15 - Iona
“A nyhow I’d forgotten that I’d already put the hemlock in. Or at least, I’m fairly certain that’s what caused it,” Kokuro chuckles, her eyes crinkling sheepishly. “I was mute for an entire month.”
“A month?” Ariadne laughs. “And there was no way to reverse it?”
“My parents tried everything,” Kokuro says, then chuckles. “Perhaps they only claimed to. They surely enjoyed the silence.”
“Do not tell my parents or they shall ‘spill’ a drop or two in my morning tea,” Crescentia laughs with her.
“Perish the thought,” Euphemia grins.
“Where is Lady Monton?” Iona asks.
They all stare at her in confusion.
“Lady Monton?” Ariadne asks. “She chose not to attend the reception.”
Iona looks to the west, and the sun lies much lower in the sky than she would have expected.
“But… I was only just speaking to her,” she says.
“Monopolized her, more like,” Crescentia says.
“I’m sure she was flattered by your interest in her profession,” Euphemia says.
“If I’d known you would have so many questions, I’d have waited to introduce you on a less eventful evening,” Crescentia agrees.
Smoldering warmth radiates behind her, and she looks behind her to find a massive bonfire, many in fact, littering a vast open space, with a dense, dark forest beyond.
Many of the guests from the ritual are gathered near the fires, conversing with lively excitement, some of them dancing with thin streams of magic manifesting around them.
In the distance, there is a manor of brown brick with many windows and a flourishing garden. Drakenstrom manor, she remembers vaguely. Euphemia’s home with her husband and son.
Iona rubs at her temple, suddenly feeling lightheaded, as if the air has lost its vitality.
“I fear someone has indulged in too much mead,” Crescentia says with a nervous chuckle, taking Iona’s cup from her.
“No, I…”
“There you are,” Xiomara says.
A vision in red damask silk, she approaches with a middle-aged woman and a girl who looks to be no older than three and ten, with the same blue eyes and forlorn expression as her mother.
“You’re white as a ghost, dearest,” Xiomara observes. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine.” Iona clears her throat and, with effort, puts on a smile.
“Forgive the intrusion, but I did not think this could wait even a moment,” Xiomara says. “May I present Regina Sullivan and her daughter, Harriett Sullivan, of Scotland.”
The mother and daughter curtsy low, and Regina says, “It is an honor to meet you, Miss Lysander.”
“Can you help me?” Harriett asks, her eyes ringed with red.
“Harriett,” Regina gives her daughter a disapproving look.
“Help you?” Iona asks.
“The child is an unfortunate victim of a malefician’s spell. The one I told you about,” Xiomara explains in a low voice. “Her magic was leeched away.”
“Oh…” Iona murmurs, realizing what they hope for her to do.
She glances at Crescentia, who mirrors her conflicted feelings. She still hasn’t decided whether giving a mark is a virtuous gift or a hinderance, after all Erik Virtanen had said.
But when she regards the young girl, her eyes so filled with desperate hope, she cannot find it within herself to refuse.
The girl is so young with so much life ahead of her, and to live without magic is too awful a subjugation to endure, especially considering the pain she’d suffered when her magic was stolen.
“Do you know what this might mean for her?” Iona asks Regina.
“Yes,” Regina says. “Please… I only wish for her to be healed. Marcel Beaumont is a friend. He told me you might help.”
Iona holds out her hand and Harriett takes it eagerly. Hesitating only once more, Iona closes her eyes and centers herself.
“Philisa,” Iona incants, chanting the spell again and again.
Magic seeps from her to Harriett, the spell draining her, but not nearly as much as it had when she’d cast the spell on Crescentia.
She supposes it might be because the girl is so young, her well of magic being much smaller.
Across the girl’s forehead, a crown of ivy appears with delicate green leaves and curling stems.
“Oh, my stars,” Regina exclaims.
“What is it?” Harriett asks.
Regina conjures a mirror and holds it up to her daughter’s face, which breaks into a jubilant smile when she marvels at her crown, touching it lightly with her fingers, unable to believe it’s real. Her eyes brimming with tears and she wraps her arms round Iona’s waist and clings to her.
“Now, now. Let’s not overwhelm her,” Regina says, but there are tears brimming in her eyes, too.
“Thank you,” Harriet sniffles, pulling away.
“Use your magic wisely,” Iona cautions with an encouraging smile.
“I shall. I swear it,” she says.
“There were others,” Regina says, reaching for Iona’s hand. “Two others whose magic was stolen. Would you help them, too?”
She agrees without a second thought, and they arrange a time for her to visit the Sullivans’ village within the next week. It is a comfort to know she might finally be of use.
“Well done, Iona,” Xiomara says, before she ushers the mother and daughter away.
Once they’ve left her, Iona’s happiness fades when she meets the probing stares of the surrounding crowd who had watched her heal the girl’s magic and bestow a mark.
She imagines the rumor of Crescentia’s healing had spread as rumors so often do in these circles but seeing it before one’s eyes is entirely different.
They stare at me, not you, Ariadne lies, putting a protective arm around her.
She traces the line of Ariadne’s jaw with her finger. Let them look.
Drawing her down for a soft, sweet kiss, Iona’s feeling of disorientation subsides, the pain in her head dissipating, until she cannot recall what had upset her in the first place.
She wonders if perhaps it truly is the mead that’s to blame for her confusion.
She cannot imagine what else it could be and does not wish to ruin the evening.
“Would you like one?” Kokuro holds up two vials of green potion.
“What concoction have you brewed this time?” Ariadne asks warily.
“Merely a festive libation,” Kokuro says, with a mischievous grin.
“The stars are so bright…” Crescentia drawls, spinning in erratic circles and laughing hysterically with Euphemia, whose pupils have blown so wide she looks like a startled cat.
“When last I sampled one of your ‘libations’, I awoke on the shore of the Holm family’s pond in naught but my stockings.” Ariadne grins at the memory but shakes her head. “I shan’t risk that tonight.”
“Awe… Do not let Iona domesticate you,” Kokuro protests, then elbows Iona in the ribs. “Tell me, would you not wish to see her in such a state?”
“I would, actually,” Iona grins.
Flushing, Ariadne raises an eyebrow. Are you truly considering it?
Only if you are, Iona admits. I do not wish to try it alone.
“These will not leave us mute, will they?” Ariadne takes the two vials.
“That was many years ago,” Kokuro scoffs. “I am as accomplished in phytology as you, make no mistake of that.”
Iona eyes her with persisting reservations. “How long will the effects last?”
Ariadne downs an entire vial in one gulp.
“Enjoy!” Kokuro frolics across the grass to where Crescentia and Euphemia are attempting a dance.
“This is new,” Ariadne murmurs. “I taste belladonna.”
“What?” Iona’s stomach drops. “Is that not poisonous?”
“Ginger… Star anise… Liberty cap… and-” Ariadne’s eyes widen in alarm. She calls to Kokuro, “Is there opium in this draught?”
“Only a drop or two!” Kokuro says.
“What else?” Ariadne asks.
“There are many, many, many ingredients. I cannot possibly remember them all,” Kokuro laughs hysterically as Crescentia spins them around and around, almost falling into a bonfire, but Euphemia manages to pull them away just in time.
Ariadne grimaces. “Perhaps you should abstain.”
“Why did you drink it?” Iona asks.
“You told me you wished to try it!” Ariadne exclaims. “How could I know you would suddenly change your mind? You are so indecisive-”
“I take time to think,” Iona retorts. “A foreign concept to you, I know.”
Ariadne purses her lips but fails to stifle a wheezing laugh that has Iona struggling to keep a straight face, the residual effects of the potion trickling through the bond, making her feel odd.
“Why are you laughing?” Iona asks, a rogue giggle escaping her lips.
Ariadne’s smile fades abruptly, she blinks as if to clear her vision, then reaches out to take a piece of her red hair between her fingers, marveling at it.
“Kokuro has outdone herself,” Ariadne mumbles. “Do you not feel it? I would have thought…”
“Only a little.” Iona worries at her bottom lip. “Is it safe?”
“Probably,” Ariadne mumbles. “I feel… amazing.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Iona shakes her head incredulously.
“We are off to the woods,” Euphemia declares as she runs up to them. “Come with us so we may-” she frowns, “Iona, won’t you try the potion?”
“I… I am not sure,” Iona admits, wondering if she should remain lucid in case Xiomara approaches her again, or any of the other remaining council members in attendance.
“But we must make merry!” Euphemia throws an arm around her neck and speaks with emphatic hand gestures.
“No misfortune shall befall you so long as the light of oaken fire shrouds us and casts away the baneful shadows. Let us be like fae for a night and…” She’s momentarily distracted by the flames, the sparks that crackle and burst in the air.
“Let us go!” Crescentia cries. “What is the delay?”
“Won’t you come with us?” Euphemia implores. “Set aside your troubles and exalt in our good fortune.”
Moved by her impassioned plea, and the whimsy in her sapphire eyes, Iona sighs. “Oh… alright.”
“Splendid!” Euphemia kisses her on one cheek, then the other, and takes Crescentia’s hand to gallop across the field in the direction of the woods.
“She is quite convincing when she…” Iona trails off when, to her displeasure, Ariadne’s eyes are not on her but rather locked on Rebekka where she stands by a bonfire to the east, though she appears quite oblivious to Ariadne’s glare.