by Beth Byers
Mr. Weatherby grinned at Echo a little like a happy leprechaun, for all his height and bulk. “In the end, whatever the reason, the answer to what this means is rather obvious. The house is yours. The magic has chosen its mistress. You’d eventually have heard from us once we were able to find you. I fear the break was rather distinct between your line and the main line.”
“The house is hers?” Circe did not successfully hide the flash of jealousy in her tone. “This one too?”
Weatherby glanced at Circe and then back to Ariadne. “Yes. Clearly. The house has made its intentions clear. I fear my firm is more about the details of the normal world. As much as our kind might want to object, it can’t be done. My people and I are just here to make it simple for you as far as paperwork and management and whatnots. The magic is where it really lies.”
Ariadne pressed her hand against her forehead. It was hard to even process what had happened this morning. She’d wanted merely to meet a long-lost cousin and find out where their dead had been laid to rest. She looked at Cassiopeia, who was watching with wide eyes. Medea was still behind Ariadne, but she could tell from the feel of Medea’s grip that her fear was fading.
It was Medea who whispered, “Does that mean we don’t have to go back home?”
Ariadne turned and saw the shiver of fear cross Medea’s skin. Her voice was low and cracked with the fear. Home was no longer safe for them in Medea’s mind. No matter the results of the forgetting spell, the littlest Wode would prefer not to return to Nighton.
“Miss Wode?” Weatherby asked. “May we take some time? I know this is rather sudden and unexpected. There are other formalities.”
“We thought we’d meet some British cousins and perhaps visit the graves of our kin,” Cassiopeia told Weatherby in a piping voice. “Ariadne said that they might not be pleased to see us since the first of the American Wodes left in a fury. Mama told Ari that our ancestor would never say why he was so angry, only that the breach had been deep.”
Hugo Weatherby nodded and winked at Cassiopeia. The six-year-old grinned happily at him. “There’s something special about families, isn’t there? We’re quite good at getting under each other’s skin.”
Cassie glanced wickedly at her older sisters and said, “Especially Ariadne and Circe.”
Ariadne rubbed her eyebrow to hide the twitching. Her mind was darting about, knowing that the house recognizing her meant more than a house. Another set of wards to cultivate, another set of spells to guardian. It meant that Ariadne could let one of her sisters guard the Wode house in America, but Ariadne didn’t trust her sisters—especially Circe—to be a true warden of what Ariadne had already accepted. Beatrix could also take on the burden of the Wode homestead, but Ariadne loved her home.
Mr. Weatherby cleared his throat to gather her attention. “There is much more than the house, my dear.”
“Ariadne,” Ariadne snapped, annoyed at the trite form of address, and then felt instantly guilty. It wasn’t his fault that she was feeling the burden of the spells push against her. “Ariadne, please. I’m sorry. The house is weighty. I need— I need to breathe.”
“Ah, of course, apologies.”
Ariadne nodded and lied a smile that her head wasn’t aching and she wasn’t quaking to her soul. Witch homes, the kinds that were passed down through the ages, were layered in wards and spells. They became almost sentient and the house seemed to be pelting Ariadne’s instincts with everything that needed to be renewed at once. It would take her and her sisters months upon months to quiet the house again. Her head was splitting, and her magic was being drawn towards the loudest of the wards as though the house was pulling her magic from her. “Please explain.”
Hugo Weatherby gestured towards the parlor and they stepped into it. A fire snapped to life at Ariadne’s glance. She flinched, and he laughed. “The spells woven into this house are powerful.”
“I can see that,” Ariadne said, “and feel it.” The house quivered in Ariadne’s head. She needed it to be dulled down in order to be effective.
“The house, all its contents, the funds that have been left in trust, quite a large country house in the Vale of Mowbray. If you weren’t before, my dear, you’re quite well off. The family of the Wodes had died down a bit, but the properties have not. They were never afraid to get their hands dirty with hard work, and it’s reflected in their accounts.”
Ariadne’s hand was shaking still from the rush of magic that had knocked through her. It took her too long to answer and Circe huffed.
“We’re not poor,” Circe said. “Or Ariadne isn’t.”
“You aren’t either,” Ariadne told her sister flatly. She dropped onto a seat, waiting for a cloud of dust that didn’t puff up. She was grateful it didn’t, but it wasn’t what it should have been. The magic must have been needing maintenance for years before the last of the English Wodes died. Ariadne pressed her fingers to her temple and ignored everyone as she reached out with her mind. Please, give me a few minutes.
She wasn’t unheard and the clamor faded. She took in a deep breath and looked up.
“Your eyes are glowing,” Echo told Ariadne. “Are you well?”
“No,” Ariadne admitted. “Please, Weatherby, get on with it.”
He cleared his throat and handed her a scroll that looked ancient. “Your thumbprint with blood, please, my dear.”
She wondered for a moment if she could trust him. She started to comply and then took the scroll. “I want to read it and think outside the clamor of the house.”
“Nara,” Weatherby said. “The previous Miss Wode said the house was named Nara.”
Ariadne nodded, feeling the house perk at its name. She rose and stepped outside and took in a deep breath. She had to go all the way to the gate and across the street before she could hear her own thoughts.
Echo followed while the little girls and Circe stayed inside of Nara.
“Are you all right?”
Ariadne shook her head. “I’m scattered to the wind, Echo. I feel like my magic was assaulted and drained. I’m baffled. I had hoped to maybe see where our kin had lived and ask about the graves. This house—it makes Wode house feel like a cottage in the woods. The spells are centuries and centuries old. It’s painful. I can’t think. I’m not even sure I wanted to accept the house, but I did it. I did it without thinking or considering what all this meant.”
Echo tucked her arm through Ariadne’s. “Why don’t we go back to the hotel? You can lie down with some aspirin and we can reassess. I’ll get rid of Weatherby and gag Circe, and we’ll be good to go. Look,” Echo said, nodding down the street, “the cabbie’s back. You go wait.”
Echo crossed the street while Ariadne made her way to the auto and took a seat.
“You all right?” the cabbie asked.
She nodded.
“You gonna sick up, lady? Don’t do it in the auto.”
She took in a slow breath and kept her eyes closed. “I won’t sick up.”
He muttered under his breath. Medea crawled into the auto and onto Ariadne’s lap. Her little fingers touched Ariadne’s temples, and her little sister rubbed slowly. Cassiopeia was next. She was a bouncier child, but she’d heard Echo’s warning and curled into Ariadne’s side, weaving their fingers together.
Circe waited until Echo got into the auto and took the other window seat. They were crammed in the back and Ariadne kept her eyes closed and refused to listen to the byplay between the sisters and Weatherby before they pulled away from the house.
Ariadne almost staggered inside of the hotel when they returned and Echo had to help her along. Collapsing onto the bed, Ariadne closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She looked up to see Cassie tracing peaceful runes about the bed while Medea joined Ariadne.
Chapter 9
MAY 1922. LONDON, ENGLAND
ARIADNE EUDORA WISTERIA WODE
“Why is it always her?”
Circe’s voice drilled into Ariadne’s brain, and she slowly woke. Medea wa
s curled into angelic sleep while Ariadne returned to an unwilling awareness. She glanced outside and the early afternoon light had faded to evening with the darkness of the night just starting to layer over the city.
“She’s the oldest.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Life isn’t fair,” Echo snapped. It sounded as though they’d been arguing for a while because Echo’s normally limitless patience seemed to have dried up. “It’s not fair that we’re even here. But whose fault is that?”
“Not just mine!” Circe cried. “Ariadne was the one who was working with Blind Billy. Better Lindsey than that animal. Lindsey told me about the guns and the risk that Ariadne put you in.”
“Really? Did he forget the part where Ariadne left me someplace safe and he grabbed me and dragged me in? Did he forget to tell you about the low chuckle he let out when Blind Billy put a gun to Ariadne’s forehead? Did you forget the sight of your sweet Lindsey lighting a cross in our front lawn? Because maybe you need to sleep with Medea tonight instead of Ariadne.”
Circe’s reply was a broken cry and what was certainly a dramatic exit. Ariadne sighed. Why was it always her? Why did she have to be the one who made the hard choices? Who paid the bills? Who hunted ways to make money and made sure they ate and that the little girls had shoes and clothes? Why was it Ariadne who was the one who taught Medea and Cassiopeia the basics of magic and how to read?
Circe was the most blind, spoiled, inconvenient brat. Ariadne told herself to stow away all the rage and went to the bath. She started a hot bath with oils and salts and let herself slide into the water and soak. She was half-cooked in minutes, but not nearly enough time passed before Circe was pounding on the bath door and demanding they go to Mrs. Langford’s party.
Ariadne groaned silently, shaking her head against Circe’s demands.
“You promised!”
“She doesn’t feel well,” Echo shouted at Circe. “Leave her be.”
“She promised. She slept the afternoon away. Put on some rouge and a dress!”
Ariadne wanted nothing more than to go back to her bed with a cup of hot cocoa and her journal to work out her thoughts and what to do about the English inheritance. She had an appointment soon with Hugo Weatherby and she needed to read the documents he’d given Echo while Ariadne was recovering from the magical assault on her senses.
Instead, Ariadne pulled the plug from the bath and dried herself off. “I’ll need a few minutes.”
“Hurry up!” Circe snapped. “It’s rude to be late.”
Ariadne didn’t reply as she rubbed the towel over her face and met her own gaze in the mirror. Bloodshot black eyes, too pale skin, lips that had lost their natural color. She looked a ghost version of herself, but Circe wouldn’t care as long as she looked all right. Circe might even prefer Ariadne to look particularly woeful.
Ariadne returned to her bedroom where Medea had sat up and was sitting silently.
“You all right, baby?”
Medea nodded as she played with her braid. Her eyes said, however, that she was not all right.
“You’ll be safe with Faith and Cass. I’ll have Faith order up cocoa after dinner? She can read to you a little more of The Secret Garden?”
Medea nodded silently and Ariadne felt another stab of stress-induced pain in her head. When would Medea return to the girl she was before the KKK had been burning crosses on her lawn? Could Ariadne be failing her mother more spectacularly? Ariadne had promised to raise and love Medea in the way that she had been raised. When had Ariadne been terrified of everything? Never.
Ariadne took the dress that she’d last worn with the gun held to her forehead and dropped it over her body. It was black, beaded, and still too revealing for her usual taste. It also smelled of Circe’s cloying perfume. Ariadne groaned and sniffed herself again. Yes, Circe had definitely been wearing Ariadne’s dress.
She could easily wager that it had looked better as Circe’s bust was larger. On Ariadne, the dress featured how little cleavage she had. On Circe, it would have been…scandalous. Perhaps, however, if people were distracted by Ariadne’s smaller chest, they wouldn’t realize she looked as though she were fighting a case of the black plague?
Ariadne dropped her pentacle necklace back over her head. She didn’t bother with more than drawing in her brows and using the same raspberry-colored rouge on her cheeks and lips. She slipped on red shoes to match her lips and then wrapped a long strand of jet black beads around her neck. She’d been saving for pearls, but the trip to England had drained her pearl money.
Ariadne joined her sisters in the main room off of the bedrooms. Their suite had a parlor with a table for eating and three bedrooms off of it. Ariadne had a room to herself but Medea crawled into the bed nearly every night. Echo and Circe shared and the little girls shared with Faith.
Each of the three oldest sisters wore a black dress. Circe’s was covered with a glittery beading and silver thread so she sparkled in low light. Echo’s was black with black embroidery and a black shawl about her shoulders. The three sisters glanced each other over and none of them bothered to compliment the other. It was all they could do to not break into another squabble.
Ariadne followed her younger two sisters to the lift and then to the lobby where Circe had—shockingly—arranged for an auto to take them to Mrs. Langford’s home. So far they’d been to a dinner, a play, and several morning teas with the woman who had been kind enough to take them under her wing.
Mrs. Langford had gone to museums with them and had promised to throw this party so they could meet people their age. Ariadne muttered about the joy of it as she took two more aspirin.
Slowly, as the auto wove through the streets, her headache moved from the front of her head to the back, but Ariadne closed her eyes and simply let things take her where they would. Better to lay back than fight with Circe.
How could their relationship be mended? It had been amiss for so long it was a reflex to snip at each other. Ariadne wanted to do better, but she also wanted to slap Circe silly. The conflicting desires had her perennially snapping her mouth closed and swallowing the rage.
When they reached Mrs. Langford’s home just outside of the city, full dark had arrived, which made the house all the more glittery with the lights and torches lining the walk. They were there for the effect, lit candles behind metal cages that sent flicking images of sprites to the walk. It looked as though fairyland had invaded Mrs. Langford’s home.
“Feels spooky,” Ariadne said, shivering. The sprites had morphed in Ariadne’s mind to something else entirely and she had to scoff at herself in the face of Circe’s condescending look. Yes, it looked like a fairyland, Ariadne thought, but it felt spooky and off. Perhaps Ariadne was just sensitive to the sight of flames flickering on the lawn.
Mrs. Langford’s daughter opened the door at Circe’s knock, and the two pressed cheeks as old friends and hooked arms. Echo and Ariadne followed the vibrant pair, feeling all the more dull for the comparison.
“We look like the sour spinsters,” Echo told Ariadne.
“You don’t,” Ariadne replied gently. “You are, as ever, lovely.”
They stepped into the hall and paused. The lights were low, but the sight was enchanting. They were a glittering throng with jazz music, cocktails, and laughter. Ari took a moment to feel her youth before her responsibilities returned to weigh her back down.
“They’re lovely,” Echo said. “They’re like a fairy dream in pinks and yellows.”
Mrs. Langford in both pink and yellow separated from the crowd accented by a welcoming wide smile and hands held out towards Ariadne. They each got a kiss in the air near their cheeks before Mrs. Langford turned a mischievous gaze on Ariadne.
Mrs. Langford squeezed her hand and whispered, “Come, my dear, I want you to meet my neighbor, Lucian Blacke. He's a good friend, and for some reason, you remind me of him. I think you’ll be friends.” The woman waggled her brows and Ariadne felt her headache start its re
turn journey from the back of her head to the front. “He and his siblings have been good friends to my children.”
Ariadne didn’t need to be told that Mrs. Langford was matchmaking. The giddy look in her eyes, the anticipation that Cupid would strike and the two would fall in love? The woman hoped for it all. Ariadne had long since accepted that she wasn’t one for an epic love story.
Her glance was not approving and Mrs. Langford giggled like a schoolgirl. “Don’t worry, my dear. He’s not married and is quite handsome. A widower with two little girls. Quite a healthy income. Old enough to not be flighty.”
Echo cast Ari a wincing look and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry,’ before she faded into the glittering throng.
Old enough not to be flighty was echoing through Ari’s head. Those were the words, Ariadne would bet her income, that had been used to describe her. Old enough not to be flighty.
Oh what a fate, Ariadne thought. It wasn’t her age that made her steady, it was her own small burdens. Love them though she might, with Cassie and Medea, Ariadne was far too weighed down to fly free and wild.
Ariadne bit back a rude sigh, desperately wishing it was Circe who was to be introduced to the old-enough-not-to-be-flighty widower.
“I think you’ll like him,” Mrs. Langford whispered a little too loudly for Ariadne’s comfort. “Even if you don’t like him. You see? One can always use new friends even if we’re left without a handsome lover.” Her wink was devilish as she tucked Ariadne’s arm through her own and held her with a steelish grip. There would be no escaping this fate.
Ariadne pasted a lie of a smile on her face and in a dozen steps turned to greet Lucian Blacke. She blinked rapidly as her senses told her that he was more than what he seemed. His gaze landed on her pentacle and then traveled back to her face. She was grateful those lovely deep green eyes weren’t lingering on her flesh even if she’d put it on display with the deep V in her dress.
When she could peer beyond the magic that flexed in his aura, she saw a tall man with dark brown hair, the pretty eyes, and the most lovely set of shoulders she’d ever appreciated. It took her a moment to move beyond his shoulders to the square jaw, high, strong cheekbones, and full lips. She had to tell herself not to let her gaze return to his shoulders, but it was ineffective.