15 - Iona #2
“Ari,” Iona says, but still, she doesn’t respond, her full lips downturned, her posture tense.
So, she snaps her fingers directly in Ariadne’s ear, making her recoil and scowl, a protest at the tip of her tongue, but Iona captures her chin in her hand and pulls Ariadne’s face down to hers, not giving her a chance to speak.
“I would like to drink the potion,” Iona says. “May I have it?”
Slightly disoriented, Ariadne blinks at her, until finally she finds her voice. “Do not snap at me.”
“How else can I hope to gain your attention when you neglect me in favor of your absurd fixation?” Iona scowls, then releases her chin.
She reaches for the vial in Ariadne’s hand, but she unstoppers it and drinks it all.
“Are you mad?! You will make yourself sick from-” But her protests are muted by Ariadne’s kiss.
Coaxing her lips apart, the contents of the second vial spills from Ariadne’s mouth into hers, tasting of sweet berries, with a bitter tanginess. A drop escapes through the seam of their melded lips, dripping down Iona’s chin, and she pulls away, giggling.
“My every other thought is of you. How much more of my mind do you wish to inhabit?” Ariadne murmurs in her ear.
“All of it,” Iona jests. “So that you might… not…”
The sparks from the fire cast iridescent rainbows shimmering in the smoke, and when she looks up at Ariadne to ask if she too can see them, she is swiftly lost in the beauty of Ariadne’s eyes that glow a thousand shades of red all at once.
When her gaze drifts lower to Ariadne’s chest, her mark seems to sway back and forth, as if the flame is alive and burning.
Iona reaches out to touch it, running the pads of her fingers along the swell of Ariadne’s breast, and the soft skin is warm. Pleasantly so.
Chuckling darkly, Ariadne takes her hand and leads her deep into the forest, navigating the wilderness with a sense of familiarity.
The leaves are like silken butterfly wings against Iona’s arms, the ground like shifting sand beneath her feet, her limbs light as air as she frolics through the flowering ferns to another massive blazing fire that seems to lick at the clouds above.
Many witches are already gathered there, shedding their gowns and unpinning their hair to dance without inhibition around the flickering flames.
Iona’s every breath is expelled in laughter, endlessly, joyously, until her stomach aches from it.
She joins in the songs and chants, drawing magic from the air to bask in its eternal glow, absorbing the raw energy emanating from the earth and sky.
The streams of magic are not so plentiful as were in the earlier ritual but are more than enough to thrill the other witches, their cheerful exclamations like a balm to her battered nerves.
Ariadne’s persistent caresses are constant and sensual, though not inherently lustful.
The potion’s influence on the senses is intoxicating beyond belief and they cannot seem to bear even a moment’s separation.
Iona feels as if their lungs are now joined, and every bit of air she inhales is from within Ariadne, seeped in the very essence of her, and every breath Iona expels is given to Ariadne, breathing life back into her in turn.
She tries not to fixate too hard on her breaths for fear of fainting and instead focuses on Ariadne’s fingers drifting over the skin of her arm with a featherlight touch, her brow furrowed in concentration, and her lips moving with silent words.
“Are you counting my freckles?” Iona asks incredulously.
“You shall require an abacus to keep track,” Crescentia giggles, taking her hand and pulling her around in circles until they are both dizzy and collapse onto the forest floor, convulsing with laughter.
“You made me lose count,” Ariadne pouts.
Then Euphemia approaches, her golden hair billowing around her as she spins, and Frida flitting around her in her own sort of dance, as Euphemia recites, “I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine-”
“With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine,” Iona finishes the verse.
“Well done!” Euphemia’s smile widens, and she twirls about, unable to keep still in her inebriated state. “Are you a lover of Shakespeare?”
“My mother was,” Iona says, “We often read his works together and-”
“Have you seen them performed?” Euphemia asks, and when Iona shakes her head, she exclaims. “Oh, but you must! I shall take you to Covent Garden where-” She looks up, her face going slack as she marks the position of the sun. “We must return to the party!”
“Why?” Ariadne asks.
“We must hurry, or we might miss the handfasting!” Euphemia says, gesturing for them to find their clothes, “I’d almost forgotten!”
“A handfasting?” Iona asks.
“Quickly! Or we shall miss it!” Euphemia runs, “The sun has almost set!”
Once they’ve all dressed, Euphemia, Crescentia, Iona, and Ariadne run through the trees, Wisp and Aster bucking and bounding ahead of them, leading the way back to the open field. The other witches choose to stay behind and continue their merriment.
By then, most of the potions effects have waned, and their minds are partially set to rights. Iona can only see the slightest sheen of rainbows in the flames, and she’s finally stopped laughing, her stomach muscles cramping from her exertions.
When she looks up, confusion creeps into her consciousness when she finds the sun hovering over the horizon, casting purple light on the transitional sky. “How is it still day?”
“Here the sun sets much later in the summer,” Euphemia explains. “It is only two hours to midnight, I’d say.”
“Goodness,” Iona murmurs, her fatigue beginning to catch up with her.
“We didn’t miss it!” Euphemia points at a man and woman whose hands are joined with a rope wrapped around their wrists, binding them together. “A handfasting is a betrothal. It’s customary to hold them on Midsummer’s Day.”
Another woman presides over the ceremony, her voice not quite carrying over to them, but Iona doesn’t mind.
The smiles on the couple’s faces are brilliant as the bonfires burning around them, and when it’s finished, they remove their hands from within the cord wrapped around them, and pull at each of the ends, tying the knot firmly into place.
Then they come together for a kiss and the onlookers clap and cheer, celebrating their love.
“How romantic,” Iona sighs, tears pricking at her eyes as she imagines performing the same ceremony someday.
“Would you like to dream of Ariadne tonight?” Crescentia breaks her reverie.
“Hmm?” Iona asks, giving her a confused look.
“Come, I’ll show you,” Crescentia takes her hand and takes her away from the bonfires, the grass only barely illuminated by the twilight, and gestures to the wildflowers sprouting at their feet.
“Euphemia once told me that if you pick nine flowers and put them under your pillow tonight, you will dream of your one true love, and your future together.”
They begin picking the most perfect blossoms they can find, including a few twinflowers, until Iona has a bundle of them in her fist.
“I hope to dream of Frankie,” Crescentia says.
“I suspect you will not do much dreaming tonight,” Iona grins, then turns to share a look with Ariadne, but she is not there.
Suddenly frantic, she searches the crowd, but Ariadne is nowhere in sight.
“Where is Ariadne?” Iona asks, spinning around in search of her.
“She excused herself a moment ago and said she would return shortly,” Crescentia says.
“But…” Iona frowns, wondering why Ariadne would not see fit to tell her so.
“Must you be joined at the hip at all hours?” Crescentia asks.
Iona flushes with embarrassment. “Of course not.”
“Then let us enjoy the party and she will return when it suits her,” Crescentia says. “You mustn’t cling to her, or she will only grow to resent it.”
“I do not cling to her.” Iona narrows her eyes.
“She may as well be chained to you,” Crescentia mutters.
“Why are you so antagonistic towards each other?” Iona asks. Crescentia looks away, but Iona doesn’t let her avoid it. “Tell me now or I shall ask her, and you know she won’t deny me.”
“It was nothing,” Crescentia says, sheepish. “I said something… foolish. An ignorant comment about Vivien, speaking of things I knew nothing about. She was so angry… I regret it now.”
“When was this?” Iona asks.
“Three years ago, at one of Euphemia’s parties,” Crescentia says. “I apologized to her in Lyon.”
“Did she accept?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you still at each other’s throats?”
“We are cordial enough…”
“You must be kind to her, even when she makes it…. difficult,” Iona says. “She has been through hell.”
“I know,” Crescentia says. “Or rather, I’ve heard things.”
“Then show her compassion, please,” Iona says, then gently bumps her shoulder. “Or I shall only assume you mean to steal her away. I won her heart through discordant exchanges after all.”
“I would rather my cunt shrivel up and fall off,” Crescentia says, wrinkling her nose in mock disgust.
Iona dissolves into giggles as Crescentia continues to make faces for her amusement.
“Fear not,” she says. “I mean to make Frankie fall madly in love with me by month’s end, and if Ariadne detests me, that will prove rather difficult.”
“You needn’t court him in haste,” Iona chuckles.
“My love is all or nothing,” Crescentia shrugs.
As if sensing the topic of their conversation, Frankie emerges from behind a bonfire and lingers there, seemingly unsure if he should approach.
“Go to him,” Iona says, and when Crescentia opens her mouth to protest, she insists. “Go now! Or the poor chap will die from waiting!”
“Oh… alright,” Crescentia says. “If you’re sure you have no further need of me.”
Iona embraces her and says, “I am ever so grateful for your guidance. I would have been lost without you.”
“That’s for certain,” Crescentia grins when she pulls away.
She skips toward Frankie, whose posture goes rigid when he sees her. He bows low, then takes her hand and kisses it reverently.
“Perhaps they will be wed in a month,” Iona chuckles to herself.
Then she tries to find a suitable a vantage point to see as much of the crowd as possible, but there is no sign of Ariadne anywhere. She’d hoped to locate her, just for her own peace of mind, then perhaps find Euphemia to continue their frolicking.
When there is absolutely no trace of her, Iona finally reaches out for Ariadne’s mind.
There lies the image of Euphemia’s face, her smile wide as she recounts a piece of idle gossip regarding Vadoma Lovell, their classmate from college.
Behind her, there are walls covered with expensive floral wallpaper and wide windows, indicating that they must be somewhere inside Drakenstrom Manor.
Iona makes her way across the field and passes through the gardens, but as she gets closer, she isn’t sure which door to enter.
She doesn’t wish to pass through the ballroom and risk being stopped by countless people along her way.
She turns a corner but all she finds is an empty patch of grass and a line of glass doors.
Unsure if she should risk getting lost, she lingers outside, debating whether to call out to Ariadne to come and find her instead.
“Good evening,” Rebekka says.
Iona jumps nearly out of her skin as she whirls around to face her.
“Rebekka,” Iona gasps.
Her grin widens, “Not who you expected to find?”
“No… I-” Iona shakes her head. “Have you seen Ariadne? I cannot find her anywhere.”
“No, I can’t say that I have,” Rebekka says. “Did she leave you alone amidst that crowd of buzzards?”
Iona frowns, glancing over Rebekka’s shoulder at the distant throng. “I would not call them that.”
“You’re meeting them at their best, vying for your favor,” she says. “They all want you…”
Her gaze slowly wanders down. At first, Iona assumes she’s admiring the pendant as many have done, but it becomes clear that Rebekka’s focus lies a touch lower. Iona’s skin heats, awareness making her tense with discomfort.
“…As an ally,” Rebekka continues, an easy smile lifting her lips. “But do not let them fool you. Every single one of them has their own selfish motivations and-”
“Do you think me obtuse?” Iona asks.
Rebekka stops short, her blonde eyebrows raising in surprise.
“Do you think me witless? Simple?” Iona asks.
“No,” Rebekka shakes her head slowly.
“Then why do you act as if I cannot see through your thinly veiled comments?” Iona asks. “Do you actually believe I would fall prey to your graceless flirtations?”
Rebekka lets out an incredulous laugh. “Graceless?”
“I am Ariadne’s,” Iona says firmly. “I am hers. Forever. You could never compare.”
“I meant no offense.” Rebekka puts up her hands in a gesture of deference. “Please forgive my impertinence.”
“Relay your apologies to Ariadne,” Iona says. “If you truly are her friend.”
With that she turns and picks one of the glass doors at random, wrenches it open, and slams it behind her.
Still unsure of where she should go, she looks into Ariadne’s mind again, and tenses with displeasure at seeing Nenet’s face in place of Euphemia’s.
The glimpse of Ariadne’s salacious memory repeats in Iona’s mind over and over again and despite knowing it’s foolish, her skin goes hot with indignant jealousy.
She could just call out to Ariadne now, but she is not in a rational mood at present.
She has a far more compelling way to draw Ariadne back to her.