"That is quite a hat," Zelda says, kneeling down beside her. Her smile is audible but the rustling of her gown more audible still and Hilda barely holds the downturn of her lips even as she mentally sighs at the thought of Zelda getting her royal finery dirty.
"Forgive me for not taking to the sun as well as you do," Hilda replies, eyes leaving the current bane of her existence: a weed that's stubbornly taken root and refuses to so much as budge. Her fingers loosen and she tilts her head up so the brim of her sunhat isn't covering her eyes, smiling like a knife, albeit one with a dull edge. "I was only forced to live without it my entire life."
Princess Zelda is backlit by the sun, resplendent in blue, and very near rolling her eyes.
"Oh, please," she huffs, giving Hilda a fissure of pleasure, the one she always gets when Zelda doesn't keep with decorum, propriety for once not dictating their every action. "I'll have you know I burn just like everyone else."
Hilda scoffs at the very notion. What a lark, she thinks, going to say something to that effect, but Zelda has already moved on, eyes perusing the garden around them, and Hilda stays silent. It's a more humble sight than Zelda must receive back home, royal in name only, with vines creeping over the cobblestone and more than a few weeds, but it's still hers—really, truly hers, as so few things in life have ever been—and she can't help but hope that Zelda finds some beauty in it.
"They're lovely," says Zelda finally, and Hilda looks up from the weed she's resumed pulling as a distraction.
Zelda's touching the baby's breath in front of them with delicate fingers, brushing her thumb over petals the same color of her dress, and the thorn in Hilda's chest disappears even as she feels foolish for worrying in the first place. This is Zelda after all; if she could see something worthwhile in Hilda after all she's done then why would she have trouble with anything else?
It's times like this that Hilda is glad Zelda has none of the telepathic ability of her ancestor. She would (gently) chide Hilda for thinking such a thing.
"I would have never pegged you for having a green thumb," Zelda continues, smiling, "but the more I think about it, the more I realize how very Hilda it is: sowing life from where there was once none. Gardening suits you." And this is where her smile turns mischievous, her eyes brightening with the beginnings of laughter. "Hat and all."
Hilda's throat is so tight it aches, constricting around words she's not sure she has the courage to say. She settles for "Enough about the hat," voice wavering slightly, but what she really means is thank you. The smile Hilda gives Zelda this time isn't knife-like at all; it's a gentle thing, fragile in its hope.
"Never," Zelda replies, leaning in, their noses brushing before they kiss among the baby's breath in the afternoon sunshine.