Chapter 2 #3
“Alas, even the most agreeable Fairy lords may make frustrating bedfellows,” Prince Ardant muttered to himself. Perhaps he didn’t intend for Florrie to hear, but he certainly noticed when she blushed at his particular turn of phrase.
“In metaphorical terms,” the prince sputtered, aghast. “It’s not as though I were speaking from—”
Instead of continuing his denial, Prince Ardant poured Florrie some rose cordial in a goblet – an enamelled leaf-vessel, twelfth-century, she noted – and clinked his glass against hers. “How goes the cleaning?”
“That is my priority, as you requested. But after examining the painting, I fear removing the soot accretions may take more time than anticipated.”
Florrie felt astonished by how easily her lie slipped out. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely a lie. The condition of the painting was her priority, and she did require more time to determine how to proceed. As much time as possible, ideally.
“Well, I won’t pretend to understand the first thing about it,” said Prince Ardant. “But I do look forward to seeing your progress. Its messy history aside, The Resolute Portrait remains especially dear to me.”
“Is there something unusual about its provenance?” she asked, hardly believing her good fortune. If the prince already suspected his painting might be a copy, Florrie would be spared a great deal of trouble.
Prince Ardant paused, toying with a spoon made to resemble a fourth-century funerary trowel.
“You’d resign on the spot if I subjected you to such a dull and lengthy tale.” He laughed. “Still, I suppose I oughtn’t create any unnecessary mystery between us, either. For the sake of brevity, let me ask: have you ever been betrothed, Florrie?”
“I’m afraid not.” She dared not mention that a certain Fairy believed Florrie was betrothed – and more – to the prince himself.
“Do pardon me!” Prince Ardant exclaimed. “I only thought that perhaps, if that were the case, you might understand my situation. As it happens, I was affianced, and am no longer. That painting is a reminder of the whole affair, yet I cannot bear to part from it.”
Florrie sighed into her napkin. It was just her luck that the stolen painting also held complicated emotional significance for the prince.
“You are not the first collector of my acquaintance to feel sentimental about an artwork,” she said. “Some find that focusing on the appealing qualities of the piece itself can soften the intensity of past emotions.”
“It does and it doesn’t,” Prince Ardant replied.
“When my engagement was newly dissolved, I went an entire year without looking at the portrait. And it was my favourite painting, too… one I had admired since childhood. However, as you say, I soon learned to separate the object from the circumstances. I never forget how lucky I am to possess The Resolute Portrait. Everyone who sees it cannot help but fall under Lord Mauve’s spell – surely you agree? ”
To Florrie’s relief, the prince clearly did not expect her to respond.
“Except your predecessor, of course,” Prince Ardant noted. “They detested that dear old portrait! Always preferred working on my forestscapes. Thanks to their efforts, every other painting in my possession that’s vaguely leafy is in excellent condition.”
There they were again – Florrie’s elusive predecessor.
Florrie knew it was perfectly reasonable for a conservator to find Fairy paintings painfully old-fangled; most did.
But did this mysterious individual dislike The Resolute Portrait because they, like Florrie, knew there was something amiss with it?
“Where did this conservator store their records?” Florrie asked. “I would like to review past condition reports, if you please.”
“Very enterprising of you!” said Prince Ardant. “Well, their name is Mim Glossmith, and they’ve about fifteen years of restoration experience – about as much as you, though I believe you are a bit younger. How old did you say you were? Four and thirty?”
She was five and thirty, as a matter of fact, but Florrie remained expectantly silent.
“But the thing is,” he admitted, at last, “I discouraged Mim from writing anything down.”
The prince studied his goblet. “It was my fault. At the time, I was most concerned with reducing needless waste. My grandfather was frustratingly profligate with paper, so I wanted to be precisely the opposite. As I am in everything I do. He was covetous, so I am generous. He was well dressed, so I abhor fashion. He sang like a bird, so I refuse to carry a tune. He commissioned hundreds of portraits, so I sold every last likeness of myself. Consequently, I may have overreached in the past.”
“No matter,” Florrie said in a gentle tone she hoped would conceal her desire to scream like a fifth-century “incensed censer”. “Does Mim reside in Stillscape? May I call upon them? I should like to learn their thoughts about The Resolute Portrait.”
“You can certainly try! When they left, Mim swore they never wished to hear a word about Fairy paintings again.” He smiled. “Typical conservator wit, no doubt! Would you care for more fruit?”
Not even the exceptionally pleasing textures in her second helping of berries could soothe Florrie’s anxiety.