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She selects a wide soft brush, squirts a dollop of foundation onto the back of her hand, and sets to work. Chin, cheeks, foreheads, smoothed and perfected and simple. She picks up her glasses to check in better detail, squinting through them without unfolding the legs.
She sets the brush aside to be cleaned, not by her of course, and selects again. This one pointed as a misericorde and bearing the another pale peachy shade, lighter than the foundation but not by too much, not so much you'd see it once she's done, and she strokes it slowly over the lines of the narrow scars. Those are from the flying glass. The shrapnel scars tend to be slightly sunken ovals, whatever the shape of the original hot metal. Those get a soft pat from a fatter brush to correct for the shadow they would leave on her face without correction. A fluff of powder to blend and set, and she is done.
The surface is smooth, a canvas ready for her ministrations. She is alone now, so she will paint as she likes.
She'll be wearing the green coat today, she's already decided that- something solid and bright so that the cameras will pick her up at a distance, so that the crowd will be able to make her out even at the back. She will draw the eye. The weather means that she will already be rouged by the wind, so she doesn't both with blush. Instead, she selects a shade for her eyes, a warm and subtle purple that will be just out of the range of the natural blush of her pale skin.
The room is quiet, selected especially for it- a refurbished pantry closet that happened to have a window to the east for natural light, but small enough that aides and assistants will not be able to linger one atop the other while she prepares.
She could have a professional do this-- who wouldn't be honored to call themselves the personal esthiologist, cosmetic assistant, whatever it's called now, to the august lady herself. But she does not have the poise in private that people born to her position seem to drink in from the water in these ancient houses with their rusty pipes. She could not help but smile and be sweet to a stranger in her service, and chooses not to spare the effort. She'll need the effort for other things, most days.
Another quick glance through the glasses, and it's time for lips. She tried bleaching her teeth once, and her mouth felt itchy for days, so she chose another route and now picks redder lipstick to push the contrast. Her smile for her people will be genuine, because even on her worst day she knows that she can't fake it, so she finds a thought to make her laugh and holds it for as long as she needs to. They were not kind to her in the first few months after the wedding, and her early pictures look defensive. She was untried, and the skills have come after a long hard slog. But she learned.
After the first bomb, and the short hospital stay and the first set of scars, when the epithets applied suggested more "hero" than "interloper", she took advantage of the respite to rally her forces. She studied her enemies, rested, stretched the muscles she was growing, gathered allies, and returned to the public eye with the scars as the chief weapon in her arsenal- who could call her unwelcome now, when she had bled to save their prince? Who could challenge her loyalty, when she pushed past security to grab the explosive first and throw it away from the crowds? If royalty is a matter of blood, then has she not shed her own beyond the call of a wife's duty? They forget she was a soldier first, and that the scars they see are only the ones on her face. There is a reason she does not care for backless gowns. They think this was her first time returning a grenade to its source.
The lipstick is the perfect red. She thinks of otters floating in the hostile sea holding hands to keep each other close, and smiles. Her teeth gleam. She is ready. She replaces her tools unlingeringly but without hurry, and in the mirror she looks calm, poised, prepared but not plastic. The camouflage of her status has set, and they forget again she is a soldier.
She sets the brush aside to be cleaned, not by her of course, and selects again. This one pointed as a misericorde and bearing the another pale peachy shade, lighter than the foundation but not by too much, not so much you'd see it once she's done, and she strokes it slowly over the lines of the narrow scars. Those are from the flying glass. The shrapnel scars tend to be slightly sunken ovals, whatever the shape of the original hot metal. Those get a soft pat from a fatter brush to correct for the shadow they would leave on her face without correction. A fluff of powder to blend and set, and she is done.
The surface is smooth, a canvas ready for her ministrations. She is alone now, so she will paint as she likes.
She'll be wearing the green coat today, she's already decided that- something solid and bright so that the cameras will pick her up at a distance, so that the crowd will be able to make her out even at the back. She will draw the eye. The weather means that she will already be rouged by the wind, so she doesn't both with blush. Instead, she selects a shade for her eyes, a warm and subtle purple that will be just out of the range of the natural blush of her pale skin.
The room is quiet, selected especially for it- a refurbished pantry closet that happened to have a window to the east for natural light, but small enough that aides and assistants will not be able to linger one atop the other while she prepares.
She could have a professional do this-- who wouldn't be honored to call themselves the personal esthiologist, cosmetic assistant, whatever it's called now, to the august lady herself. But she does not have the poise in private that people born to her position seem to drink in from the water in these ancient houses with their rusty pipes. She could not help but smile and be sweet to a stranger in her service, and chooses not to spare the effort. She'll need the effort for other things, most days.
Another quick glance through the glasses, and it's time for lips. She tried bleaching her teeth once, and her mouth felt itchy for days, so she chose another route and now picks redder lipstick to push the contrast. Her smile for her people will be genuine, because even on her worst day she knows that she can't fake it, so she finds a thought to make her laugh and holds it for as long as she needs to. They were not kind to her in the first few months after the wedding, and her early pictures look defensive. She was untried, and the skills have come after a long hard slog. But she learned.
After the first bomb, and the short hospital stay and the first set of scars, when the epithets applied suggested more "hero" than "interloper", she took advantage of the respite to rally her forces. She studied her enemies, rested, stretched the muscles she was growing, gathered allies, and returned to the public eye with the scars as the chief weapon in her arsenal- who could call her unwelcome now, when she had bled to save their prince? Who could challenge her loyalty, when she pushed past security to grab the explosive first and throw it away from the crowds? If royalty is a matter of blood, then has she not shed her own beyond the call of a wife's duty? They forget she was a soldier first, and that the scars they see are only the ones on her face. There is a reason she does not care for backless gowns. They think this was her first time returning a grenade to its source.
The lipstick is the perfect red. She thinks of otters floating in the hostile sea holding hands to keep each other close, and smiles. Her teeth gleam. She is ready. She replaces her tools unlingeringly but without hurry, and in the mirror she looks calm, poised, prepared but not plastic. The camouflage of her status has set, and they forget again she is a soldier.
