne laughs. “So, nothing has changed with you then?”
“On the contrary, everything has irrevocably changed,” Frankie says. “My heart has been stolen.”
“By whom?” Ariadne asks.
“I was hoping you would enlighten me as to your prior acquaintance with her,” he says.
“Oh… Does she know me?” Ariadne asks.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he says, an accusatory frown reaching his lips.
“I shared a glorious night with her, but when we awoke the next morning, she saw my mark.” He brushes a hand over his left shoulder where beneath his shirt and jacket, Iona wagers a wolf mark is displayed.
“And the woman whispered ‘Ariadne will kill me’ with such dread it gave me a chill on her behalf. Then she threw me out onto the street before I could manage to button my trousers!”
Ariadne’s eyes widen at that, and she glances sideways at Iona.
“She never told me her name, and in the flurry of the morning I was not permitted to ask. She was beautiful though. Long blonde hair… big brown eyes… and wild,” Frankie waggles his eyebrows.
Iona grins, until a thought emerges. It couldn’t be…
“I met her at Rebekka Magnúsdóttir’s soiree,” Frankie says. “I heard you were there, somewhere, though I did not see you. I suppose I wouldn’t have had much chance, being otherwise occupied and quite foxed, truth be told.”
Ariadne locks eyes with Iona and her mouth falls open in horror.
“Did she have a mark in the shape of a laurel on her wrist?” Iona asks.
“Yes, in fact she did. I’ve never heard of such a mark before. Have you?” Frankie asks.
Ariadne leans her elbows against the piano keys to put her head in her hands. “No, no, no, no…”
“What is it?” Frankie asks over the discordant notes ringing from the piano.
Meanwhile, Iona cannot form words through her incredulous laughter.
“It is not funny, Iona!” Ariadne protests.
“Do you know her?” Frankie asks in earnest. “If you do, please tell me. I should like to see her again.”
“No, you do not,” Ariadne says firmly.
“And why is that?” He narrows his eyes.
“She is-” Ariadne begins to say.
“Careful,” Iona says, as her laughter subsides.
Ariadne cuts her a withering look, then says, “She recently ended a long courtship with Erik Virtanen. She is likely not of a mind to-”
“Do not assume her thoughts,” Iona says. “Her name is Crescentia Léandre, and she is a dear friend of mine.”
“How fortuitous!” Frankie exclaims.
Ariadne grumbles unintelligibly, but Iona ignores her. “She means to attend my ritual today, and the reception afterward. You are most welcome to attend, and I would be glad to introduce you to her more formally there. That is, if she is agreeable, of course. I would need to ask her.”
“I would be eternally grateful to you if you did,” Frankie says.
Why would you offer such a thing? Ariadne protests.
Calm yourself. Iona glares at her. They will not be wed in a day. You are being foolish.
You do not know Crescentia or Frankie as I do. They may well be wed within a fortnight. Ariadne glowers. “She did this on purpose to annoy me.”
“Why would she?” Iona scoffs. “I doubt she thought of you at all.”
“If she did, then it was certainly a sweet revenge,” Frankie sighs dreamily.
Ariadne deliberates, then her annoyance subsides. “On second thought, perhaps you’re right.”
“Oh…” He chuckles wryly. “Yes, there is that.”
“What?” Iona asks.
“I shan’t say it,” Ariadne says, looking to Frankie.
“I suppose if you are family now, you may as well know,” he says. “I was not always as you see me now. I became my proper self almost a year ago.”
“Oh,” Iona says, though she doesn’t understand.
Ariadne looks again to Frankie for approval, and he nods his assent.
He was born a girl, Ariadne explains. He never was one in mind or soul, so when he gained enough magic, he used spells to transform into his true self. He need only cast them once every month to maintain his transformation.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Iona says, marveling at the possibilities of what magic can accomplish. “Is it secret?”
“Some are more vocal about such things than others,” Frankie shrugs. “I’ve nothing to hide, but nor did I inform the town crier, so to speak, and I do not often run in the same circles as Ariadne.”
“Crescentia must not have heard, or she may have avoided you,” Ariadne says.
“Oh…” Frankie’s face falls.
“For being my cousin,” she clarifies. “She avoids Sebastian like the plague, despite her fortune seeking.”
“They would be a disastrous match,” Iona mumbles, recalling his permanent frown and vacant eyes.
Frankie’s frown reappears. “You do not think she will refuse to see me again, do you? You would not keep us apart.”
Ariadne glowers and looks away, until Iona shoves her shoulder.
“She wouldn’t dream of it,” Iona says, a warning in her tone.
“What are you all whispering about?” Nonna asks.
“Nothing,” they all say in unison.
When they’ve returned to their seats and reclaimed their cups, Petro says, “Have you yet heard Beethoven’s latest sonata? It is quite a triumph. One of his best, I’d say. I have the pages in my study-”
“Euphemia sent them to me months ago,” Ariadne says. “I’ve nearly learned it, but the third movement is quite complex.”
“Ah.” Petro’s face falls slightly. “Good. I doubt it will present much of a challenge to such a prolific player.”
“She is only so skilled for having nothing else to do in that dreary place you call home,” Nonna says with impressive bitterness.
“Mother,” Petro tries to say.
“I rejoice at knowing I no longer need to threaten abduction to see my own grandchild while you kept her under lock and key. It is a miracle she did not turn out like this one.” Nonna points to Marina. “All weird and unsettling.”
“A pleasure as always.” Moira narrows her eyes. She takes her sister’s hand, but Marina had been gazing up at the sky and did not seem to hear the harsh remark.
“I expect frequent visits,” Nonna says to Ariadne. “Or I shall be very cross with you.”
“Of course,” Ariadne says, sitting up straighter.
“And you,” Nonna says to Iona. “If you are so fond of nature, you will much prefer Triora to Rome.”
“Triora?” Iona asks.
“Yes, do you know it?” Nonna asks.
In fact, she does. It was where she’d traveled to through one of the moonstone arches in Morgan’s trails and met Lucretia before she was killed by the townsfolk.
“There were witch trials held there, were there not?” Iona asks.
“Indeed.” Nonna’s eyes darken. “Our family was nearly swept up in them before they departed for Rome. I now reside in our family’s former estate, which had been left abandoned.”
“Why would you return to a city that once attempted to kill your ancestors?” Iona asks.
“Rome is no better,” Nonna sniffs. “Far too many human zealots walk these streets.”
“If only they knew of the witches residing right under their noses,” Xiomara says as she steps gracefully into the room.
“They would waste no time in lighting their torches,” Nonna says wryly.
She rises to her feet with noticeable effort. Frankie stands and offers his hand, which she promptly swats away.
“You are most welcome, Lavinia,” Xiomara says. “How long shall we have the pleasure of your company?”
“Only for the solstice, I’m afraid,” Nonna says. “I find myself less interested in travel. An old woman needs the comforts of home.”
“Of course. I regret I cannot stay, but we must speak later.” Xiomara smiles warmly at her, then her eyes rest on Iona. “If you are finished with breakfast, there is much to be done before noon.”
Iona and Ariadne quickly gulp down their tea and follow Xiomara outside where a carriage waits to take them to the Sibylline Mountains.
The coach bumps and jerks as the horses haul them uphill with supernatural speed.
There hidden in a narrow valley of stone is a small lake of dark blue water.
Xiomara leads them to the shore and takes a deep breath of the thin mountain air.
“This is the Lake of the Sibyl, named for The Apennine Sibyl, an ancient prophetess who lived in a cave nearby and often came here to meditate and commune with nature. The lake is fed by snow and rain,” Xiomara says. “Places like these are perfect for rituals. Can you sense it?”