14 - Iona #2
Once the excitement has died down, Iona keeps a tight hold on Ariadne’s hand as she traverses the crowd, unsure of who to introduce herself to first. Ariadne leads her to a group of eleven blonde witches, all draped in blues and whites, with spaces made on their clothes to show their marks of pink flowers, each with two blooms connected to each other by a stem.
Iona scrutinizes the mark on one of their shoulders.
The twin flower, the mark of the Drakenstroms, Ariadne thinks. They symbolize balance and harmony.
“Good day,” Iona curtsies, and they curtsy or bow in response.
“A beautiful display of magic, Ms. Lysander. You should be very proud,” One woman says, then regards Ariadne with recognition. “I always knew you would rise above it all.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Drakenstrom.” Ariadne’s smile is only slightly forced. Euphemia’s mother.
Ah, Iona eyes her, then addresses the coven. “Many blessings.”
They respond in kind, and do not seem nearly as dismayed by the presence of Marcel and his friends as the other covens. Iona supposes she should have expected such temperance from Euphemia’s kin.
Then Euphemia herself approaches with her husband, Leonid, and Ariadne stands taller in anticipation.
“You were an angel!” Euphemia embraces her tightly. “All that light in your hair, in your eyes… Oh, how lovely it was!”
Leonid clears his throat, a smile in his eyes, though his countenance is reserved.
“My love, be patient. I must ensure Iona knows how spectacular she is,” Euphemia says to him. Frida coos on her shoulder in agreement.
Flushing at Euphemia’s exuberance, Iona is quick to offer her hand to Leonid. “I am very pleased to meet you, sir.”
“The honor is mine.” He kisses her hand, then glances at Ariadne.
“We’ve met before,” Ariadne says.
“Yes, a friend of Ksenia’s,” Leonid says.
“No longer,” Ariadne says shortly.
A small smile reaches Leonid’s lips, transforming his expression into something softer. “Splendid. Then I need not pretend to like her.”
Ariadne chuckles at that and Iona relaxes. Euphemia then prattles on about the Midsummer celebration she has planned and of the many Swedish traditions and revelries to be had.
“Good day, friends,” Crescentia approaches and takes Iona’s arm. “If I may, I’d be happy to introduce you to the other covens. They are all anxious to meet you.”
“Indeed, there are alliances to be made. We shall have plenty of time to speak at home,” Euphemia says, taking her husband’s arm. “Until then!”
Crescentia takes them to see Phoebe Kimball first, who introduces them to her grandmother, Eleanor Kimball, and her parents, William and Margaret Kimball.
“I knew the moment I set my eyes upon you on our first day at college. I just knew you were special. Your aura was positively breathtaking! All those blues and indigos…” Phoebe nudges Ariadne’s arm. “Isn’t it a divine spectrum?”
“Very.” Ariadne grins at Iona’s blush and lightly runs a knuckle over her cheek.
“I imagine it’s beauty has tripled now that it has joined with another,” Phoebe muses.
“Joined?” Iona asks.
“Yes,” Phoebe says. “You are bonded, are you not? Your auras are now fused into one single entity, a mixture of both.”
Phoebe squints, then her eyes widen. ‘There! I can see them!”
“Come now, Phoebe. Don’t be rude,” William Kimball chastises his daughter.
“But Father, you should see…” Phoebe peers at them with great interest. “Oh, Ariadne, there is far less black in your aura of late. A fortunate improvement indeed, for it once terrified me. I’ve never seen anything quite so bleak…”
Ariadne scowls. “Your readings are as unwelcome now as they were then.”
“You are so red,” Phoebe chuckles. “But between you, there is lavender. How lovely.”
Ariadne goes to protest, but Crescentia deftly redirects them. “Apologies, but we must be off. Many people still to meet.”
“Many blessings!” Phoebe calls, waving at them as they go.
“Was I always that irritating?” Crescentia mutters to Ariadne.
“Worse at times,” Ariadne retorts.
“I am so sorry,” she shudders.
Before Iona can inquire as to what Ariadne means, Crescentia swiftly introduces her to nearly every family in attendance, with covens from Peru, Siam, Tripoli, Morocco, Persia, and India. Crescentia knows them all by name and whispers any relevant gossip in Iona’s ear.
She is most excited to be introduced to the Dayalu family, a reserved and soft-spoken coven adorned in vibrant robes of yellow, red, and blue, and ornamented in golden bangles, rings, and jantars. The women have their hair woven into long braids, some of which almost brush the floor.
Samaira is a most welcome presence after entertaining a barrage of strangers, and Iona takes her aside while Crescentia and Ariadne converse with Samaira’s parents.
“How are you feeling?” Iona whispers, glancing down at Samaira’s ring.
“Quite well,” she says, but when Iona gives her a pointed look, she admits, “Slightly overwhelmed at present. There are…” She looks around herself, her eyes becoming unfocused. “There are so many threads. They are everywhere.”
“Oh… I had forgotten about that,” Iona says.
Samaira had divulged the secrets of her artifact to Ariadne at the very end of their year at Lysander College. The ring not only gives her fleeting glimpses of the future, but it also allows her to see the threads of fate that lead every soul down their predestined path.
“What do they look like? The threads?” Iona asks.
Samaira points with her finger and makes a line through the air, focusing on an apparition that Iona cannot perceive.
“They are like thin, shimmering lines of light that emanate from us all. I must concentrate to see them, the odd pattern they make. All woven in some manner that I cannot interpret, but undeniably intentional.”
“Perhaps in time you will learn how to interpret the weavings,” Iona says.
“I certainly hope so, though I do not wish to be swept up in unavailing pareidolia,” Samaira says. “For now, I haven’t any dire warnings to impart and for that I’m grateful.”
“But what of the visions of darkness?” Iona asks. “Are you still tormented by them?”
At that, Samaira averts her eyes. “I’ve… grown accustomed to them now.”
Iona doesn’t believe it for a second but when she tries to protest, Samaira silences her with a look.
“I know you to be the sort of person who takes it upon themselves to rid others of their pain,” she says. “I do not need that from you, priya. Save your compassion for those who are lost.”
“Iona?” Crescentia calls, beckoning her to continue on.
She doesn’t wish to leave, not when a feeling of foreboding sinks deep in her stomach, but Samaira curtsies and backs away.
“Many blessings,” she smiles warmly before rejoining her family.
Crescentia leads them to a new family with another familiar face, then whispers in Iona’s ear, “The Nassrys, from Egypt.”
“Many blessings, Nenet.” Iona embraces her.
Dripping in golden jewelry, with beads of lapis lazuli braided into her dark hair, Nenet is as flawless as ever. Her family watches on with bemusement, appearing like gods chiseled in stone.
“You performed beautifully,” Nenet whispers.
“Thank you,” Iona says with a shy smile. She’s endured far too much praise for one day.
A young girl with wild curls and big brown eyes hides behind Nenet’s skirts and looks up at Iona with curiosity.
“And may I introduce my little sister, Sara,” Nenet says, then frowns down at her. “Who should be waiting in the carriage with Teta, but she never did learn to obey.”
“Good evening, Sara,” Iona smiles at her. “How old might you be?”
“Two and ten,” Sara says, in a soft voice. “I couldn’t take part in the ritual, but Mother says I can attend the party.”
“That’s very generous of her,” Iona says.
“You’ve no business attending a ritual yet,” Nenet says. “You haven’t even found your wand.”
“I will!” Sara frowns with determination. “Sooner than you did.”
“I doubt that.” Nenet grins.
Then her mother calls to her, and Sara runs off.
Nenet lets out an exasperated sigh. “Her wand is all she speaks of lately. She’s grown quite obsessed.”
“She’s darling,” Iona says.
“She can be, I suppose,” Nenet says, but her fondness for her sister is clearly evident in her smile.
“And where is your twin?” Ariadne asks and Nenet rolls her eyes.
“Gisela remains in Denmark with her family,” she says. “The Holms did not see fit to attend.”
“Oh…” Iona says.
“We look forward to greeting them at the equinox when they inevitably realize their misjudgment,” Ariadne says dryly.
“I did advise her to convince her mother to reconsider, and I believe she tried but…” Nenet shrugs. “Anyhow, allow me to introduce my mother and father.”
Iona extends her hand for Nenet’s father to kiss and notices his mark; two snakes intertwined around his forefinger. It’s beautiful, one of Iona’s favorites. She then wonders idly where Nenet’s mark is, as she’d never noticed it before.
Her vision is fragmentarily overtaken by an image in Ariadne’s mind, a memory of Nenet, naked and writhing, her full lips parted, as Ariadne feasted on her. She had reached up to brush a thumb over Nenet’s mark, the two serpents twisted together at an angle along the ridge of her hip bone.
Iona flinches and the image fades, there and gone in less than a second. Ariadne’s face turns beet red with mortification.
“No... I…” Ariadne loses her words.
“Is everything alright?” Nenet asks, her brow furrowing in concern.
Iona stares at her with utter incredulity at having watched such an intimate moment that she was not meant to see.
“Um… Forgive me. I am still recovering from the ritual,” Iona stutters, her cheeks heating.
“Should we find you a place to sit?” Nenet asks.
“No, no.” Iona waves her hands. “Thank you, I must… Please excuse me.”
She curtsies clumsily, then walks away, her stomach in knots.
I do not know what happened… I… Ariadne’s thoughts are frantic. You wondered where her mark was, and I thought… and then I realized-
It’s alright , Iona lies. You didn’t intend to.