GLORIANA

Frida Aasen

River taps his temple. “You’re finally getting the hang of it.” He pauses, wondering for a moment if it means anything that they’re both calling out his persona. “It’s in my apartment. I wanna give it to my girlfriend—if she’ll still have me.” He shrugs. “That’s how it works, right? Expensive art as relationship repair?

"perhaps," for better or worse. "i don't know if that's truly the case. if art could repair everything, then my life would be perfect, but it's far from it." some would disagree. her cousin would proclaim her as mad. the people on the streets would only see the houses and the jewels, but not how her smiles seem forced, how she looks overwhelmed and enervated, and sometimes, if they'd squint their eyes right, they'd notice just the way her hands tremble in the news clips. mona wonders if she'll ever grow out of it; just how little girls grow out of their favourite shoes and the idea that kindness would get them far in life. she sits then, twisting to the side as if to offer an indentation beside herself for him to occupy. "what are you hoping to mend? what have you done?"

“Got any more priceless art to hand out to random assholes lately?” (@covetme)

"for what it's worth, i don't think you're an asshole, though i'm certain that you'll try your best to prove me wrong," deaf to any warnings that a reasonable mind could conjure, she decides to embrace all the foolishness that he may throw at her feet just to prove a point, a silver gauntlet of defiance or a rose, bereft of petals yet with all its thorns. "but to answer your question, yes, i'm quite sure that something could be arranged. tell me, what did you do with the painting that i gave you?"

This is the part Fumiko doesn’t understand, and perhaps never will. To love someone so completely. Of course, there is no doubt in her mind that she feels a strong sense of duty toward her family, a somber sort of protectiveness, even. But to take on a lover? It all reads as white noise to her. Uncomfortable nonsense that disrupts her quiet. Her understanding of love is entirely academic—clinical theories absorbed at Kēio, where passion was reduced to textbook principles. “I don’t believe anyone should be in love, if history is any guide. Emotions tend to… destabilize things for everyone involved—by ‘everyone,’ I mean it could be two lovers or whole kingdoms.”

In a way, she understands. Performance is a necessity in the life of a del Bosque and a Shibata. Two sides of the same coin, Fumiko thinks, as she sees each del Bosque brandish their masks of being the country’s beloved stewards. They have to be seen, loved, and idolized time and again. She understands that seeing a del Bosque in a successful romantic relationship makes them lovable, too. Their culture thrives on sentiment. “How noble,” Fumiko says eventually. “You could be a Shibata, with how you play your part so perfectly.” And as if there is only the character of Monarosa, not a real human being.

That's a strange statement. His brow furrows slightly as he looks over at her. Del Bosque – obviously. He has a brain and functioning eyeballs. "Your neck fucked up?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. The stars are free, both financially and spiritually. They bring him great comfort. He doesn't understand why someone would be unable to look to them for the same. The only viable explanation, to him, is that there was some kind of injury not made public that keeps her from tilting her chin upwards to look at the stars. "They're right there, they're not going anywhere."

"no, not quite..." looking is useless. can't you see? picturesquely misunderstood, alive but robbed of the pleasure to truly live, mona knows that it would be a waste of breath to try and explain herself. he's not here for her. he's not here to listen. yet she'll give him what she gives to everyone else— herself. a tender voice, beauteous smile, and enough space right beside her. "are you fond of roses? or are you …" she switches to another thing instead, something tangible, close to her fingertips, the one thing that stands between them. "just like me, more in favor of the dahlias?"

Mélanie Thierry as Miss Padovan in The Legend of 1900 (1998)

"Stars are looking beautiful tonight, aren't they?" He's in the gardens, a glass of some fancy who-knows-what with a name he can barely pronounce in his hand. He doesn't feel like he's meant to be here, really, but the stars here are the same as the stars over the docks, which comforts him. "Not a cloud in the sky..."

"i haven't even noticed..." neither the stars nor the prominent absence of clouds, catching instead contorted glimpses of her reflection, which seems to taunt her no matter where she looks or goes. crowds still bring about bouts of nausea, but she swallows it down with the rest of her fizzy drink, offering a tender confession, with glossy gardenians and doleful dahlias as her only witnesses. "i don't know if i actually have the strenght to look up."

“To who?” Is her response, one she delivers with a faintly bemused expression. The way she sees it, the evening itself is the good impression—though Fumiko would interpret a state gala as a reminder of the island’s order rather than a ‘corralling of the nation’s best.’ A feckless presentation of her family is the least of her worries.

“Where is your… beau? Will he grace us with his presence tonight?” (@covetme)

"it's such a beautiful day... would you like to join me for yoga?"

"thank you for such a kind offer, but i must decline," she says, looking almost dejected. "i'm afraid my presence, as well as yours, would attract too much attention. "

"from this moment, the painting's yours, river. it's my gift to you." her gift and her first act of free will. "you can take it off the wall right this second or we can ship it to you, but it's yours. entirely."