Chapter 1 #3
A perk, or hazard, of Florrie’s occupation was that she spent a great deal of time examining exceptionally beauteous people.
In her youth, Florrie had declined the attentions of a potential beau who admonished the frequency with which she “stared at other fellows” in paintings (even though the loveliness that Florrie tended to survey – both professionally and personally – was not restricted to that of gentlemen).
By now, however, she had become largely immune to the idealised charms of portrait subjects, and it took more than shapely drapery or well-shaded musculature to catch her eye.
In this painting, Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve looked as poised and polished as one might expect.
His proportional relationship with the ruins suggested he was short in stature, but there was a confidence to his stance that made him appear to occupy much more space.
Lord Mauve was dressed in a ruffled blouse of tea-rose lace that lay daringly unlaced across his collarbones, paired with a set of trousers seemingly sewn from a full meadow of fresh rose petals.
Like most Fairies, he sported a pair of false wings.
Because Fairies’ magnificent wings were invisible to Folk, fifteenth-century Fairy visitors delighted in designing fashionable contraptions to help them maintain their winged appearance while abroad in Folk cities such as Stillscape.
Lord Mauve’s wings featured a patchwork of iridescent tulle, which Loftus highlighted with a convincing shimmer.
In an appealing departure from the acutely toned physiques prized in prior centuries, the Fairy’s figure was rounded and soft beneath his elegant attire.
His chin curved pleasantly into a bright, full face, and the madder glaze layered atop the beige pigment of Lord Mauve’s skin gave him a rosy glow.
Most perplexingly, Loftus had evidently decided to buck tradition by gracing Lord Mauve with the warmest smile Florrie had ever seen.
She could not tear her eyes from it. How tempting it was to imagine the gentle voice and endearing mannerisms that would accompany such a face!
In other words, Florrie suspected that if she were to meet this Lord Mauve in passing, she would blush deeply and dedicate all her subsequent daydreams to imagining an improbable scenario in which they might become better acquainted.
Her reaction was most peculiar. Fairy portraits were not exactly intended to make undiscerning young conservators blush, and most such portraits depicted figures with proud or imposing expressions.
Yet Lord Mauve kept smiling at her in the most sweetly puzzling way.
Why had no art historians studied his anomalous expression?
“What do you make of him?”
Florrie jumped. She looked away from the painting to find the prince beside her, smiling expectantly.
In a thoroughly empty gallery.
“Whatever became of the tour group?” she whispered.
“You’ve stared at The Resolute Portrait for a quarter-hour,” said Prince Ardant. “It warmed my heart to see you so entranced. They say the best conservators are those who truly cherish their work, and you looked as enraptured as a young lover!”
“The painting is not what I expected,” Florrie murmured in the blandest tone she could manage. “His expression, in particular, is quite notable.”
“Is it?” enquired the prince. “I suppose I’ve not looked closely in years, and I am invariably without my spectacles. When I studied the painting as a child, I always thought the poor fool looked rather surly.”
As far as Florrie could tell, the prince was gregarious, thoughtful and altogether not the type of client who would recoil at a contradicting opinion from a conservator.
Still, the Conservators’ Code forbade her from arguing about something so inconsequential as an expression, especially when she’d given the painting only a cursory glance.
As she surveyed Lord Mauve’s grin yet again, Florrie recalled one famous critic’s comment about The Resolute Portrait: “Bold among the ruins, Lord Mauve glares upon us with the most seductively scornful sneer.”
Why did all other accounts of the painting contradict what she saw on the canvas?
The visual interpretation of emotions had not always come naturally to Florrie, but even she knew there was nothing about this Lord Mauve that qualified as sneering.
Or scornful. Though, in a way, the critic might have been right about—
“Oh, if only I could sneak into that sharp mind of yours and hear your art-historical observations as you make them!” bemoaned the prince. “My grandfather was wary of conservators, but I hope you know I do not feel the same. Not in the least!”
“That is perfectly understandable,” said Florrie.
“If your grandfather was born in the last century, he was no doubt acquainted with the older school of restorers, who primarily repainted historical objects to suit their contemporary tastes. That is not the guiding philosophy our Code dictates today.”
“Indeed, so I assumed!” Prince Ardant cleared his throat and gestured at the painting.
“Due to my grandfather’s antipathies, however, The Resolute Portrait has suffered a great deal.
No small amount of candle soot has accumulated on the canvas, for example.
I must confess that I sometimes lie awake worrying about how filthy this painting has become. ”
“I can certainly address that. I typically examine the entire painting, including the frame and backing, then compose a condition report and propose methods of intervention. Does that suit you?”
“You are welcome to do whatever you like, as long as you clean the thing first!”
Florrie scratched the sliver of skin that emerged where her right glove met her sleeve. “I’d rather not apply anything to the canvas until I determine the painting’s condition.”
“Yes, of course – but in the meantime, isn’t there something exceptionally simple you could try to remove the soot?” pleaded Prince Ardant.
Though the thought of beginning a cleaning hastily (a clear violation of at least seven distinct subclauses in the Code) made her nervous, Florrie reached down to unbuckle her satchel.
“This is ease-flower, which is the shining standard for soot accretions. I’ve used it on fragile second-century oils with no ill effects. But I would still prefer—”
“Brilliant!” The prince nodded fondly at the bottle. “Who would have thought such a funny little liquid might save my dear painting?”
Before Florrie could object, Pennery the gallery guide took this moment to dash back into the room.
“Dear prince,” he gasped. “I ran into your visitation page after concluding my tour, and they begged me to tell you that Prince Valer is here.”
“Prince Valer?” echoed Prince Ardant with a sigh. “Do you happen to know if she is with or without a suspiciously ring-sized box?”
“She is rarely without,” murmured Pennery.
Prince Ardant nodded at Florrie and took one grand, apologetic step towards the door. “I’m afraid it is time for my bi-weekly marriage proposal. Perhaps I ought to say yes, to keep her on her toes! Won’t you excuse me, Florrie?”
While Florrie recognised that the prince must be busy, she rather wished – for his sake as much as hers – that he was not so eager to leave a stranger in charge of his beloved painting.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” she called, “but is there a studio space where I may work? And a padded cart for transporting the painting?”
“Why, of course!” The prince twisted a trio of rings onto his thumb, which produced a viridian light that flickered across the gallery’s rear wall. As the colour shone forth, a portion of the wallpaper neatly detached itself to form a door-like flap with a corridor behind it.