It was summer in the region. Snow had only stayed in the top of the tallest mountains and in the tundra some plants had dared to grow onto the permafrost layer. From her balcony she could see a landscape of bright reds and yellows, with bits of white, but just this time a year it wasn’t the snow’s white, but of the cottongrass. 

It meant her birthday was coming, and her father had already ordered a present for her: a portrait. 

She had been a bit hesitant -and she wouldn’t be convinced in a while probably-, but all the royal families had to have portraits apparently, and she couldn’t be the exception as her father had so kindly reminded her, so he had no other option but to agree to at least meet the artist. 

Monet had to put the book she had been reading aside when Baby Five opened the doors of her room to let the man in.

— ❝ Leave us alone.❞

 She asked Five, and she nodded, closing the door as she left the room. Not going to beat around the bush, Monet decided to ask him directly.

— ❝ What’s the kind of portrait you had in mind?❞