16 - Ariadne
T atiana Nicolo catches her eye from across the burning fires, her face distorted by the heat and smoke.
Like every time before, Ariadne is paralyzed with fright that she tries her best to stifle, or otherwise Iona will sense it.
Even knowing that Vivien is well again, she can’t escape the searing sense of foreboding that creeps down her spine at the haunted look on Tatiana’s face.
“Pardon me,” Ariadne mumbles, nearly whispering.
“Where are you going?” Crescentia whispers back.
To Ariadne’s relief, Iona remains entirely oblivious while she watches the handfasting.
“I need…” Ariadne stifles a gasp. “I’ll return in a moment. I need…”
Crescentia searches for what frightens her, until she finds Tatiana across the way.
“Go,” Crescentia tells her.
Ariadne hesitates, glancing at Iona.
“I’ll keep watch over her,” Crescentia says. “Go.”
A rush of gratitude fills her, and she forces herself to walk, not run, through the mass of people, her claustrophobia flaring.
“No… no…” Ariadne forces her breath to slow, her thoughts reeling. Iona cannot know. She cannot bear it. Not now. Not ever. She looks over her shoulder to see if Tatiana is following.
“Ugh!”
She collides directly into Ksenia, almost knocking her to the ground. Cringing, she puts space between them and hugs her chest.
“Pull yourself together.” Ksenia looks her up and down.
“Do not speak to me like that!” Ariadne snaps. “In fact, do not speak to me at all.”
“Gladly.” Ksenia brushes past her.
Ariadne resumes her path towards Euphemia’s manor, passing by a pair of open French doors that lead to the ballroom filled with yet more people dancing in a more formal setting.
It’s there she overhears the familiar, irritating whispers of the two irksome witches who’d gossiped with Crescentia years ago.
“She doesn’t seem like the sort-”
“If she bonded to Ariadne Zerynthos, I doubt she has any qualms. They will use her to reclaim everything. The obedient heir they’ve always wanted.”
Ariadne’s steps slow as she listens, despite her better judgment.
“Then why would she share magic if she only means to hoard it?”
“Katrin once dictated who could cultivate their power. Perhaps she’ll do the same, favoring the common folk in place of us.”
“I am not convinced…” The witch lowers her voice. “And we should be wary of discussing this here.”
“Ksenia is no friend to Ariadne any longer, and rumor has it she does not much like Iona either. We need not fear another hex from her.”
“Yes, but… Ariadne steals magic.”
Ariadne’s heart stops and she creeps closer to the opened doors to hear them more clearly.
“That hasn’t been confirmed as truth… not yet anyhow. We must await the trial to know for certain.”
“Everyone knows Elise Lysander is without magic. Ariadne took it all. She may as well be a malefician, or well on her way to becoming one.”
“I’m not sure… but I must admit, I fail to see how such a spell could not have some sort of corrupting effect on her soul. A Zerynthos malefician… Could you imagine it?”
The witches go silent, their fear palpable. Ariadne forces her feet to move, considering whether to go inside one of the manor’s many rooms and take a moment to calm down, but the thought only incites her claustrophobia again.
“You’re flickering,” Marina says.
Ariadne jumps. She hadn’t noticed her cousin leaning against the wall, watching her with hazy red eyes.
“What are you on about?” Ariadne asks.
Marina’s face scrunches with confusion as she scrutinizes the sky. “Your stars. They’re flickering.”
“And that means what exactly?” Ariadne asks.
“It is a terrible omen indeed,” Marina says gravely.
Ariadne resists the urge to roll her eyes. “You see omens everywhere.”
“They are everywhere,” Marina says. “Why do you still run from her?”
Ariadne stiffens and forces her features into neutrality as best she can. “What do you mean?”
“Your fear is a tumor,” Marina says. “It will only grow until you cut it out.”
“I haven’t the time for this,” Ariadne scoffs, but Marina’s words unnerve her, as they so often do.
She slips inside the manor, away from Marina, away from the incessant whispers and probing stares, until she reaches the front entrance.
She takes her staff from where she’d left it by the coat stand, already feeling better with it in her grasp.
Even while knowing no one could take it, the magic inside preventing them, she still prefers to keep it close.
She throws open the front door and goes down the steps to the front courtyard where rows of carriages lie waiting for their owners, the horses making soft whinnies and grunts. Nothing but sprawling countryside stretches out in either direction and the immensity is a strange comfort.
How had she not considered whether Elise’s magic would have any lasting effect on her?
She doesn’t feel any different, but perhaps the maleficium is dormant, festering inside, lying in wait to overtake her.
If there were any negative effects, it probably…
potentially would have manifested by now.
Iona could heal her regardless. She shouldn’t worry about it, but now the awful possibilities pollute her every thought.
Her heart thrums dangerously fast in her chest, even as she tries taking deep breaths of fresh air, but that only succeeds in making her lightheaded.
Or perhaps that is a residual effect of Kokuro’s potion.
She turns back, intending to seek out Iona wherever she is, to find comfort in her embrace, but she abruptly stops short and wishes she could disappear from that very spot.
“What are you doing sneaking about?” her mother asks. She leans against a white marble column at the top of the front steps, holding a cigarette in her right hand and flicking the ash to the wind.
“Nothing, I…” Ariadne loses her words.
“Leave me be.” Her mother lifts the cigarette to her lips and turns away.
She should. She should go upstairs and lie down.
She should find Iona and tell her why she flees from the very sight of Tatiana.
She should use her staff to travel anywhere else in the entire world, or leave for another world entirely, until she feels well enough to return.
But her mother’s words are salt in her wounds.
“Why did you lie about our lineage?” Ariadne asks.
“What?” Cintia asks, smoking escaping from her mouth and nose as she looks over her shoulder to glare down at her.
Ariadne climbs two steps. “You claimed we were descended from Hecate. That our eyes are hers. That we are children of gods. It was all lies. Morgan told me when Iona and I won her trials.”
“Iona won,” Cintia retorts. “You forfeited.”
“You avoid the question still?” Ariadne asks. “Did you not know yourself?”
“I know everything,” she seethes.
Ariadne scoffs. “How long can I expect the charm on my eyes to last? It will fade eventually, will it not? As all transformation spells inevitably do, without magic to restore it. How many times did you cast the spell on me while I was unaware? Why go to such lengths to perpetuate your charade?”
Cintia flicks away her cigarette and motions for her to ascend the remaining stairs.
“You want to speak of this now? So be it,” she says, her tone conveying her boredom. “The eyes are nothing more than a tradition passed down by our ancestors. It’s meant to mirror Hecate’s beauty. It will fade within the next year or two, if you choose to let it. Nothing to get hysterical over.”
“I am not hysterical-”
“Do you not recall the weeks after you shattered Vivien’s mind?” Cintia asks.
Ariadne grits her teeth. “What of it?”
“I could never forget it myself. Your infirmity. You may as well have been dead,” she says. “Forgive me for treading lightly, for I would not wish to incite another of your nervous collapses.”
“Why must we speak of this again?” Ariadne had fled the party to avoid discussing this exact subject.
“Do you wish for me to answer your question, or don’t you?
” Cintia narrows her eyes, and when Ariadne does not object, she continues.
“Your confidence was obliterated that day. I needed to motivate you somehow, or all would have been lost. The story I wove was an attempt at inspiring you to strive for more, reminiscent of a story our ancestors once perpetuated to maintain our status in society. It worked, did it not? You regained your tenacity when you thought power was owed to you. You believed it all too easily.”
“I was terrified of being cast out of the family if I should fail,” Ariadne argues. “It seems that threat was empty as well.”
“I did and said what was necessary to fix you,” Cintia says. “I shan’t apologize for it, if that is what you hope for.”
“I would never expect that of you,” Ariadne says. “Your lies were in vain anyhow. Samaira was the one who nursed and restored me as best she could. You did nothing.”
“Nothing?” Cintia yells. “I made you into the witch you are. You wouldn’t have that stick,” she regards the staff with disdain, “if it weren’t for my toil.
“I did not succeed because of you! I did so in spite of you,” Ariadne says.
Cintia throws up her hands. “Nothing I do is ever good enough.”
“At long last you understand,” Ariadne says sarcastically.
Cintia raises her hand, and Ariadne flinches, bracing for the sting, but before a blow is struck, Aster lets out a ferocious snarl, his fur rippling with the threat of transformation.
Taking a wary step back, Ariadne silently admonishes herself.
She could have blocked the blow with the staff’s magic, but her instincts overpowered her logic.
“It is not a stick,” Ariadne says, making her voice steady. “It is the staff of Merlin, a sacred artifact once thought to be lost forever-”
“A prize of consolation, nothing more.” Cintia turns up her nose. “You wish for me to praise you for such a meager accomplishment?”
“It is more than Sebastian or Marina could manage, or your precious Moira,” Ariadne says. “With it, I healed Vivien, and-”