Chapter 1 #2
The prince smiled – again – and Florrie marvelled at the ease with which he did so; the upward curves of his cheeks looked so natural and convincing. She’d have to keep that smile in mind when practising her own expressions in the future.
“Let me introduce you,” Prince Ardant continued. “Do you mind? I suspect not – you give off the distinct impression that you’re eager to begin. Why, you’re already wearing your conservator’s gloves!”
“As it happens, these aren’t my working gloves,” Florrie said, keeping her voice light.
“I put a fine antique pair over my regular gloves while examining art. I’m trained in all handling modalities currently mandated by the Conservatory.
Were you aware that some scholars believe bare, clean hands might be safest for painting conservation?
Though the Conservatory has yet to rule on the matter.
New edicts tend to require at least a decade of consideration before they are codified. ”
“Is it not uncomfortable to wear two pairs of gloves when you work?” enquired the prince. “You are welcome to relax a bit here – regardless of what the Conservatory might say.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The skin on Florrie’s shoulders prickled, and she resisted the urge to scratch it. “I wear this pair constantly for the preservation of my good health.”
That was the easiest way of explaining it.
Though gloves, unlike magic, were still vaguely voguish in Stillscape, good sense and good manners alike dictated that one must remove them when engaging in such quotidian activities as painting one’s gowns, revarnishing antiquated furniture or embracing a lover.
Florrie sported hers ceaselessly, however.
At present, she owned well over twenty pairs, which she washed and replaced as necessary while taking care never to leave her hands unclothed for too long.
Explaining away this quirk with an unspecific medical excuse generally ensured it would be improper for anyone to pry further.
At the same time, Florrie could not demand propriety in private, and she often wondered what Folk thought, in secret, as they tried to comprehend her condition.
An allergy to several of the three-hundred-odd gemstone powders used to make pigments, localised to the tips of her fingers?
A childhood injury, no doubt from over-vigorous sculpting, that left her with weakened wrist joints?
“Forgive my discourtesy.” Prince Ardant gave her a hasty bow.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Florrie replied, as she always did. “To the galleries, then?”
“Let us away!” The prince strode down the corridor with great urgency, as though they could physically leave the awkward subject of her health behind. “What else may I tell you about the position?”
“What of my daily responsibilities? I presume I’ll spend every hour in the studio making repairs.”
“Perhaps not quite every hour.” For the first time since Florrie met him, the prince nearly frowned.
“On occasion, I may ask you to assist me with installations or give your advice on curatorial matters. I ought to have hired a proper curator, but so many sneer at Fairy art. And I was advised by my peers to omit this responsibility from the advertisement, because, and I quote, ‘conservators turn up their paint-smeared noses at collections management.’”
“We’re proud of our trade, I suppose,” Florrie said. “But I’m not too proud to assist with curation. As a matter of fact, I studied the history and practice of art before enrolling at the Conservatory.”
She prayed Prince Ardant would not ask why her life’s trajectory had changed so dramatically – and, fortunately, Ardant was far too preoccupied with progressing speedily through the galleries.
“We can savour these landscapes later,” the prince said in apology as they rushed past walls of paintings.
“You simply must meet your primary charge. I fear it is in desperate need of some attention. It ought to occupy a place of honour in the gallery, but given its current condition, I’ve tucked it away. ”
Prince Ardant had apparently “tucked it away” by moving the painting in question to its own private gallery.
The vibrant carmine walls – Red Overwhelm being the most fashionable tint this season, as Florrie knew well – made the place seem bright and cheerful.
Florrie assumed the prince’s favourite painting lurked behind the pair of closed eighth-century hearth curtains.
The room was empty, save for a single upholstered bench and about thirty Folk politely battling for said bench’s limited space.
“How fortunate!” exclaimed the prince, ushering Florrie to the westmost wall.
He unfurled his knapsack and produced a duo of uniquely embellished gallery stools painted to resemble coral-speckled mushroom caps.
Prince Ardant collapsed with a sigh onto the first one, inspiring Florrie to follow his lead with the second.
“Prince Ardant!” exclaimed a becaped man at the front of the crowd. His proud bearing, distinguished plait and unabashedly perspiring pink face convinced Florrie he must be a gallery guide in the midst of a demanding tour. “What a pleasure to have you among our guests.”
“Do carry on as though I’m not here, Pennery! Or perhaps I may assist you?” The composition of the prince’s expression took on a most jovial angle, which Florrie also appended to her ever-growing mental catalogue of facial communication options. “Might I pull back the curtains when the time comes?”
The gallery guide, seemingly too delighted by the prince’s presence to respond, merely cleared his throat. Prince Ardant rose from his seat and gave Florrie a cheerful nod of farewell. “Are you ready to meet your new companion?” whispered the prince with an amiable wink.
It was not until the echoes of the prince’s incredibly audible whisper had faded that the gallery guide allowed himself to begin.
“I expect most of you fine Folk would be disappointed if you knew what hid behind these curtains,” he proclaimed. “And I wouldn’t blame you. Fairy paintings are about as fashionable as travelling by flight, aren’t they?”
Though Prince Ardant looked rather displeased, everyone else tittered knowingly.
One visitor even had the fortitude to murmur “Nothing feels so real as a wheel!”, the motto of the Society of Folk for the Preservation of Reasonable Transportation.
Florrie, for her part, had always felt a little disappointed that the brief popularity of enchanted floating carts – an innovation imported from the Fairies – had died down as a result of the Society’s efforts.
It seemed art was not the only area in which her tastes tended to the old-fashioned.
“Yet it is my duty to present a renowned example of Fairy portraiture,” the guide continued. “If any of you ever attended a lecture on fifteenth-century art – and paid the slightest bit of attention – I suspect you might recognise it.”
The guide paused, clearly lacking the confidence to cue the prince to open the curtains. Fortunately, Ardant soon took it upon himself to reveal, with a flourish, a most singular painting.
The Resolute Portrait. Florrie had glimpsed it countless times while flicking through the illustrated appendices of catalogues on Fairy portraiture.
Previously, there had been nothing about the painting she had found especially compelling.
Its primary distinguishing quality was that the ruins in the background landscape featured only a single arch instead of the requisite four.
Seeing the painting in the gallery, however, changed everything.
Florrie reached up to tap the embossed silver vines on her hair-comb.
To her frustration, the gallery guide had apparently decided to start mumbling at this precise moment.
That was the only possible explanation for why she suddenly found it difficult to follow his words.
After all, she’d seen, held and repaired some of the most famous paintings in Stillscape.
Why should this one prove particularly disorientating?
“Presenting The Resolute Portrait of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve Among the Ruins, painted in 1484 by Honnor Loftus,” the tour guide muttered – or so it seemed.
“Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve was one of the first Fairies featured in Folk portraiture, and the very first to appreciate his own likeness as rendered by one of our artists.”
Her attention drifted. Obviously, she knew all the biographical particulars. Like a young art historian tasked with composing a visual analysis, Florrie ignored the guide in favour of properly evaluating the painting she was expected to restore.
It was an archetypal ruin portrait, a sub-genre that was terribly common during the fifteenth century.
The top third of the picture-plane hosted a thick glade of botanically unrecognisable trees, while the midground included several isolated groups of ruins.
The most elegant of these was a stately colonnade, supported by seven intact floreated columns topped with finials sculpted in the form of fierce-looking dragonflies.
The artist had also included the significantly solitary arch, the remains of a large floor mosaic in the shape of a spiral, and several stacks of moss-covered ashlar stones.
Behind the ruins, diminished in the distance, was the only complete structure in the picture; the domed-roof weaver’s cottage in the thirteenth-century style was, no doubt, Loftus’s attempt to appeal to the viewer’s misplaced nostalgia.
It was, by all standards, a pleasant but predictable composition for a Fairy portrait. What made the painting so striking was its subject.