>>6063460As it turns out, Rubida dell’Obertengo is many things.
She is a skilled fighter, she is a good listener, and she is a great cook.
She is also not very patient.
“Will you stay still, Candente? I have to paint with what amount to sand and coal here. At least make it easy for me, will you?”
“A-Apologies. It tickles.”
“Suffer in silence,” she replies curtly, picking up more of that sweet-smelling powder.
Rubida has denied spending more than an afterthought to the task of making you presentable for the festival, but the amount of makeup and foundation and… whatever else she has picked up over the course of these three days… betrays her focus.
A part of you would be giddy. She is clearly trying to deny this, but it seems Rubida is having the time of her life. And also… you would have wanted to experience this when you were young.
“Mother used to teach me a little, a couple times,” you mutter looking at the stranger in the mirror. She has pale skin, just like yours, covered by a faint sheen of foundation to make it smoother and healthier. And she has lost the deep bags around her eyes, her lips look redder and plumper, her eyes brighter — the icy light now more akin to a clear blue sky. You know that girls are supposed to learn this, but you couldn’t—
You did not have the time, and your childhood was more or less stolen from you together with the vineyards and your land in the Mar da Candéa.
But that’s in the past. You’re— you are in the Holy Land!
And allowing a part of yourself to surface you always tried to deny, but speaking about your foundation, your skin, the ways to cover your pores, to highlight your eyes and make your gaze sparkle — you never knew how much you missed this.
And how incredibly good Rubida is at this.
She clicks her tongue as she takes a step back, her fingertips dusty, and she gives you a once-over.
“Now that is passable. A good start, if I may say so. You do have good features, Candente. For being a barbarian and a heathen, I mean.”
“Hey!” You retort. “I am no heathen!”
“That much is assured…” Rubida sets a finger against her thick lips as she keeps scrutinising you. “You should highlight your eyes more. And be more confident! You look good. Of course, not as good as someone of Kiengir descent…” she chuckles running her hand through her hair.
“Rubida. You said you dye your ha—”
“That better never leave this room,” she hisses, her blue eyes burning with a dangerous flame, “or not even Carnaval’s crystal wings will be able to hold me from making you regret spilling those words.”
