Rose from the River and Princess Chen of the Northern Wind end up joining the rest of their merry band of travelers for lunch. It’s easy enough to see them coming, as Chen sways up and down as Rose walks, perched on the monk’s broad shoulder like a colorful parrot. Rose has one arm up to keep her aloft, and another on her walking stick, and waves at Yue and Hyra (and Kat and Cyanis) with a third.

“Maybe you can help our dear, sweet little princess out,” Rose says, swinging down Chen neatly and putting her down in a seat. “She can’t seem to decide what she should get as a souvenir, and she’s having [i]such[/i] trouble enunciating clearly. You’d think all those royal tutors would teach her how to speak, not squeak~” Condescending headpats, deployed! Pat pat pat!

But can you blame Chen, when she’s been shown off like a trophy on Rose’s shoulder all morning? When Rose has had girls come up to her oohing and aahing over her strength, taking her for a last marvel of the market, and asking if they can touch her muscles? When Rose has quietly reminded Chen that all she needs to do to be put down is ask like a good little girl? Anyone would be a flustered wreck under those circumstances, the poor darling— and still she’s got that ring in a death grip, not having figured out what to spend such a precious treasure on at all. (Why, surely, she doesn’t mean to [i]keep[/i] it. But what if, hypothetically, she didn’t get anything? Would Rose demand it back, or would she get to keep it, or would Rose take her by the chin and tell her that she’d look [i]beautiful[/i] wearing it? So many distracting thoughts to think about!)

Rose buying Chen noodles without asking her what she wanted is also a flex. A gambling flex— Rose might quietly be hoping she read the princess right— but a flex nonetheless. Rose from the River rides the hard edge of temptation, just so she can see Chen hide her face and make those incoherent little noises in front of everybody.

If only they could have continued all day, and into the night, when it comes to that! As it is said,

[i]The pheasant calls his mating-song,
the water ripples in the rushes.
How pleasant is the wickedness of a lover
in the coolness of the patient dawn.[/i]