21 - Ariadne #2
“Two maleficians dueled to the death and their battle left a scar upon the earth. Many humans were casualties as their-” Iona’s eyes widen and she brings the book closer to her eyes to ensure she read correctly.
“-their life force was siphoned to strengthen their spells, draining their vitality and leaving nothing behind but empty husks. Their bodies littered the countryside, a haunting necropolis.” Iona lets out a pitying sigh.
“At last, one witch overpowered the other and consumed her power for her own. I then set out to defeat her in turn.”
“My mother once told me that maleficians can never form covens,” Ariadne murmurs. “I suppose this is why. It would stand to reason that they are incapable of coexisting for any length of time. They would only tear each other apart.”
Iona takes a steadying breath, flips to another page, and reads, “My dreams are not my own. I feel her burrowing into my psyche, whispering doubts and derisions…” She skims the words, then continues. “I nearly mistook the dream for prophecy, but all she tells are lies. I buried her in pieces.”
Iona flips to another page, then another, until Ariadne reaches out to stop her. “That is my mother’s handwriting.”
“Oh,” Iona frowns and reads. “She lives in shadow. I must keep candles lit in every corner and crevice of my room or she will emerge and slit my throat while I sleep.” Iona’s voice conveys her awe. “She controlled darkness itself? Perhaps another crone.”
“How did my mother defeat her?” Ariadne asks.
She scans the page, then says, “She let darkness fall and when she felt the malefician’s presence encroaching upon her, she set fire to the room, and the malefician with it. She nearly burned herself alive but managed to withstand the flames long enough to survive.”
Her mother told her stories of these sorts of awful calamities that Iona describes, but Ariadne had never imagined they were memories.
She’d assumed such tales were commonly told to children as a way to frighten them into obedience, and wonders what it may have been like if she’d known the truth, as Moira, Marina, and Sebastian did.
A part of her envies their camaraderie, their shared experience of studying together, fighting together, while she was kept locked away.
“There you are,” Crescentia says, running up to them, her blonde hair still wet from swimming.
Iona quickly snaps the book closed and puts it at the very bottom of a stack.
“I thought you’d never leave that awful room,” Crescentia says, then gasps at the flowers adorning Iona’s braided hair. “Oh, how lovely!”
Frankie comes up behind her with a permanent smile affixed to his amiable face. “Good day, Iona. Ariadne.”
“Good day.” Iona musters a smile in return. “I trust you had a pleasant swim.”
“Indeed, the water was the perfect temperature,” he says, his gaze lingering on Crescentia.
Ariadne suspects the water could have been frozen and he wouldn’t have noticed the difference so long as the object of his affection were there with him.
“Iona, might you spare a moment to dance with me?” Crescentia asks.
“Dance?” Iona frowns.
“When next we attend a ball, you should be prepared,” she explains. “I’ll teach you.”
“Oh… I am not sure.” Iona bites her lip.
“Euphemia did the same for me when I entered high society,” Crescentia says. “Knowing the steps will be great comfort to you.”
Ariadne is taken aback when Iona reluctantly takes Crescentia’s offered hand and twirls them both round and round, until Iona lets out a small giggle.
Crescentia continues her rollicking as she says, “Which would you like to learn first? The quadrille, the polonaise, the cotillion, galopade, mazurka, scotch reel-”
“Goodness, are there truly that many?” Iona’s smile fades.
“Perhaps a contredanse,” Ariadne suggests, and when Iona looks to her, she explains. “We danced it at Rebekka’s ball.”
“I quite like that idea,” Crescentia says, withdrawing her platinum wand to conjure a single fiddle that plays a cheerful song. “Frankie, Ariadne, on your feet.”
She arranges them in two separate lines, Crescentia across from Iona and Frankie across from Ariadne. When the music starts, Crescentia calls out instructions and guides Iona by the hand.
“There, now skip,” she demonstrates. “Step forward, then back. Now take my hand and spin round.”
A few times, Iona accidentally steps in the wrong direction or loses her footing, prompting Crescentia to halt the dance for a moment and review the steps at a slower pace.
Upon their third rehearsal, Crescentia also instructs Iona’s on the great covens by first reciting all their many attributes, then testing Iona’s memory.
“The Ulanovas,” Crescentia says, gesturing for Iona to step forward.
“Their mark is rye,” she says. “Olesya Ulanova leads them.”
“Correct,” Crescentia says.
“The Kimballs,” Frankie prompts.
“Their mark is a bat. Eleanor Kimball leads them,” Iona says.
“And where do they hail from?” Crescentia asks.
“Massachusetts,” Iona says.
“Very good, Iona!” Crescentia spins her around. “Next should be… the Nassrys.”
Ariadne cringes. Iona’s steps slow, until she stops entirely.
“Oh…” Crescentia winces. “Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss them in their time of mourning. It is ever so awful…”
“I should like to retire to my room,” Iona says, her voice bleak.
“Whatever is wrong?” Frankie asks.
“Nothing,” Iona says, her breath catching in her throat. “I am tired.”
Frankie looks up at the early evening sun in confusion.
“Alright,” Crescentia says, suspicion brewing in her gaze. “We can always continue tomorrow.”
Iona shakes her head. “I cannot.”
“But why? You are doing so well and-”
“Crescentia, please,” Iona says forcefully, then in a softer voice continues. “I… I am sorry, my friend. I know you mean well.”
“Are you ill?” Crescentia asks. “Perhaps Ariadne can brew a tonic for you.”
Don’t withdraw again so soon, Ariadne pleads. “Your prolonged seclusion could very well be what causes your infirmity.”
“You are well aware of what troubles me.” Iona frowns. A child has died. I cannot go on as if nothing has changed.
No one is asking you to, Ariadne insists.
“I must study,” Iona gives her a pleading look, her thoughts returning to little Sara’s mangled body sinking beneath the sand.
“You cannot hope to learn every spell in existence in mere weeks,” Ariadne argues. I can protect you, now that we know our enemy.
“That is precisely the issue. I haven’t time to waste on frivolous dancing,” Iona relents. And who shall protect them with you so preoccupied with my wellbeing?
“You’re keeping secrets from me again,” Crescentia accuses.
Iona opens her mouth, then closes it, her expression betraying her guilt.
“You promised you wouldn’t,” Crescentia says, crestfallen.
“The secret is mine to tell,” Ariadne lies. “Leave it alone, for she would never betray my confidence.”
Crescentia meets her gaze, and she only hopes their new truce will be enough to placate her curiosity.
“Well now, if Ariadne does not want to speak of it, then we must respect her wishes,” Frankie says. “Come, my treasure.”
Crescentia scrutinizes Iona a moment longer, then sighs. “Very well.”
“Good day to you both,” Frankie says, with a polite bow of his head.
Crescentia takes his arm, and they whisper in hushed tones as they walk away toward a white carriage by the roadside.
A surprising rush of envy compels Ariadne to frown as she watches them go.
Their courtship is young but seemingly so effortless, uncomplicated, like breathing.
For a fleeting moment, she wishes it could be so for her and Iona.
“ She only wished to help you.” Ariadne watches Iona’s face intently.
“And I only wish to save the next poor soul ensnared in the Crone’s trap,” Iona says in a low voice. “I can learn to dance another day. Any day. Not now.”
With that she turns on her heels and makes her way back to the house. Ariadne does not dare intervene. Any goodwill she’d relied on is gone, and she fears there will be no comforting Iona for at least another day or two.
And yet that night, when Ariadne dares to interrupt Iona’s reading again, gently closing her grimoire and blowing all the candles out, Iona reaches for her immediately, burrowing in close and sighing heavily, so exhausted that it radiates off of her and into Ariadne through their bond, until her own eyelids droop despite her leisurely activity that day.
But Iona does not sleep. She fights against it, shifting to gaze at Ariadne, her freckled face barely illuminated by the moonlight shining through the open window.
Slowly, she lifts herself up to press a tender kiss to Ariadne’s lips, lingering there a moment longer than she normally would, before pulling away with such reluctance.
So, Ariadne pulls her back, repositioning them so Iona lays on her back partially beneath her, their noses brushing softly as they kiss with unhurried affection, not seeking anything more than closeness and comfort.
Something wet touches Ariadne’s fingertips where she cradles Iona’s cheek, and she opens her eyes to find that Iona is silently weeping. She goes to speak but Iona opens her eyes, quickly shaking her head no, and bringing Ariadne back down to kiss her again.
And so, she does as Iona bids, reveling in their salutary embrace, until Iona’s lips mold to hers less and less, soon going limp altogether when her breathing slows and sleep finally takes her.
When Ariadne wakes the following morning, Iona still slumbers deeply with Wisp curled up against her, with her small head resting on Iona’s shoulder.
When Ariadne’s stomach grumbles, she carefully slips out of bed and goes downstairs to the kitchen for a spot of breakfast, intending to go right back upstairs, until she spots a letter sitting unopened on a table by the door.
A rush of conflicting emotions fills her when she takes the note, tearing it open to read Samaira’s delicate script.
I see Iona’s melancholy. Perhaps I can help.