"You're a right swine, you know that?" The Queen of Scots huffs as she fails to avoid yet another glob of makeup smeared against her cheeks. She glares at Madame Cecily with as much fury as she would give to the English forces, which is a considerable amount of anger held in a little seven year old body of pale white skin, dark curls and glowing eyes. She puffs a mouthful of air out as yet another cascade of white powder comes flying at her.
Said aforementioned Dauphin lays lazily on the Queen of Scotland's bed, one leg cocked and bent at the knee, foot placed behind his knee and red and gold doublet flowing behind him, falling off the bed in his laziness and leisure as he takes great humour in Mary getting all dolled up for Catherine's nameday celebrations. His curls are tamed by a comb, and he grins at his fiancée as she is restrained just enough to line her lips with a thick red substance that, judging by the look on her face, she did not like.
"What?" Francis laughs heartily at her expense, ignoring her fiery glare as the girl was manhandled into the very image of French beauty standards. Pale, pale skin, red lips, deep rouge and dark lines around her eyes. And, much to her annoyance, the girl was due to wear shoes with frightfully tall heels, for it made the famed Madame Serpante feel less humiliated about her clicking and clacking on the stone floors.
It's all a ploy to disguise her pathetic stature in a time where she must be seen as a force of nature, and not the tiny daughter of a merchant who finally did her marital duty. Not to mention that they made Mary taller than Francis, something that the Queen didn't fail to notice and hiss about. After all, a power to Francis is a power to Catherine, and Francis being seen as frail and smaller than his future wife was not a good sign to France or Catherine's image.
"I just cannot take you seriously under all that produits de beauté when you never wear any." He chuckles at her. "I mean, look at you, you're so just not you right now. And the look on your face, I'm never going to be able to take you seriously all night."
"How do you think it feels in this ridiculous garb?" Mary huffs, twitching when Madame Lucile pulls a bit too tight on her hair to accentuate the curls. She twists it meanly, spraying some sort of mist onto the strands, before starting the heinous process all over again.
Mary flaps her arms around as much as the chair allows her to, almost imitating a bird to show him how the odd dress has material falling from her arms and flowing down to the floor. It's a mix of purple and red, the Queen Consort of France's favourite colours, tight around her arms and waist, with big skirts that Mary for sure knows will trip her at some point. And those shoes, the silver things attached to her ankles that give her an extra five inches of height, she feels so confined and hot and uncomfortable and her face itches with the amount of power and cream and coal that's been placed onto her.
"How long do we have to stay? It won't make a good portrait if I'm half dead from the dust in my lungs." she scratches the tip of her nose, glaring as she's glared at by her makeup artist.
"Not the whole night, probably until the start of the morrow." Francis sits up on the bed. "Do you think you can get your glare in check in my mothers' direction? Last thing we want is for her to loathe you even more."
"Your Maman loathes me for breathing, she would hate me no more if I took a blade to one of her children than she does for me simply being here." Mary is finally allowed to stand, and a chain of rubies and diamonds is fastened to her slender throat, while one strand each is pushed through the holes in her ears.
"She doesn't hate you that much."
"She does. I thought she'd throw that lance at me herself two days ago at the jousts when I wiped marmalade from your mouth and gave you the last of the cherry tarts from my plate when I was bilious from too many of them."
Francis snickered. "She won't always be like that, soon Papa will give her another baby and she'll be preoccupied with her belly."
"We can only hope. She'll be on you like a hawk now that we're making proper showings. Don't put orange glaze on Sebastian's neck just when your Papa's hunting dogs come out for their show, for the love of God. Or we'll be locked in the dungeon."
Francis smirked, walking over to take the silver and amethyst crown from Amelie's hands and placed it onto her head himself. "I certainly promise to cut back." he grins. Mary giggled. "Right, come on then, Petite Riene. The faster we get this charade over, the faster we get that off your face."
"On your lead, Dauphin."
YOU ARE READING
You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
