princess marija von bargau had seen enough of the inside of the vatican for one day. having decided to take herself on a small adventure, she ventured out into florence, smiling at passersby, paying no mind to if they knew to bow or not. after all, how could they? the only sign of her status she displayed was the escort following behind her and her garments - and those were most certainly a good sign of her wealth. she never did fail to dress in the latest fashions, taking pride in her wardrobe, not unlike a peacock showing of his feathers.
having found a pleasant vantage point of the city, she lounged against the cool stone wall which reached nearly up to her shoulders. that stone was the only cool thing in the city. she was certain of it. her emerald eyes watched the people milling about and she imagined them as little ants. a little smile tugged at her lips as she watched some shouting children playing in the cobblestone street.
she stood, fanning herself and perked up at hearing some approaching footfalls. “i don’t know how they do it here,” she breathed out. “i do fear i’ll be struck down by this heat before nightfall…look, my cheeks flush!” she turned to look over her shoulder at her new companion, pale hand reaching up to her face. the redhead never could reject good conversation, even with a stranger. certainly, the wine she had been enjoying was not helping to diminish the rosy color of her cheeks. “and no sea, only a small river. a remarkable tragedy!”
the florentine landscape is a welcome change of scenery for alice. despite being of a melancholy disposition, she is partial to the summer season, and she never sees sunshine like this in england. it’s special, and it’s what brings her on her walk today, accompanied by two ladies. she dresses in clothes that are relatively simple, but made of high quality materials, apparent in the detailed stitching present in her garments. she is on par with her companions, preferring to keep her status hidden, if she can. she is well known in england a daughter born of murder and witchcraft, illegitimate. in florence, alice is afforded a level of anonymity that she appreciates thoroughly. she feels less burdened by the whispers that fly around the english court with every step she takes through the city, allowing herself to simply feel the sun on her face.
of course, florence comes with its own set of rumours. it is inevitable, considering . . . but alice is on her walk. it is not the time to think of her mother or the french king or any scheming in which alice is a pawn.
now, conversation is not alice’s strong suit. when the woman whose face she knows but cannot put a name to speaks, she is silent momentarily as she attempts to conjure any response. “ i find the heat has restorative properties, in small amounts, myself. ” a beat passes. “ perhaps a drink of water would do you well now, if a trip to the sea is not possible. ”