“Ariana, please don’t mix your food. It is not lady-like,” her father chided. Ariana put her fork down without opening her eyes and rubbed the other temple with her now-free hand.
“Are you unwell, Lady Gray?” Lord Telemund’s concern sounded forced.
“She’s fine,” her father assured the youth quickly. “She’s just careful to not overindulge. I have impressed upon her the importance of maintaining a healthy weight. She takes it too far sometimes and becomes lightheaded.”
“To be sure, I cannot fault that.” The simpering youth laughed. “Abstinence is becoming in women.”
Ariana would’ve been annoyed with the men’s comments about her weight, if she could think over the pounding of her temples and the rolling waves of nausea pushing their way up her throat. The pressure from inside bore down upon her rail-thin frame with such force she bowed low with it.
“Posture, Ariana,” her father said over half-chewed chicken.
She tried to straighten, shaking with the effort, rubbing her temples with both hands rhythmically. It did very little to lessen the ache behind her eyes. The pressure in her head was so bad it made her ears ache. Tears sat just inside her closed lids.
“Ariana, put your hands down and eat something.”
“Father, I’m sorry, but I’m worried I may be sick if I try.” Bile stung her throat.
“Nonsense. You only feel sick with hunger. Now, do as I say.” The cold abruptness in his voice stifled any argument she intended to make.
Ariana dropped her hands from her temples. Her vision danced with gossamer rainbow lights; the way it always did before a spell hit. The pain was so intense she couldn’t feel anxious that she was about to ruin the beautiful dinner Ruth cooked for them. She didn’t know how it would be ruined, but she knew the signs and this spell was sure to be a big one.
Even though she knew it was fruitless to fight it, she tried pushing the pain, the dizzying lights and the headache away. She picked up her fork with a shaking hand, stabbed a small piece of chicken and placed it on her dry tongue. A rush of stomach acid rose in protest. She forced herself to chew, trembling with the effort it took to not be sick.
“She really looks quite unwell, Lord Grey. Can we not call for a soothing tea?” His voice squeaked in barely concealed disgust.
It sounded as though the young lordling didn’t want his dinner splattered in sick. That thought made Ariana laugh. The chicken fell, barely chewed, from her mouth with the short, amused “ha.” Her eyes widened in panic as she realized the chicken was far from the last thing to fall from her mouth and onto the dinner table.
She spewed with force—bathing the chicken, peas, mashed yams, silver cutlery, wine, and oak tabletop in the strangest substance to ever come out of a young lady. It was not vomit, but glittering, vivid colors. Enchanting rainbows shot from her mouth, coating the laden table in majestic, arching bows of light.
Lord Telemund recoiled, his cracked lips parted in horror, his muddy eyes wide in fear. His screams resounded down the hall as he made a hasty departure, not excusing himself from the table.
Ariana closed her mouth and sighed in relief; the tortuous pressure finally relieved. Her body felt weightless and free of pain. She smiled in satisfaction, until she saw her father’s livid, red face.
“To. Bed. Now.” Each word fell, heavy, from his mouth.
Ariana didn’t wait for his volcano of rage to erupt. She shot from her seat and raced down the hall, up the walnut staircase and into the safety of her room. She threw herself onto her velvet burgundy bedspread, her chin trembling. She pulled the gold brocade curtains around her bed and shuffled into the recently tucked linens. Annabeth wouldn’t have to make the bed again today. There was no question of her father letting her out of her room for the rest of the night.
Tears fell from her eyes in earnest. She let them slide down her face. Every tear that fell felt like the rainbows that’d poured from her mouth at dinner—liberating. They eased her anxiety and dropped her into a heavy sleep.
She didn’t notice how the tears sparkled, unnaturally silver, gathering in glimmering puddles at the sides of her face. She was asleep before she could see the sparking puddles merge over her crown of raven hair. The tears swayed then spun into the air and, with a little pop, thunked down onto the bed next to Ariana’s sleeping face. They didn’t form a shapeless puddle, but a shining silver compass.
Ariana’s world rocked back and forth, as if she were sailing on calm, gently rolling waters. Only, when she sat up, she couldn’t see water, couldn’t see anything. A dense heavy blanket of white fog settled over everything.
The dank moisture dampened her hair, her nightgown and her face. Sheets of cold mist coated her face. She shivered. The swaying of the vessel made it hard to find her feet. When she finally found purchase, she stood, wobbly legged. She staggered in a side to side motion, very slowly, down what she guessed was a ship’s deck. She flailed her arms, attempting to locate a rail or something to follow. She prayed she didn’t trip and fall into deep, frigid water.
It was scary even though she knew she was dreaming. She had the same dream every night for the last year. Every time she closed her eyes she woke on the gently rocking vessel, stumbling to find her way through the dense fog. She always stumbled into the same pole, smacking her forehead so that it throbbed. Every night she felt along the smooth surface of the wooden pole until her fingers met the billowing cotton fabric of a sail. And every night the fog would clear, revealing a glowing, silver-haired woman who never turned around.
Though Ariana knew it was fruitless, knew that she would not be answered by the glimmering moonlit woman, she asked the same question. “Hello?! Who are you?”
The question was simple enough, but every time Ariana asked it, she felt its importance. Deep down, she knew if the woman answered her, her life would make so much more sense. The woman never turned around. She only ever lifted a long finger for silence or patience, then Ariana would float off into a real dream.
Ariana waited for the finger, then froze when the willowy woman turned. Ariana’s heart thumped like a drum against her ribcage. In the quiet nothingness of the fog, she could hear it. Her breath caught in her throat as the most familiar face turned to greet her. Hers was an unearthly visage, pale and sharp, but the color of her eyes was an exact replica of Ariana’s—a blue so light they almost blended with the whites of her eyes. Her mouth was the same heart-shaped pout as her daughter’s.
“Mama?” Ariana heard the trepidation in her voice, saw the joy in the beautiful woman’s twin irises.
“Almost, Ari. Very soon,” she replied. She waved a hand in a gentle shooing motion.
Ariana reached out to the woman, but the wispy figure disappeared, as did the fog and the ship below her. Her heart cried out, knowing, when she woke, she would forget the dream.
When Ariana woke, complete darkness enveloped her. At first, she was too disoriented to place herself. Then she remembered dinner, rainbows spewing out her mouth. She recalled escaping to her room and falling asleep long before she would normally do so. Her heartbeat settled a little. She sat up, groped blindingly about and thrust open the curtains hanging around her bed.
The moon was full and bright and lit her room enough for her to see the dim outlines of her room. She lay back on her pillow, her stomach gurgling loudly. She wished her spell hadn’t come at dinner, but she had very little control over when they happened. They were growing stronger and more frequent than when they first began. At first, her father could pass them off as colds. She wondered what he’d tell Lord Telemund to keep him from blabbing. This one would certainly not be passed off as trifling sickness.
For a little while, the big fits only happened when she expressed strong emotions. Because of that, she’d been learning to tame her emotions a little bit. Lately, though, her spells were not fooled by her calm exterior. They came on hard and fast when even the smallest bit of anxiety flooded her. Unfortunately, she was under more stress than
she’d ever been, thanks to her father’s insistence that she be married off to “a rich Lord, Duke or Count” within the year.
The moon glinted off something shiny and hard to the right of her left ear. She sat up, fumbled for the object and picked it up. She turned it over in her hand. It was cold. It was made of glass and some sort of metal, she thought, though it was hard to see in the dimly lit interior of her covered bed. She opened her bed curtains wider, then held the object towards the moonbeam falling from the window just above her four-poster. She gasped.
It was silver! She was sure of it. A silver necklace or locket of some kind. Had someone left her a gift when she slept? But who could afford to give her a gift like this, and why would they? Her father could afford it, but he would never again give her a gift, after tonight’s spell.
She jumped down from her bed and positioned herself better in the moonlight. The silver edges of the necklace sparkled in the moonbeams. In the middle of the necklace hung a glass-covered face of a very simple compass. It had only one letter printed on it, the letter “N.” North, obviously. The needle in the middle pointed directly at the “N,” though Ariana could swear it actually pointed West.
She frowned at the compass. Where had it come from? And why would anyone leave it for her? She wasn’t even allowed to go to the market without Ruthie or Annabeth as an escort. Why would she ever need a compass in her new role as wife? Men were the ones who got to go on adventures. Wives stayed home and wrung their hands in worry over their menfolk. Or, at least, that’s how it worked in the dull books Ruthie used to read her.
Lately, her father insisted Ruthie replace the insipid books with even duller non-fictions about caring for silver properly, hosting parties, and organizing seating charts for large parties. She never thought she’d beg for the insipid romances, but every time the cook opened A Wife’s Guide to Good Etiquette by Lenard Franco she did. She often fantasized about running into Mr. Franco and smacking him across the face with the thick, boring tome. Ruthie never said as much, but Ariana had a strong suspicion Ruthie felt the same way.
Even so, as she turned the glittering compass in her hands, she couldn’t help but think of the sort of adventure she would need a compass for: a safari, a sailing expedition, a hike in the mountains of Teeran. She closed her eyes and let her mind take her to those places in turn.
A safari. The golden plains of grass stretched endlessly before her. The sun’s intense heat scorched the back of her neck as she raised a looking glass to her eye and spied a pair of giraffes—graceful even in their disproportions. The beating sun was so hot behind her neck, she turned up the cuff of her imaginary collar to keep it from burning her pale skin.
Suddenly, she was at the wheel of a massive ship, the wind throwing her loose hair back from her face. Misty sprays of salt water slapped the side of her vessel and splashed into her face. Never had her imagination felt so real. Ariana swore her face really was wetted by salt water. She poked her tongue from her mouth, ran it along her bottom lip, and tasted salt!
She swiped her hand over her cheek and stared at the damp patch of moisture in disbelief. Until she remembered she’d been crying when she fell asleep. Of course, her face was salty and wet. But that had been a while ago…
She was just closing her eyes, readying to hike the chilled heights of Mount Crystal in Teeran when a quick knock sounded only on the door. Ruth didn’t wait to be told to come in. None of the servants did; they didn’t fear her like they feared her father, no matter how strange her spells were. She liked that about them. She didn’t want to be feared.
Ruth’s red hair was specked in gray above her temples. She had a soft, sweet face that aged well. She couldn’t be much older, if any, than Ariana’s father. Her hands were full, so Ariana hopped down from her bed and opened the door.
At first, she thought Ruth was here on her father’s behest, to detail the wrongs done to dinner from her spell. But as soon as Ruth pushed her way past the door with a “Thank you, Miss Ari,” the smell of rich chocolate filled the air. Ariana’s stomach groaned in response.
Ruth chuckled. “That’s what I was figurin’, miss. Ya didn’ get one bite down that whole meal with that unattractive young Lord starin’ down his long nose at ya. I tried to warn my Lord, but he wouldn’ hear it. I told him ya looked too pale, but...well, no matter. Ya didna’ want that young man’s attention anyway, did ya, lass?”
Ariana smiled at the cook. “Heavens no. He didn’t want me, either, though, even before the spell.”
Ruth nodded. “I think yer probably right, lass, but that’s not sayin’ nothin’ bad about ya. Yer still a child. Ya don’ have the same...attractions as an older lady might.” Ruth blushed a little.
Ariana looked down at her rail flat body. “So, why do they come, then? I don’t want them to, and most don’t want to be there. It all seems such a waste.”
Waste made her remember the rainbows that ruined Ruth’s hard work, and her heart dropped. “Not to mention all the food that I ruined. Sorry about that, Ruthie. I did try to stop it. I...I wish I knew what was wrong with me.”
Her heart always felt lighter after talking to Ruthie. Ariana was clearly different from other people, but Ruthie never treated her like she was. But these spells were strange, and strange was a bad thing to be in her small section of the world. If Lord Telemund blabbed...well, he was the end of list of people growing shorter by the day who would marry the weird Grey girl. That didn’t bother her, but her father grew increasingly nasty and sullen towards her.
Ruth waved the apology off. “There’s nothin’ wrong with ya, lass. Yer breathin’ and talkin’, aren’t ya? Ya can’t stop the spells, whatever they are. It’s plain as daylight ya can’t. Well, plain to most, anyway.” Ariana heard the criticism of her father in Ruth’s words, and worried for the cook. She looked over Ruth’s shoulder at the closed door.
Ruth followed her eyes and smiled. “He’s not in. That’s why I figure it’s safe to sneak ya some of this. It’s the only thing that wasn’t on the table when ya tossed them rainbows.” She tried not to smile, but failed. “What I wouldn’t have given to see that stuffy young man’s face! I do wonder what kind of magic yer mother had in her, youngin’. Heavens knows ya don’ get it from yer father.”
Ariana smirked. “Lord Telemund looked very disgusted by it.”
She ignored Ruthie’s comments about her mother. Ruthie was the only one who ever mentioned the mother Ariana never met, and she was the only one who ever spoke of magic. Ruthie thought what was happening to Ariana was not of this world. Ariana had a hard time believing that, but she had an equally hard time disputing it.
The rainbow vomiting spell was not the first weird fit, though it was the strangest. On one occasion, her chair had shot backward out of the room with her on it. Another time, it began raining directly over her suitor’s head. The time before this one, Ariana’s face, hands and legs started inflating like hot air balloons. They’d deflated the moment the suitor took his leave.
Her father had an explanation for them all: Ariana had pushed herself away from the table with force. The roof had a leak. Ariana was reacting to shellfish. But she didn’t have allergies to shellfish. It wasn’t raining on the day the shower drenched Lord Barth. She’d never moved the day her chair shot out of the room. She remembered thinking longingly of Ruth alone in the kitchen, no worries for suitors she didn’t want, and she’d suddenly shot backwards into the kitchen.
Ariana didn’t want to talk about her spells or her absent mother, however. Her stomach growled over the smell of chocolate. “What do you have there, Ruthie?”
Ruth smiled widely, showing perfectly even teeth and dimples. Ariana thought Ruthie was one of the prettiest women she knew.
“This,” Ruth said with a flourish, holding up a large piece of dense chocolate cake. She’d been disguising it by her side all the while, so Ariana couldn’t see how massive it was. It was almost as big as Ariana’s head.
“Ruthie! You’ll be
in trouble if he finds out,” she said. But her protests were fairly unconvincing, as she held out her hands to take the cake during the protest.
Ruth only pursed her lips. “Don’cha worry about me, lass. I will be just fine. Your Lord father loves my cooking.”
Ariana took the plate onto her lap and scooped a forkful of cake into her mouth. It was sweet, buttery, rich and melt-in-the-mouth moist. After swallowing the mouthful, she muttered, “That’s because you’re the best.”
Ruth’s smile was sad. “Miss Ariana?”
Ariana “hmmmed” over the mouthful of cake. Ruth’s eyes were wary. She swallowed hard before saying, “Your Lord father went to speak to a man after dinner. Do you remember Count Repugian?”
Ariana swallowed a too large piece of cake. It stuck in her throat, so she could not answer right away. She pictured a looming figure of a man, a man who visited her father just after her thirteenth birthday. She remembered her father being surprised by the visit. He hadn’t received a card nor offered an invitation to the rich Count.
Strangely, her father seemed put out by the intrusion. On the surface, he was polite, of course. He was never rude to men with better titles than he. He’d asked the Count to sit in his study with him and take a hot cup of tea.
She watched from the top of the staircase as the Count was led in. It was the night after her thirteenth birthday. It was September, and it had been raining heavily. The Count’s cape was drenched. He’d handed the cape to Annabeth, whose white blouse and apron were immediately drenched through. Ariana remembered the way the Count’s black eyes lingered greedily on Annabeth’s wet clothing. His expression was animal and frightening. It made the hairs on her arms stand in protest. Annabeth hurried from the room as fast as her short legs could carry her.
Annabeth passed by Ariana in the hall after putting the Count’s cloak to warm in front of the drawing room fire. She folded her arms in front of her chest as if protecting herself, and, in quite a different manner from which she usually addressed Ariana said, “Go to your room. Don’t let that man see you.”
Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4) Page 57
