Chapter 3 #2
“Which painting? I say that only to be dramatic. We both know that there’s only one, as far as Ardant is concerned.”
“So there is,” Florrie confessed. “The Resolute Portrait.”
“Dreadful. As a result, I assume you paid me a call because you saw something’s amiss.”
Florrie nearly dropped her teacup out of relief.
“You noticed, too?” Before she could fully enjoy the revelation, however, Florrie reminded herself that their situations were not entirely comparable. After all, if Mim had identified something untoward about the painting, at least they hadn’t made the fatal mistake of applying a solvent to it.
“Yes. The Resolute Portrait of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve Among the Ruins is a forgery.” Mim stood and leaned against the silver-plated falcon sculptures that lined the windowsill. “And not just any forgery. I believe it was created by a Fairy artist as a replacement for the original.”
“A changeling painting,” breathed Florrie.
“A what? Ah, call it what you like. Nobody in any respectable Conservatory circle believes in such things. I daren’t describe the disreputable sources I consulted when I sought to confirm that the original was stolen.”
“By Lord Mauve?” Florrie asked, remembering Vern’s supposition.
“Perhaps,” Mim granted. “No doubt you’ve heard tales of his tendency to sneak into Stillscape in secret to visit his own portrait, long after other Fairies abandoned our city. If curatorial rumours are worth believing, that is.”
“And they so often aren’t,” said Florrie, which earned her a knowing nod.
“It’s an exceptionally complex situation, to say the least. And, as I was not prepared to handle more than mild complexity, I gave my notice.
” Mim smiled wryly. “I’d wanted to leave conservation for years.
Now I’m a clerk in a bookshop. Can you imagine?
A bookshop. The most valuable merchandise I handle at A Tender, Tattered Page is worth a mere twenty coins!
The shop’s patrons are invariably lovely.
Why, I’ve even been entertaining the courtship of a suitor I met there.
I can’t necessarily guarantee courtship and conviviality, but, if it interests you, I am on the hunt for a clerk’s assistant. ”
“You never told the prince about the forgery?”
“Judge me as you will,” said Mim, “but Ardant treasures that thing. He’s a dear friend of my parents, and Papa would never take my side in the matter.
If I thought it was an ordinary forgery by a Folk artist, I would report the theft to Ardant and the Conservatory.
In this case, there’s no action I could take – short of visiting Lord Mauve’s museum in Fairy country to demand its return.
Thus, why ruin Ardant’s life needlessly by telling him his beloved painting is gone? ”
“But it’s not truly gone, is it?” asked Florrie. “If it’s simply in the Fairy realms, as you say—”
“I understand that news spreads slowly to us storage-dwellers, Florrie, but nobody goes to Fairy country any more. I recommend you either dedicate yourself to living a lie for the prince or resign before it’s too late.”
Both options made her stomach turn. Sensing she’d get no further with the ex-conservator, however, Florrie made a graciously vacuous comment about having occupied far too much of Mim’s time.
Mim, to their credit, wasted no additional time with unnecessary pleasantries and escorted Florrie to the door.
“If you don’t mind one more question,” Florrie said as she stood on the polished bronze threshold of the little house. “Did you notice anything else unusual about the painting?”
“You mean, besides the forger giving the Vibrant Lord the most ridiculous grin?”
“I certainly wouldn’t describe it as ridiculous,” Florrie said. It did not seem appropriate to share the other adjectives that came to mind.
Then Florrie murmured, “I wonder what he would think about that?”
“He?” asked Mim. “Ardant, you mean?”
“Oh, merely Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve himself,” she said, experimentally. “Vern, that is. Suits him better.”
She wanted to believe Vern’s claim that he had never spoken to anyone else. Still, Florrie found it difficult to accept that someone who had spent a decade in endless silence would break it for her sake.
“And that is why I prefer the bookshop,” said Mim. “If I may offer some advice, Florrie – do spend some time in the company of your living acquaintances, rather than personifying paintings.”
“I will try,” Florrie pledged. And, after bidding Mim farewell, she considered putting that promise into action.
She was not expected in the galleries immediately, as Prince Ardant had encouraged her to “enjoy a leisurely conversation with Mim”.
As a result, Florrie decided to call upon her parents on her return journey to the Commonplace Palace.
The Hyverfell estate was both Florrie’s childhood home and a celebrated enterprise that gave her a deep sense of professional shame.
As the name suggested, the Museum of the Mediocre was a little seed of satire that sprouted into a celebrated tourist attraction.
Visitors came in droves to see works of art that were only…
passable. They found the experience “riotously refreshing”, “unbearably groundbreaking” and “precisely what society requires at present”.
Unfortunately, precisely what Florrie required at present was to visit the Stillscape Hyverfells and take comfort in their familiarity.
Though she was close to both factions of her family, the other half – her father, his betrothed and Florrie’s newborn brother – currently called a neighbouring harbour town home and visited rarely.
Before moving to the Commonplace Palace, however, Florrie had spent years enjoying the kind hospitality of her mother and stepmother at the Museum of the Mediocre.
She didn’t miss the tour groups or the offensively average decor, but she already wished her parents did not reside quite so far from her new accommodation.
Florrie’s daughterly devotion was tested now, as she crept past delightedly raucous visitors to reach the staff quarters.
It was dangerously close to midday, when daily tours began.
After surfacing from the crowd, she dashed through the modestly gilded door that read “Guides Only” in second-rate calligraphy.
Though this room never became as crowded as the corridors outside, it seemed fuller than usual.
Dressed in their formal touring clothes – which were perfectly respectable but slightly behind the current fashion, just as they liked it – were Florrie’s parents, poring over a gallery map as they planned their route.
With them were two fellow guides: Orchel, who’d worked at the museum for years, and Florrie’s cousin, Chary.
“Florrie!” exclaimed Orchel, who was first to glance up from the map. As he grinned, his tan cheeks crinkled with pre-tour delight. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been dismissed already. We cannot possibly fit even one more in the galleries today.”
“What have you— I mean, how did you…?” She cleared her throat. Orchel was only slightly older than Florrie, and he did like to banter, which meant Florrie had spent their extended acquaintance attempting to comprehend precisely what “bantering” entailed.
“I would rather lose my job than step foot in those galleries again,” she said, trying to mirror Orchel’s playful grin.
“Florrie, pay him no mind. You know we couldn’t be prouder of you!
” exclaimed her mother. As usual, Lady Hyverfell was pink-flushed and placid, demonstrating her unique combination of stress and serenity.
Her wavy brown-black hair, identical to Florrie’s in both texture and length, snagged on a button as she reached up to toy nervously with a lacklustre grey cravat.
“Will you stay for luncheon? Though the meal might be somewhat delayed, as usual. It seems utterly impossible to complete a one-hour tour in a mere sixty minutes!”
Luncheon would likely be delicious. Her mother was an excellent cook, and Orchel had recently nominated himself as Lady Hyverfell’s unofficial culinary apprentice.
If she stayed, however, Florrie knew her parents would do nothing but celebrate her acquisition of such an ideal position.
Under the circumstances, Florrie did not trust herself to mask her distress about the current state of affairs at the Commonplace Palace.
Even if her mother was too distracted to notice, Florrie’s stepmother certainly would.
“Though it pains me, I shouldn’t stay,” Florrie murmured. “Perhaps next week?”
“I suppose we haven’t the time for a meal,” admitted Lady Hyverfell as she glanced at the unremarkable fifteenth-century clock-pendant that invariably tangled with the ribbons on her waistcoat. “Already behind schedule. What is our final strategy, Glin?”
“I’ll start in the first gallery, Orchel in the second…
” Florrie’s stepmother paused to give Florrie a kiss on the forehead.
Dr Hyverfell’s sense of style was anything but mediocre, with the rich violet lace on her touring-gown’s sleeves harmonising charmingly with the warm amber of her wedding ring and the golden brown of her hands.
And she smelled as she always did – of orchids and old books. Florrie had missed her ever so much.
“Are you settling in?” Dr Hyverfell whispered. “Do you require any essentials? Eccentric decor for your new quarters? I’d like to find you something special to celebrate.”
“Oh,” Florrie said, tapping her fingers inside her glove. “You don’t need to—”
“Nonsense. You’ve achieved something wonderful, Florrie. And—”
“Goodness, there are already thirty Folk in the queue!” Lady Hyverfell announced. “Let’s continue. Where will I start, my dear?”
Dr Hyverfell consulted her notes. “You’re in the third gallery, and Chary’s in the fourth. Four guides and a full crowd poses such a challenge. Despite my careful planning, I still suspect we’ll all collide halfway through.”