and she hates it. unable to read beyond the mask, she thinks he is playing a game with her, first smiling when she bumped into him, then smiling when she insulted him, extorted him, and now smiling again when he moves to uproot a society weed from the mud. it’s only the rich who can afford such gaiety no matter what ( she refuses to think of ella ). and peering up at him and his playful damnable smile – as if they were mere children romping about ! – she feels something snap off inside of her. he could not imagine the depths of her humiliation as spectators peep about them.
white hot tears and hatred (though was it as herself for causing it to begin with?) broil within her, knowing what little power she has to retaliate. how oft she had seen her own mother bite back poison in the presence of superiors. ❝ i’m quite fine, thank you, ❞ she manages at last, but her voice shakes a little as she rises, skirts heavier. ❝ pretty things don’t belong much anywhere. ❞ she says it without thinking, just to defy him a little more. but if anastasia had thought about it – she did know the truth of it now, that it was up to fate. she didn’t belong much anywhere, but she made do with her lot. ❝ . . . your majesty, ❞ she adds after, fear still mixed in tantrum.
anastasia then makes to wipe the side of her cheek with a smudged hand– but only succeeds in streaking more mud across it; she repeats the mistake again when she attempts to wipe that off. a soft shudder at the realization stops her hand at last, and she stands before him a petulant child with sludge on her knees and face. self-consciously, her eyes dart at the people around them and she thinks to run off now after a curtsy, but – the weight in her hand concerns her. she has the coins still, but she knows what she can buy with it; she can’t pry her fingers from them now.
people were a mess of complications, a hundred hypocrisies gathered and twined together. first, penitence, then stubborn rebellion course through the young woman in front of him; he suppresses whatever amusement might have flickered across his features and instead maintains the air of the chivalrous prince ( king, now--benevolent, caring, the sort that would stoop to assist even the least of his subjects ), removing a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and offering it to her.
‘ i’m not sure i’d agree with that, madam, ’ he says smoothly. ‘ i happen to have great use for pretty things. otherwise, i’d be quite useless, myself. ’
his smile holds a cool glint, oblivious to ( or perhaps thriving on ) her vitriol. he encountered no small amount of sneering from the bureaucrats in court, but her particular brand of distaste was something he rarely came across anymore. anyone could call him a boy king behind his back with a curl of their lips, or question his legitimacy to the throne. it took someone special to throw goodwill back in his face. it was too easy to antagonize people like her. he’d almost missed it.
nobody ever mentioned how lonely it was to be king. ‘come on,’ he chuckles. ‘ i’ll get you an entire score of pastries if you want. ’
