{ reference } portrait of the artist as a young woman
Scrutinizing the portrait before him, Martel was aware of the woman at his side - the anxious woman, fingers still stained with paint as she waited for the verdict of the man whose opinion meant the most to her. Her talent was, in his admittedly biased opinion, positively unmatched. The likeness was exceptional; the subtle colours were made vibrant with the play between light and shadow.
"It's only a pity we'll have to keep it shut up," he said, trying to recall how he'd let himself be persuaded to pose that way in the first place - adding with insouciant artlessness, "and a very good thing I've already spoken with your father about marrying you. My god, Petra."
Later, when she'd quieted and stopped hitting him, she laughed and scolded him for ensuring she could never speak of his (truly awful, you horrible creature) proposal in polite company without blushing. What a thing to be so fond of, and what a dreadful man she was set to marry.
("My elegant artist with her hidden depths of depravity-"
"I will be all the better your match for it - Martel!")
↔
The masquerade is nothing that Martel has any interest in attending - but Petrana gets wind of the fact he's been invited (which means she's been invited, and he suspects his mother pointed this out), and then he really doesn't have as much say in the matter as he might have liked. Despite the effort on his part that would be required to give any less of a damn about the proceedings of some courtier's melodrama-laden royal anniversary celebrations, he submits to a few fittings and the bare minimum of input into what exactly it is he's being wrestled into for the evening. There are stars, silver and ivory silk, sewn into the black velvet doublet that Petrana was utterly convinced would be a good idea, and he takes comfort in the fact that very few of his fellows are going to be able to witness this indignity.
The mask is a little more tolerable; modestly sized, admittedly because Romiar glimpsed what they were planning in the first place and pointed out that Martel's hair is probably sufficiently reminiscent of moonlight without any encouragement at all. (Veleda commended her husband for his poetry of thought, and Martel got his father another drink for sparing him what he'd seen on paper.) All the same, when he waits impatiently for Petrana to come down the stairs so he can hustle her into the carriage waiting outside, it has more to do with a desire to get this evening over with and less to do with anticipation of the costume that matches and opposes his.
That, he reflects, as he takes in the gold chains knotted into braids holding the translucent yellow fabric that is her sun's halo and the skirts flaring out from her tightly-laced waist, may have been an error on his part.
"You're going to have a terrible headache by the time we leave," he predicts, even so.
"Thank you, dearest," she replies - sunnily - as she sails past him to the door.
Of course.