"I think I would like to learn to paint," she announces one cold and rainy day in February. She's examining one of the portraits in the study, old and faded and greying; the oils are dried and chipping in one of the corners.
The subject is a distant relative, she supposes (why else would they have his picture here), expression dour and gloomy under a large handlebar moustache. (It's grey too.)
Elsa and Kristoff look up from their game of chess, their faces an identical mixture of skepticism and wariness.
"To paint?" Elsa says carefully, and moves her bishop. "You're in check, by the way."
"Yes. You need new paintings."
Elsa raises her eyebrows, and rests her chin in her hand, fingers tapping in thought. "You want to replace the ones in here."
"Exactly."
"And why?"
Anna turns around again, and takes in the room: fire crackling, a stack of books teetering on an armchair, Kristoff slouching lazily over the chessboard, and Elsa, prim as always, but with feet curled under her in the chair and hair down – relaxed, happy.
(She could do wonders with this in oils.)
"Because this room needs some cheer - not some grumpy old man staring at you," she answers. "Wouldn't it be nice to see you smiling all the time?"
Elsa's jaw drops. Across the table, Kristoff sits up straight, moves a knight, and fist-pumps the air.
"Ha! Checkmate!"