Above him, Margaux displays rather more familiarity at navigating the world from someone else's shoulders; her legs over them, then tucked beneath his arms, bare feet curling behind and against his back to anchor her if and when he moves unexpectedly. Her paint pot is securely tied to her waist, where she can dip into it at her leisure, and she's only dripped a little bit of black into his hair, it's fine, honestly -

"Marquise Briala," she says, as ever scrupulous in using the title her hero has so recently been raised to. "I - well, I don't know what her face looks like. But this is her mask. And a crown, you see?"

Yes, and her two middle fingers pointed out at the city.