30 - Ariadne
D raped in the most exquisite white satin, adorned with all her best jewels, and with white daisies braided into her golden hair, Euphemia is as much an ethereal beauty in death as she was in life.
Her familiar’s broken body lies just beside her head, her pale feathers having been thoroughly washed to rid them of ash, cushioned by a white pillow bordered with intricate lace.
Ariadne cannot repel the disturbing image of the bloody laceration ripped across Euphemia’s stomach, now hidden beneath her funeral dress.
The stench of smoke still lingers in the air within the manor’s walls despite the many lilies, gladiolus, and orchids she’d conjured for the service, which have already begun to wilt.
She never thought she’d see her friend’s face again, and beholding it now, her eyes closed in what could be mistaken for serene sleep, Ariadne almost wishes she hadn’t.
It was a surprise to them all that Euphemia’s body was found within the steaming wreckage of the blackened trees.
She wasn’t burnt to cinders, swept away by the wind, as everyone had expected. The Crone left her there.
And upon the recovery of Euphemia’s body the night before, a healer preparing her for burial discovered her uterus had been stolen. Leonid had choked out the news that morning, barely able to speak the words, terrible as they are.
The funeral’s reception is held in Moscow, within familiar walls that Ariadne half-hoped never to walk through again. The Ulanova’s castle is a dark, inhospitable tomb of black stone. Despite the fires burning in every hearth, the rooms are always freezing, the floors and walls persistently damp.
The Morozovas, Ulanovas, Drakenstroms, and other mourners gather in a saturnine assembly, holding their goblets of untouched wine and speaking in hushed tones.
Candles flicker within the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ballroom ceiling and Ariadne finds herself gazing up at them, ignoring the persisting stares that creep across her skin.
A shoulder brushes against hers, and her heart nearly stops at the sight of Tatiana Nicolo glancing at her, her face unreadable, before turning to walk away. Clenching her jaw, Ariadne follows her out into the hallway.
“What is it you wish to say to me?” Ariadne asks.
Tatiana turns to look back at her, her eyebrows raising in surprise.
“Spit it out!” Ariadne attempts malice, but she sounds pitiful even to her own ears. “Tell me so we might get on with our lives.”
Tatiana shakes her head with revulsion. “I never wished to speak to you again after what you did. Neither do I relish the sight of you, but I haven’t a quarrel to pick. Perhaps it is your own guilt that’s left you paranoid.”
Ariadne blinks at her, recalling every time Tatiana had stared pointedly at her, her gaze penetrating and accusatory.
“My, you have unraveled,” Tatiana observes, her voice shrill. “I suppose for your true friends, you are capable of remorse.”
Ariadne flinches. “I was a wreck after... I couldn’t eat… I hadn’t the strength to leave my bed-”
“Neither did my sister,” Tatiana hisses. “She lost years.”
“When she woke, all she did was beg for my forgiveness for what your family compelled her to do. You should reserve your resentful stares for them, not I,” Ariadne says, then forces out. “All I did was to defend myself.”
At that, Tatiana looks away, showing the first trace of shame, that then turns back into resentment. “It was a gross retaliation. Your power was thrice what my sister had at her disposal and the moment you had the chance to unleash it; you did not hesitate.”
“I was a child,” Ariadne says, as Iona constantly reminds her.
“You think healing her absolves you of your crime?” Tatiana asks.
“I am only glad you are not Morgan’s champion, as everyone wrongfully assumed you’d be.
You’re not a killer, but worse. A torturer.
Not worthy of power. Not worthy of anything.
My sister, childlike as she still remains, should not be the metric by which you measure your redemption.
The illusions you must have crafted… to shatter a child’s mind… ”
Tatiana turns her head away in disgust, and Ariadne clenches her fists until her nails cut into the skin of her palms.
“You will forever be a monster,” Tatiana spits. “Any pain you’ve endured is deserved many times over for what you’ve done.”
With that Tatiana does not spare her a second glance as she leaves, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away her silent tears.
Ariadne envies her the luxury of weeping and of leaving, for she can do neither.
She must return to the ballroom, to the ever-present stares, and pretend, as she always does, that she is fine.
Making herself numb, she does just that. She plays her part, for the sake of Euphemia’s family most of all, and barely remembers how she makes it from the hallway to the banquet table where an array of untouched fruit, cheeses, meats, and cakes have been laid out.
“Ari,” Iona whispers.
Her posture straightens as her vision refocuses. “Hmm?”
“I… I could make you a plate,” Iona says softly. “If you’d like, I could-”
“No,” Ariadne shakes her head.
Iona bites her lip, then says, “But you’ve not eaten in days.”
Ariadne’s brow furrows. She intends to contradict her but cannot recall her last meal. She’s been too distracted by her grief and doubts she could keep down much more than water.
“You needn’t trouble yourself,” Ariadne says instead, not wishing to burden her or explain her state of mind.
Such attentiveness, such kindness is offensive to her when she could never deserve it.
Not after all she’s done and all she’s failed to do.
She could never deserve anything good or decent or gentle or-
“It is no trouble,” Iona says softly. “I could conjure you something instead, if you’d prefer-”
“Iona.” Her restraint snaps like a taut rope put under too much strain. “I do not need you telling me when to eat. You are not my mother, as I recall. Stop acting like it.”
Iona pulls away, stung on the quick, her bloodshot hazel eyes widening.
Ariadne’s regret is immediate. “I didn’t-”
“Very well. Forget I asked.” Iona steps away and as she goes, she takes a glass of wine from one of the banquet tables, downing its contents in one gulp.
Iona, Ariadne calls, trying to follow her, but she disappears into the crowd without looking back.
Not wanting to leave things as they are without properly apologizing, Ariadne follows, weaving through the dense crowd of mournful faces.
A hand brushes down her spine, and she flinches away, any warmth left within her turning to ice. She shivers but refuses to be distracted. Pressing forward, she searches for any glimpse of red hair, but there is only an endless sea of black silk.
Another hand touches her shoulder, and she grows faint, almost collapsing onto the marble floor.
She swears she can hear the whisper of a mocking laugh and turns in the direction of the sound, only to trip on her feet when someone shoves her quite hard.
She loses her balance and would have fallen on her face if she hadn’t been clinging to her staff, but when she looks back, no one is there.
Aster looks about too, trying to identify their attacker.
“Iona?” Ariadne calls, then flinches when another ghostly hand traces a line across her shoulders.
She stumbles, her thoughts all scattered, then makes it through the crowd only to find Iona slumped in a chair by the fire with a half empty bottle of wine cradled in one arm, the other propping up her head against the tufted arm of the chair.
She is positively foxed, though Ariadne has no notion of how she could have managed such a feat within mere seconds.
Rebekka sits directly across from her, tankard in hand, and similarly inebriated.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notes Ksenia brooding in the corner, her exhaustion somehow even more pronounced than when Ariadne had last seen her. Before she can think too much of it, Rebekka’s booming voice breaks the silence.
“To Euphemia.” Rebekka lifts her tankard high. “A truer friend could never be found. A gentler soul has never before walked this earth. May she find peace in the next realm.”
“To Euphemia,” Iona mumbles, and struggles to lift her bottle and bring it her lips. She drinks deeply, a stray drop of red dripping down her chin.
Approaching them, Ariadne says. “I called for you.”
Iona lowers her bottle and squints up from beneath her long red lashes. “No.”
“Yes, I did.” Ariadne strains to keep her voice level. “Did you not hear me?”
“Clearly not.” Iona frowns.
“Neither did I,” Rebekka says.
“I did not ask you,” Ariadne snaps.
Rebekka’s eyebrows shoot up. “Come now, Ari. There’s no need for animosity. Let us celebrate Euphemia’s life together. It’s what she would have wanted.”
For a moment, she truly considers it, until the back of her neck prickles with the distinct feeling of eyes trained on her.
She dares to look and finds her mother watching with a sour expression.
She hasn’t said a word since their argument on the balcony, and Ariadne is most grateful for it, though her silence is as much a cry for Ariadne’s attention as any of her screams.
Cintia stands beside Olesya Ulanova and leans in to whisper something into her ear, which compels Olesya to laugh.
It’s a most offensive sound, entirely unwelcome on such an occasion as this, and it serves to break what is left of Ariadne’s spirit. Her vision blurs with unwanted tears that she tries to blink away.
Numb to everything again, she quietly makes her way to a pianoforte nestled in a dark corner by a tall window and props her staff against the wall. As she takes her seat and rests her fingers lightly over the keys, Olesya crosses the room to where Iona and Rebekka are drinking their troubles away.
“Might I join you?” Olesya asks. “I thought-”