Chapter 3
Prince Ardant insisted upon sending a letter of introduction on Florrie’s behalf – and, mere hours later, sprinted into the storage cellar to announce that Mim had invited Florrie to call upon them the next morning.
In the meantime, Florrie spent the rest of the day cataloguing every piece of tableware in the museum’s ceramics collection.
Though she always appreciated the smoothness of a good glaze, Florrie concluded her task with the hope that she would never touch another eighth-century moralistic spoon-rest.
Still, she welcomed any distraction from The Resolute Portrait. The longer she avoided lifting that shield-cloth, the longer Florrie could hide from her dreadful mistake – and from the strangely enjoyable company of Lord Vernal Mauve, also known as Vern.
She could not stop thinking about their conversation.
Had a clandestine Fairy heist truly occurred at the Commonplace Palace?
And, if so, were there other changeling paintings on view?
With every spoon-rest examined and with evening on the approach, Florrie visited the museum’s dining establishment to seek out a meal and, perhaps, confidential insights into gallery security.
“No, I don’t believe there’s ever been a burglary,” said Amoret, the assistant chef.
“Besides, I don’t imagine anyone’s generous enough to steal those tiresome, dusty Fairy paintings – not when we’ve so many fine examples of Folk artistry on view, like those superlative candelabra cameos downstairs… ”
Florrie stirred her bowl of root-flower stew. It was entirely out of season, but she was most particular about her diet and stew was always a reliable option. Amoret had been very kind to accommodate her request in this time of need.
He proceeded to reassure her that the Commonplace Palace Museum was exceptionally safe, well managed and an excellent place to work.
Florrie would have found the conversation quite inspiring – if she had believed that her time at this exceptionally safe, well-managed, excellent place would be anything other than short-lived.
As she retreated to her new quarters, Florrie toyed with the idea that perhaps her imminent dismissal was for the best. She’d been very brave all day – pretending she had no qualms about living away from home for the first time in years – but that bravery vanished when she found herself amid an unfamiliar array of furnishings.
The guest chamber itself was lovely, and the layout of the emerald-tasselled canopy bed and armoire perfectly matched that of many Opalescence Era domestic interiors.
Still, it wasn’t her chamber, with the just-soft-enough carpet she’d loved in her childhood and had come to appreciate even more after studying textile conservation.
To make matters worse, Florrie turned to admire the promised garden view from the window and was taken aback by an enormous looking-glass lurking close by.
A glistening array of magnifiers made her pores look like ponds in a fifteenth-century waterscape.
Before desperation could overcome her, Florrie tossed a blanket over the entire set-up and went to bed.
After wasting a few hours struggling with the different sounds and sensations of the room, she dreamed of an eighth-century smith forging a moralistic spoon-rest with an inset portrait of an incautious conservator.
She left the palace at dawn and followed the dewy streets to the printmaking district.
As she’d arranged to meet Mim Glossmith a few hours later, Florrie let herself linger as she strolled by vendors setting up for the morning market.
Like any respectable Folk city, Stillscape boasted several outdoor marketplaces designed for the trade of artworks.
Most aspiring princes began their collections with purchases made at one market or another, as the art offered there was accessible to a wide range of purses.
This market prioritised works on paper – antique prints, primarily, but also old maps and, occasionally, sketches by celebrated artists misplaced in oblivious relatives’ attics.
Florrie stopped for a moment to admire a crisp line of still-lives dangling like banners across the awning of a sketch stall. She considered buying something to brighten up her new quarters, then chided herself; there was no point in acquiring decor when her fate remained uncertain.
Florrie had, in her student days, lived as a lodger in a garret by this very marketplace, and she tried to identify its bland fourteenth-century window frame among all the others on the street.
She did not miss the unvarnished doorknob she always opened with a handkerchief to avoid the grainy texture (this was before her glove-wearing began), and the soft mattress squishing against her spine at night had been even more unpleasant.
It was with great enthusiasm (and only the slightest bit of embarrassment) that Florrie had abandoned these lodgings to return home once she had completed her studies.
Still, feeling the distinctive press of the cobblestones beneath her boots made Florrie nearly nostalgic.
Mim Glossmith’s abode was located between the rustic student accommodation and the more elaborate mansions of almost-princely collectors a few streets away.
As though to spite its pastel-hued neighbours, the house was painted a dark plum, with startling black tiles set into a rectangular arch around the door.
Florrie had never taken to architectural history as much as the history of art, but she could tell by the curve of the double-fluted roof and the angles of the shadowy skylights that the house must be about two hundred and fifty years old.
It was an entirely predictable place for an ex-conservator to take up residence.
Though Florrie wanted to believe she was only hesitating on the doorstep to examine its design (featuring reproductions of tenth-century tiled admonitions), she was also exceedingly nervous.
Yes, Mim had invited her – eagerly, according to the prince.
But what had driven Mim from the field? Conservation was a demanding trade, of course, and Florrie knew many a former colleague who decided to swap their solvents for stability.
If Mim truly intended to retire, Florrie was loath to insert herself where she wasn’t welcome.
Conveniently, Mim settled the matter when they opened the door and hissed, “Did he say I extended a most enthusiastic invitation?”
“I do apologise, Noble Conservator Glossmith,” said Florrie, giving her host an efficient curtsey and the most obsequious of the Conservatory’s preferred honorifics. “If you’d prefer—”
“I’d prefer Mim, thank you. Do come in, I suppose.”
Mim led Florrie into a parlour that complemented the house’s exterior. It was a darkly cheerful room, upholstered in black and pink floral tapestries and swimming in fourteenth-century chairs with ruffles that threatened to trip Florrie up as she passed.
In contrast, Mim themself was timelessly elegant, dressed in a cream-coloured shift with a crimson ribbon holding back straight and shimmering black hair.
They had observant dark eyes, a light brown complexion speckled with a most becoming constellation of beauty marks, and an air of professorial confidence Florrie had not seen since she completed her studies.
“Your embroidered gown is most unusual,” Mim said, beckoning Florrie to a triple-ruffled queen’s-back chair.
“Thank you. It’s after the style of—”
“The Era of Exquisite Intricacy, yes. Thirteen-thirties – thirteen thirty-five, I’d say, based on the vine motifs and the rose-quartz lace.”
It was, in fact, thirteen thirty-six (the vines were lengthier, and the lace was more of a coral hue), but Florrie merely nodded.
“Don’t you intend to correct me?” Mim prodded. “Call me an utter fool?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The former conservator smirked. “I’m only teasing. You must be one of the humble ones. Rare, dear creature. Rather warm for gloves, though, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Florrie agreed. She found she did not possess the energy to perform her usual explanations today. Mim, fortunately, left it at that, though Florrie noticed her host glancing at the gloves several times more.
At the ruffled tea-table, Mim gave Florrie an enormous frown and an adorable leaf-and-line teacup at the same time.
“Here is the first thing you ought to know about your new employer,” Mim said. “He is unfailingly sanguine. Often to a fault.”
“I apologise, again, about the misunderstanding.”
Mim waved away this concern – a perilous gesture, considering their uncommonly full teacup.
“When Ardant wrote to me, I told him I was morbidly curious about his new conservator and would acquiesce to your visit,” they clarified.
“But, as I said, he often sees life from a rosier perspective. The man has no sense of fashion, for example, but is incapable of greeting someone without complimenting some small aspect of their ensemble. And, on one occasion, he bought fifty fruit tarts for every museum employee – that’s fifty each, mind you, not total – and extemporised at length about how much he appreciated us. No wonder I left.”
While she assumed the fruit tarts would be forthcoming, Florrie tried not to make anything of the fact that the prince had not yet admired one of her dresses.
Her cousin always said Florrie hadn’t an eye for fashion.
(The truth was that Florrie hadn’t the fortitude to endure certain textures of fabric produced after the thirteenth century.)
“Why did you leave? If you don’t mind my asking.” Florrie took a swift sip of tea. The ceramic ruffle on the foot of the teacup felt most intriguing.
“Tell me,” Mim intoned, “what have you done for Ardant so far, Miss Hyverfell?”
“I have inventoried ceramics and begun my initial examination of a painting,” Florrie said, cautiously.