Iridescent

Chapter 22

"Haven," Finn called to her, "Be careful please, I can't afford it if you break anything."

The young girl broke through the ball room, spinning around and skipping, her long, chestnut ribbons swirling behind her. She laughed and smiled over her shoulder at him as she kept running—daring to break every word he tried to guide her with.

"Haven, please," he whispered under his breath, trying not to think about how much the shiny decorations and tall paintings costed around them. Some of the statues looked beyond just a measly life sentence of debt. A smile graced his lips as he watched her spin and twirl with her invisible dance partner—humming a tune that she seemed to make up along the way.

He didn't know that Stasia was watching from a nook of the room—behind a statue of some ancestor, grinning at the little girl who was claiming every piece of pile her feet skipped across.

"Finn, dance with me!" Haven sang, spinning around.

Finn shook his head, not entertaining it, "No, I don't dance, Haven."

"Please!" She tried to be polite this time.

He shook his head, even though he was smiling.

"You always have to ruin the fun," She stuck her tongue out at him and before he knew it, she was darting towards the thrones.

He stumbled, letting a few choice words slip, but was quickly covering ground, hoping to God that she wasn't thinking what he thought she was thinking. He tried not to imagine the worse that would happen, because he wanted to believe he would catch her before she climbed up in them.

"Haven, stop!" He tried to shout at her. Stasia pressed a hand to her mouth, keeping the laugh from slipping out of her lips, watching him stumble after his determined little sister. "Haven, please!" he tried once more, but even the formalities didn't give him hope.

She threw a devious little giggle over her shoulder, saying, "Catch me if you can!"

Stasia felt a little skip in her chest as they got closer, seeing Haven's little heart fixate on the cushioned seats before her. At the last moment, Haven took a sharp turn and slipped through the pillars to the outer section of the ballroom, where countless portraits lined the walls.

Haven suddenly stopped and Stasia moved stealthily—keeping herself out of Finn's sight as she realized Haven peered up at her portrait—a painting of her in a long gown that was soaked and softened in the dye of wisteria petals. Meredith and Irina made it for her coronation. Haven's eyes wandered to the painting that was beside Stasia's—her parent's marriage portrait—both looking so solemn and clean with cutting shadows and stiff posing. On the other side, there was an emptiness, so she let her eyes wonder up the long portrait of Stasia once again.

A new tradition, Meredith said it was, but Stasia shuddered at sitting still for such a long time. Griffin stole a book from the library for her, and the artist thought it best to let it become part of the painting, folding the leather bind amongst the folds of her dress and under the comfort of her polished hand.

What would a portrait of her do? She remembered thinking.

"Is she a Queen?" Haven's little voice spoke up and Stasia blinked from her memory, noticing that Finn stood beside her now.

Stasia smiled a little at the thought, flattered, and Finn answered, "She's going to be, yes."

"Where's her Prince?" Haven asked, glancing at her parents' portrait and Stasia frowned at the question.

They start young—don't they.

"She doesn't need one," Finn answered, looking up at the image of her with a smile. Stasia couldn't see it, but she could hear it in his voice and that gave her more comfort than he could ever imagine.

Haven didn't seem to get it, as she furrowed her eyebrows, "Doesn't she need a King to be a Queen?"

"Not necessarily," Finn answered, looking down at Haven's confused little expression.

She continued to compare the portraits before her, "Where's her crown?"

"Sometimes," Finn paused, and Haven reached for his hand, "It's not all about the crown, Haven. Sometimes, being queen is bigger than just wearing a crown."

It was true, Stasia thought, watching from afar—noticing how this little girl peered up at her face, her stature. She seemed to take in every detail of difference between the two pictures with a keen and curious eye. A crown never made the difference in the first place. Her life, her wonders and her future called for a bigger picture—and bigger pictures call for bigger frames.

"Is she happy?" Haven asked.

Finn gave a nod, seeing the soft smile amidst the warm detailed colors of Stasia's face, "Yes—I think she is Haven."

There was another pause—a moment in which the portrait reflected in Haven's brown eyes, which remained focused up at the woman in the picture. Her hand reached and familiarized itself with the oak frame, fond of the solid feeling it had underneath her fingertips.

"Finn?" She held onto it.

His gaze transferred from the painting of Stasia to Haven, giving her an acknowledgement.

"We can be happy too."