Until further notice, her ex-royal highness Queen Augusta of Westmark will be travelling in Venice with Mr. Samuel Spade!

We're going to steal a gondola. >:D

( Dear Mr. Spade: )

The queen hath returned triumphant from either the Arctic or Antarctica, and, that being so, has presumably been away quite some time. Whether through magic or personal charm, she still has a few snowflakes in her hair that are stubbornly refusing to melt, even under the June sun.

The setting: an icy land, white as far as you can see, with penguins.

Our Heroine, dressed in a very warm coat with a fur hood, is gazing across said landscape with a hand above her eyes to shade them.

True to form, Mickle is enjoying herself. At the moment it's by drinking wine in the garden, and closing her eyes against the sunlight so she can see warm colours through her eyelids.

And a last-ditch attempt to get Theo's attention?

( Mickle/Agravain )

Life can be exquisitely tedious sometimes, and when it is, the only thing to do is put on a pair of tattered old trousers, tie your shirt down with a piece of rope, and go cartwheeling through the spring mud until your hands slip and you fall, laughing, seeming recklessly beautiful because of your laugh. The only thing to do, except for getting up ( Read more... )

Sitting somewhere pleasant, somewhere pretty and quiet--somewhere watching the snow. She's wrapt up warm, and her curly hair is half-hidden by a soft scarf.

Mickle was swimming in the lake--see how she's always doing something? because moving is good and a gift--but just now she's coming out on the shore, her hair soaking, her shirt dripping.

She dances with herself, humming, sparkling, moving all over, from the tips of her hair to her waist to her knees, all kinds of happiness.