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Tim the Yeti
Genevieve had hoped for a minute to talk with Princess Lea, but quickly realized that would not be the case—the Aciran court was many times larger than the Marisian one, the receiving line more like a fast-moving river than an ambling stream. So she allowed herself to be bumped along, hoping Lea had at least recognized her attempt to bond over style before the next person chimed in.
Genevieve drifted forward, feeling strange with Christopher just out of view but hovering behind her—and feeling stranger without a particular destination in mind, no corner to duck into or group to join. She took a glass from a passing tray simply to give her hands something to do and occupied herself with skimming the growing crowd, in the unlikely hope of finding a familiar face. She might have settled for one that simply looked friendly.
Before she could decide who to approach (with a compliment about their attire to break the ice), someone beat her to the punch. She turned toward a voice she didn’t recognize—and a face she did, from all of her careful pre-trip research.
Princess Mai Mei. Daughter of a war-torn country. Cousin to the crown prince who would, as it happened, marry Princess Lea in a few short months. A young woman who dazzled in every interview, who always seemed to know exactly what to say and had never created even a whisper of scandal. She and Genevieve would almost have been of a height, if not for the considerably higher heels Mai wore. And while Genevieve felt a sweep of ready admiration for the older girl’s lush dress and flawless makeup, the first thing to sink into her gut was a cold twinge of discomfort, almost embarrassment.
Though not a bit of it showed in her pretty face and perfect bearing, Mai Mei had seen more horror in her lifetime than Genevieve could imagine. Maris had simply cut itself off from its original host country, the way some people cut toxic family members out of their lives—painful, but otherwise a mostly clean break.
Liang had torn itself apart from the inside.
That’s not something you can help, Gen told herself, not for the first time.
“Princess Mai?” she said, and despite the lilt to her tone—part question, part a natural rhythm to the Marisian accent—she had no doubt of who she was speaking to. “There’s no pardon necessary; I’m honestly flattered that you recognized me.”
At Mai's compliment, Genevieve inclined her head in thanks, lips curving into the smile that almost came second-nature to her: the one that took up the majority of her Twitter icon, that could sometimes be glimpsed beneath the brim of a downturned sun hat or beneath the shadow of ginger bangs. Playful without mocking; coy without teasing.
Outside of practicing in her mirror, she had no idea how it translated to real life—where one could not reshoot the moment as many times as needed—but Mai’s warmth made her comfortable enough to reciprocate a bit. “Thank you. I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who went a bit bold. And as for your dress…” Genevieve shook her head in honest and open admiration. “It’s easy to see why they call you the ‘Rose of Liang.’” Again, a twitch of the lips as she acknowledged the petals that drifted across Mai’s skirt. “With a name like that, it would be a shame not to lean into it.”
This isn't perfect—I made it in, like, five minutes, with limited resources— but it's an example of the kind of drastic alterations Genevieve makes to any "selfies" she posts, and the way they never show all of her face at once.
