Chapter 2
“Is this a conversation?” enquired Lord Mauve in the least lordly manner. “Imagine that! It’s not at all like my daydreams. But that’s my fault for surprising you. May we begin again?”
Florrie marvelled as she watched the painting move – no, that was not quite right.
Upon closer inspection, she noticed that the painted figure of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve remained still.
Flickering upon the canvas was a double of the Fairy lord, his eyes sparkling despite their smallness.
That ghostly entity, whatever he was, did not behave like any Fairy or Folk from Florrie’s world; his motions were oddly choppy.
Florrie felt a little unnerved as his mouth shifted between different expressions at a diminished pace.
Still, his peculiar presence did not disguise the fact that he was staring right at her.
Quite keenly, Florrie thought, though she couldn’t be certain without a magnifying loupe.
Fortunately, their difference in size should prevent him from noticing her inability to reciprocate the directness of his gaze.
“I’m terribly sorry. I never meant to harm your arch!” Though her extensive study of conversational best practices never addressed this scenario, Florrie assumed an apology wouldn’t do any harm. “Why, I’ve used that solvent on thousands of paintings!”
“But this is a rather unusual painting,” said the stranger. “You couldn’t have known, so there’s no need to fret. And didn’t I say we ought to begin again? I should have mentioned that my name is Vern. May I ask for yours?”
“Vern as in Lord Vernal Mauve, I presume?”
Vern’s miniature shoulders shrugged slowly. “I suppose you could say that, but I’m not— well, in short, Vern suits me better.” He lifted his head proudly. “Oh, it really does, doesn’t it? I’ve never introduced myself to anyone, so I wasn’t sure. Now I can’t imagine going by anything else.”
“You’re not the Fairy depicted in the painting, then?” Florrie pressed. “You merely… resemble him?”
“That’s it!” Vern exclaimed. “This is a changeling painting, you see.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean I’m unexpected,” Vern said with a laugh like the whispering strokes of a dusting brush against a deteriorated carving.
“An oddity. The artist didn’t intend to create me, but he made a mistake when replicating Lord Mauve’s face.
One little slip of his wrist and – oh dear!
I came to life, fully grown and completely confused. ”
“I see,” Florrie said politely. She paused, considering his phrasing more carefully. “Do you mean that this painting was not created by Honnor Loftus, in 1484?”
“There you have it!” Vern’s smile seemed both congratulatory and bashful. “I suppose it’s a little embarrassing. This is a replica. Lord Mauve stole the original for himself, or so I heard. I’ve called this museum home ever since the exchange was made.”
“But why couldn’t I tell?” Mortified by her petulant tone, Florrie took a deep breath.
“Everything about the portrait is consistent with a hundred-year-old painting. The craquelure. The buckling weave. The distinctive marks of a fifteenth-century swallow-tailed brush! How could anyone possibly fake all that?”
“Impossibilities are nothing to Fairy artists,” droned Vern in lofty voice that Florrie could already tell was not quite his own.
“That’s what my artist used to say. For what it’s worth, I barely understand the first thing about this art-theft business.
I only live here! You know, I might inhabit a forgery, but I make it a habit to remind myself that I’m authentically me, at least. Otherwise, I think I’d end up feeling rather down. Wouldn’t you?”
Florrie beat an unsteady rhythm on the table with the nearest brush to help herself think. Fortunately, she hadn’t irreparably damaged a famous painting after all; she’d only destroyed a fake.
Still, the fact remained that someone – perhaps Lord Mauve himself, as Vern suggested? – had infiltrated the Commonplace Palace, pilfered a prized painting, and left behind a forgery that was nearly indistinguishable from the original.
Only nearly, though. Florrie could hardly believe she was the first to note the spellbinding change in the painted Lord Mauve’s smile.
“You can tell I’m new to conversation, can’t you?” Vern lamented. “Somehow, I’ve ended up going on about myself when all I wanted to do was learn your name.”
Florrie took a moment to consider her options before answering.
Thanks to her art-historical studies, she also possessed a vague understanding of Fairy etiquette.
When Fairies began visiting Folk cities, the Fairy lords felt a protective, almost parental regard for their decidedly unmagical Folk acquaintances.
Thus, the Fairies established a code of conduct to protect Folk from the occasional Fairy who wished to use their artistic magic for mischief.
This code included, most famously, the concept of a protective lie.
As far as Florrie could remember, Fairies expected Folk to introduce themselves by telling at least one untruth.
What was originally intended to keep Folk safe from thoughtless spellcraft eventually transformed into a curious social nicety.
But Florrie did not excel at lying, so she took her time saying “My name is Florrie Hyverfell” at an impossibly slow pace while trying to think of a believable falsehood.
The best protective lies were those that suggested some false invulnerability in the liar – along the lines of “My dearest friend is a clever, muscly sort who would respond with great fury if anyone ever cast a spell to permanently change the colour of my nose, or suchlike.”
“Florrie Hyverfell! What fun that is to say,” said Vern, oblivious to her floundering attempts at self-defence. “I’ve never seen you in my gallery before today. Are you new to the palace?”
“I am.” A terrible idea sketched itself in her mind before she could erase it. “I came here to… to marry… the prince. Yes. Romantically. Permanently. Consequently, he is very concerned about my whereabouts and general wellbeing.”
Florrie resisted the urge to roll her eyes at herself.
What if someone in the galleries overheard and assumed Florrie did care for Prince Ardant?
Granted, he was handsome, learned and genial.
Still, he was a prince, and chiefly responsible for her current livelihood.
While she hoped they would become better acquainted, she could not imagine anything beyond that.
Yet clarifying this point to Prince Ardant, if word of her bizarre claim reached his ears, would be most embarrassing for everyone involved.
Though she still needed to squint at the canvas to see Vern’s face, Florrie watched his expression shift in response to her proclamation. Oddly enough, he looked almost disappointed. Had he hoped she might craft a more compelling protective lie? Well, that made two of them.
“You’re married to the prince! I shouldn’t be surprised.
I ought to have known – but I only saw the two of you when he showed you the painting, and I never would have guessed.
” Vern raised his hands obligingly. “Not that I know the first thing about such things! All my knowledge of romance comes from overhearing conversations. And scores of courtly ballads, back in the day.”
That, at least, was convenient for Florrie’s purposes. Out loud, she said, “I don’t blame you. It was a curated marriage, and we’re only just becoming acquainted. It’s not as though we are in love, nor… Still, he is already most protective of me. As I mentioned.”
“He protects you, and you protect his paintings? How grand! I can’t say I’ve ever heard a ballad about such an arrangement.”
“Nothing bolsters an art collector’s reputation like marrying a conservator!
” said Florrie, as she assumed no Fairy ballad would have informed Vern that such a partnership was as unlikely as a conservator conversing with a painting.
Both the Conservatory and the Princes’ Consortium for the Appreciation of the Finest Arts frowned upon any fraternisation that might cause unwary lovers to forsake their respective allegiances to conservation and collecting.
“You must be awfully busy with the collections, in that case, but is there any chance you might be able to fix my arch?” Vern tucked his hands behind his wings and tilted his head in a manner that Florrie could only categorise as overwhelmingly sweet.
“I’m not asking for myself. You see, there were these beautiful blue flowers that had started creeping up the stones there, and I don’t like to think of losing them, too. ”
“What sort of flowers?” Florrie asked, feeling strangely charmed as she imagined this peculiar Fairy inventorying the features of his painted world.
“You’ll laugh. I don’t know what they’re called,” he replied with a nervous smile.
“The leaves are round, while the petals are pointed like the arch is… Was. What else? There are speckles of pink and grey among the blue on the blossoms. Oh, and while the leaves are thorny, the stems couldn’t feel softer when you touch them.
As I do, sometimes, to settle myself.” Vern narrowed his gaze – or so she assumed, as it was still hard to tell without proper magnification.
“Why, you look quite startled. Have I said something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Florrie murmured. “I was merely surprised. Few Folk of my acquaintance find comfort in the tactility of their surroundings.”
“But you do, don’t you?” he observed. “In the gallery, you kept touching your comb and your pencils and that lovely blue sash of yours, and your hands haven’t stopped moving. I suppose that’s only natural, given your occupation.”
Despite his apparent lack of conversational experience, Vern was startlingly shrewd.