24 - Iona
“I ona?” Euphemia asks.
“Hmm?” She looks up.
Ariadne, Leonid, and Euphemia all stare at her expectantly. Her eyes return to the cake she’d bitten into. It has strawberry filling, the red pouring out onto her plate like a pool of blood. She sets it down and clears her throat.
Euphemia glances at Ariadne before saying, “I asked how you enjoyed your time in Nepal. Those mountains are so majestic, are they not?”
“Oh, yes. It was… like a painting.” Iona forces a smile.
Euphemia smiles back but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Might we take a turn about the gardens before we depart? The freesias are in full bloom.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” Ariadne says, setting her teacup and saucer aside.
Euphemia reaches into an oakwood bassinet to cradle Hugo against her chest. He babbles and laughs, which in turn makes his mother laugh and press kisses upon his rosy cheek.
When they walk through the gardens, a butterfly with copper wings flutters near Hugo’s face. He reaches for it, nearly grasping one of its wings, until Euphemia takes his hand and gently scolds him.
Though Iona wishes she could simply live in this moment, all she can think of is Phoebe.
She’s not sure how she could ever stand to be in the same room with Phoebe again, not after failing to save her father.
She almost wishes Zephyra had taken her memory, too, but that would be the greatest cowardice of all.
She will live with this guilt for the rest of her life and can only hope that the coming days will not add to its stifling weight on her heart.
“We shall join you in a moment,” Ariadne says.
Iona blinks, and notices Euphemia, Leonid, and Hugo leaving the gardens.
Ariadne shifts from one foot to the other, then says, “Perhaps we should return to Nepal instead. We could always-”
“I would like to see the play,” Iona says, straining to bring life to her voice.
Ariadne studies her. “You can hardly muster conversation.”
“I doubt there will be much talking during the performance,” Iona says. “Except by the actors, of course.”
Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Alright then.”
She walks away but Aster lingers a moment, a soft whine drawing both their eyes to him.
“Aster, come,” Ariadne orders.
The wolf obeys, but his head hangs low, his tail tucked between his legs.
“I do not wish to be a nuisance,” Iona whispers.
“Did I claim that you were?” Ariadne asks.
“No, but…”
Ariadne storms off, leaving her standing amidst the blossoming garden, her senses overwhelmed by the sickeningly sweet air. After a moment’s hesitance, she scoops up Wisp and presses her face into the fox’s fur, scratching her cheek as she goes back to the house.
Along the way, she passes by an opened door that leads to an ornate sitting room.
A flash of memory overtakes her vision, of Rebekka’s lips against Ariadne’s neck, her hands roaming brazenly over her restless form, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
Iona cringes, trying to will the memory away, but it takes too long to fade.
Wisp’s yelp is what breaks the reverie. In her panic, she’d dropped the poor fox onto the marble floor.
“Oh!” Iona reaches out and inspects her for injuries.
Wisp looks at her with distrust at first, not knowing what she’s done to deserve the mistreatment. With her ears pressed down, she lets Iona pet her until she’s pacified.
“I’m so terribly sorry!” She kisses Wisp’s head.
“What happened?” Ariadne asks as she enters the foyer.
Iona glares up at her. “Why were you thinking of Rebekka?”
Ariadne regards her with confusion. “I was not-”
“Clearly you were.” Iona points to the sitting room, the setting of the memory she’d unwillingly observed.
Ariadne opens her mouth, then closes it, her cheeks burning with mortification.
“Keep your sordid thoughts to yourself,” Iona says, gently taking Wisp into her arms again and pressing apologetic kisses onto her cheek.
“I wasn’t thinking of her,” Ariadne insists.
“Perhaps not intentionally,” Iona allows. “Regardless, I would prefer not to see that sort of thing, if you don’t mind.”
Ariadne crosses her arms defensively. “Was it not you who said thoughts are fleeting whispers?”
“Yours are incessant. I’ll go mad from them, I swear to you.” Iona’s voice breaks.
“Iona,” Ariadne calls, but she ignores her and continues on her way to the foyer where Euphemia, Leonid, and Hugo are waiting.
Wordlessly, Ariadne follows and crafts a portal to a London alleyway far from the prying eyes of passersby.
They then walk across town, giving Iona the opportunity to admire the city she’s heard so much about but never had the opportunity to visit.
The clopping of hooves drowns out the many conversations of the bustling crowd as the Londoners go about their business.
There is a constant drizzle of rain as they navigate dirty puddles.
Twilight falls and the lamplighters climb to the tops of the lanterns to illuminate the growing darkness.
Iona clings to her silence, while Ariadne makes half-hearted conversation with Euphemia about times gone by and old friends who have since wed and had new babies.
Leonid is equally silent, but his quietude is altogether natural and intentional, reminding her a bit of Ksenia, when she once sat beside her in their classes day after day.
When they reach the Covent Garden Theatre, she admires its doric portico in front and the people gathered outside in their finest clothes.
Euphemia, dressed in a suitably decadent Paris green gown, hurries them into the saloon.
Iona welcomes the respite from the cold, putrid wetness of the city streets.
A grand staircase covered in red carpet leads to the theatre seats. Within the crowd populating the saloon, Iona recognizes some of the witches and warlocks she’d met during her ritual. They nod or curtsy at her as she passes, making her feel almost like royalty.
It is there they meet Crescentia and Frankie, who shall sit with them in their box above the auditorium.
Frankie whisks Ariadne away to speak with a group of acquaintances across the saloon, while Crescentia takes Iona to a quiet corner to regale her with stories of her and Frankie’s romantic exploits.
Iona struggles to engage with her but does not wish to take out her frustrations on her friend as she had mistakenly done in Triora.
“Don’t be cross if I sleep through the play.” Crescentia yawns. “Frankie does not give me a moment’s rest anymore.”
“So long as you don’t snore,” Iona giggles.
“No… I talk in my sleep, actually.” Crescentia leans her head against her shoulder.
“That’s much worse,” she grimaces.
“This theatre will burn to the ground…”
Iona startles at the sound of Marina’s voice right beside her.
When she finally notices Iona’s look of dismay, she quickly says, “Not to worry. It shan’t happen for six more years.”
“Are you certain of this?” Iona asks, a deep melancholy filling her at knowing the theatre’s beauty is only fleeting.
“The stars don’t lie,” Marina says. “They follow fate’s design.”
“Come, Marina. We mustn’t dawdle.” Moira comes and takes her sister’s hand, then says to Iona, “Enjoy the performance.”
She gently guides Marina toward the stairs where they join their parents. Raul takes his daughters upstairs while Xiomara lingers and meets Iona’s gaze, giving her a respectful nod before following behind them.
“Shall we find our seats? The show will begin soon,” Euphemia says as she approaches with Leonid
“Are you well?” Leonid asks.
Iona looks up at him, finding concern in his usually reserved expression.
“Yes, thank you,” she says.
“Iona, you must be a saint to endure this woman’s endless prattling on.” Frankie sneaks an arm around her waist.
Ariadne shoves him away and takes her place by Iona’s side. “I was merely explaining-”
“Ophelia explains the flowers herself in the monologue!” Frankie says with exasperation.
“Not in detail,” Ariadne argues.
“I would like to hear,” Iona says, an attempt at an olive branch, which does not escape Ariadne’s notice. Her expression softens as she begins to speak.
“No, do not ruin the story!” Frankie tries to press a hand over Ariadne’s mouth to silence her.
“I’ve read the play before.” Iona giggles when Ariadne ducks away from Frankie’s hand and glares at him indignantly.
“Oh,” Frankie says. “I should’ve guessed you’d both be bookish women.”
“Frankie can hardly read at all,” Ariadne retorts.
“Not so!” Frankie protests. “I’m more partial to Twelfth Night, myself.”
“Of course you are,” Ariadne chuckles and Frankie tugs on one of her curls, making her cry out and attempt to slap him in the arm, but he only laughs and hides behind Crescentia.
“Come, come!” Euphemia claps her hands to silence them. “We truly must find our seats or we will miss the beginning.”
They make their way to the box on the righthand side of the stage just as the two actors playing Bernardo and Francisco walk on to begin the performance of Hamlet.
It is a stark, glorious enhancement to see the words brought to life, rather than reading them on the page.
Iona had read every Shakespeare play with her mother many times over in their cottage by the sea, and though her imagination is fine-tuned, it could never compare to this.
She finds herself waiting impatiently for act three to see Ophelia’s tragic monologue. The actress playing her is sensational, making the complexity of iambic pentameter sound as natural as common speech.
Ophelia runs onto the stage with her bouquet in hand, her hair mussed and dress in tatters, with a mad look in her eye and tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She gives rosemary and pansies to her brother, for remembrance and thoughts. Fennel and columbines to the Queen.
For flattery and infidelity , Ariadne explains.
“There’s rue for you,” Ophelia says, offering a flower to the usurper King.
For bitterness, Ariadne thinks.