24 - Iona #2
“And here’s some for me,” Ophelia continues. “We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. You must wear your rue with a difference.”
Ophelia holds up a single white flower delicately in her hand, as if it may break.
“There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.” Ophelia weeps and falls to her knees.
The daisy? Iona asks.
Innocence, Ariadne thinks. And the violets are faith.
When the curtain closes, Iona is roused to her feet. She claps as loud as she can muster when Ophelia’s actress takes to the stage for her bow.
“What a revelation!” Iona exclaims as they make their way back to the saloon.
“I take it you enjoy theatre, then?” Euphemia grins.
“I love it,” Iona sighs dreamily. “Oh… When Hamlet said he loved Ophelia once, but no longer… What a fool he was!”
“Indeed,” Leonid says.
“I shall take you to see all of Shakespeare’s plays, and others if you’ll permit me,” Euphemia promises her. “Won’t we, darling?”
Leonid smiles at his wife with limitless adoration in his eyes. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Iona says. “Truly, I… I am glad for the diversion.”
Euphemia’s eyes soften as she takes her arm and says, “It is quite easy to fall into despair in dark times, but we mustn’t let ourselves.”
“There is a pub down the road,” Crescentia says. “Might we extend the night there?”
“A splendid idea!” Frankie says.
When they are all in agreement, they roam the dark streets of London with Crescentia and Frankie speaking animatedly, while Euphemia and Leonid watch on in amusement. Set apart from the rest, Iona’s elation subsides.
As they gather in the bustling pub and trade in stories, jokes, and barbs, Iona watches, content to listen and laugh. She finds herself filled with immense gratitude at the camaraderie she’s found amongst these people, wishing her life could be just this. Simple, joyful, peaceful.
Her greatest comfort in her remote disposition are the soft, soothing circles Ariadne draws with her thumb on the back of her hand, never imposing upon her with thoughts or spoken words, though she is doubtless aware of Iona’s insurmountable gloom.
It’s Ariadne’s quiet consolation that fills her with great affection, compelling her to rest her head against Ariadne’s shoulder.
When they return to Drakenstrom Manor late in the night, Euphemia and Leonid swiftly retiring to their room, Iona takes Ariadne’s hand, hating the uncertainty she finds in Ariadne’s red eyes, and is about to speak when she notices a letter sitting unopened on a table by the door.
A jolt of dread makes Iona gasp and has Ariadne tensing immediately to see what has upset her.
They rush to the table, only to find that the letter isn’t marked with Samaira’s hurried scrawl, though the writing is still familiar.
Iona opens it, reading her Uncle Samuel’s message with cautious anticipation.
The Lysanders’ estate lies hidden away in Dobling, nestled in the hills that border the Vienna Woods.
Beyond a collection of lush, overgrown shrubs, the white house sits three stories high with a green roof and many clouded windows.
Dragons are carved into the stone of a fountain in the center of the main courtyard, spewing streams of water from their mouths in place of fire.
Opening the wrought iron gate, Ariadne leads the way to the door with a familiarity that Iona can’t help noticing. She must have been here countless times before to call on Elise. Iona cannot imagine how odd it must feel to return, nor does she glimpse at her thoughts to see.
Instead, she reaches for Ariadne’s hand. They haven’t spoken of the malefician attacks, of the unwanted memories, or what should be done about their grim circumstances. Iona fears that to speak of one would open the flood gates for all their disagreements to occur at once.
Last night, Iona had awoken to find herself alone in bed but heard Ariadne’s piano through the bond without meaning to. It is becoming increasingly difficult not to slip through, as if they are growing more attuned to one another with time.
Ariadne had practiced her piano all through the night, consumed by learning the third movement of the Beethoven piece Euphemia had sent her.
Every time she’d missed a note, she would slam her hands on the keys in frustration, then start again.
It’s a miracle she did not wake Hugo, but Iona suspects Euphemia cast a spell on his nursery to muffle the sound.
She had watched through Ariadne’s eyes, marveling at how one song could have so many notes in such quick succession, until the sun rose and Ariadne had returned to the spare room. She’d seen that Iona was awake, too, but made no excuse for why she’d not slept. Yet another matter left unsaid.
Ariadne raps the bronze doorknocker three times, a thousand memories percolating within her. Iona reaches out to lightly brush her fingers over the dark circles beneath her forlorn eyes, until she closes them and pulls away.
Iona’s arm drops to her side, just as Samuel opens the door. Haggard and gray, it’s evident he hasn’t shaved in days, and his clothes are rumpled. It’s an altogether different image of her uncle than she’s used to, until he smiles and she’s reminded of the man she knew.
“Iona,” Samuel smiles. “How glad I am to see you!”
“Samuel,” Iona goes to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him on his prickly cheek.
He laughs but it’s as if he had forgotten how, the stilted sound making Iona pull away from the embrace and look him over with concern.
“Ariadne, you are most welcome,” Samuel says, taking her hand.
“Prof… Mr. Lysander.” Ariadne’s smile is polite as she curtsies.
“Come, come,” Samuel beckons them inside.
He takes them to the sitting room where he serves tea and asks them about their time in Brazil and Nepal.
Iona tells him of meeting Jacira, and the peace she’d found in Nepal, then forms a haphazard string of half-truths to explain their presence in Rome.
Ariadne deftly affirms each lie with a comment or two but otherwise allows Iona to speak on their behalf.
“Did you know of the Evoras’ transgressions?” Iona asks.
“Leona did not often speak of it, but I did know of your grandfather’s ambitions of conquest in the New World,” Samuel says.
“Your mother was always against it, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.
She had no qualms about ruining her family’s relationship with mine, only seeing it as a fortunate byproduct of her elopement. ”
“It seems they have yet to forgive her for it,” Iona mutters.
“Oh?” Samuel rests his cup on a nearby table, reaching out to gently pet Wisp on the head where she sits beside him.
Iona recounts her confrontation with Silvano Evora. She hasn’t seen or heard from her uncle since that night, not even at the solstice ritual, where she wondered if she might see more of her family, but none of them saw fit to attend. Perhaps they hadn’t heard or thought they were unwelcome.
She tries not to take offense, but their continued silence stings each time she remembers it, though lately she hasn’t had much time to ruminate on such matters. On second thought, she is relieved not to be inundated with yet more conflict when she has enough to worry about with Ariadne’s family.
“Do not take it to heart,” Samuel says. “They are the unfortunate ones to be estranged from one so kindhearted as you.”
Iona forces a smile, though the compliment is grating when she has never thought less of herself than in the past couple of days. When she winces, bringing a hand to her forehead, he rushes to her side.
“I’m well,” she assures him. “I’ve been having these fleeting aches in my head… But they always pass before long.”
Samuel frowns. “Are you-”
“Who is here?” a female voice calls from upstairs.
Samuel grimaces and sets his cup and saucer down. “Pardon me.”
“Is that Mrs. Lysander?” Ariadne asks, her eyes brightening.
“Yes, but… Please wait here a moment,” Samuel says before leaving the sitting room.
Ariadne’s brow furrows. She doesn’t sound like herself.
“Violet, darling, Iona and Ariadne are here to visit,” Samuel calls up the stairs. “Won’t you come down and-”
“Oh…” Violet mumbles.
“You needn’t strain yourself,” he says in a low voice.
“Nonsense,” she says. “Of course, I must greet our guests.”
Iona sits up straighter, then jumps to her feet when Samuel reenters the room with a woman on his arm who looks just as weary as he. Her long brown hair is unruly, and she wears a chemise with a blue velvet robe over top of it, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.
“Iona,” Violet smiles, “How good it is to finally meet you.”
Iona curtsies. “I am very pleased to meet you as well, Aunt Violet.”
Samuel keeps hold of his wife’s hand. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I can manage,” she says, pulling out her wand, made of glass, but before she can conjure anything, she smiles, “Ariadne, you rascal. I thought we’d seen the last of you.”
Ariadne chuckles nervously, standing and wiping her hands on her skirts. “Apparently not.”
“Come here.” Violet opens her arms for Ariadne to embrace her. “You may not believe it, stubborn thing that you are, but I am truly glad to see you again.”
“Are you well, Mrs. Lysander?” Ariadne asks in a soft voice.
“No, my dear,” she answers with a melancholy smile. “I do not see how I could be.”
Ariadne’s lip trembles. “I am-”
“No,” Violet says with fiery conviction. “You will not apologize. Do not even speak the words.”
Her eyes widen. “But I only meant-”
“It is my daughter who should repent for her atrocities,” Violet says. “She never will, of course.”
“Violet,” Samuel says.
“It must be said,” she insists. “She is my greatest shame.”
Violet’s eyes glisten as she looks to Iona.