Chapter 4
To Florrie’s relief, the chaos unfolding at the Commonplace Palace helpfully prevented her from dwelling upon personal woes.
Prince Ardant had summoned her to the sculpture court, home to several plaster parables from the twelfth century. There, the prince smiled anxiously as the sculptures – and, more significantly, a stranger – glared at him.
“Florrie, you’re just in time!” Prince Ardant exclaimed as she made her way through a labyrinth of cast-plaster limbs. “Won’t you please tell this lovely visitor why he oughtn’t put his…” – the prince drew in a hearty breath – “… his muddy boots upon The Elders Eschew Charity?”
“How can I be blamed?” the visitor scoffed as he rolled up to a standing position. “There was, after all, no sign forbidding me from putting my feet anyplace.”
With that, the stranger turned on a muddy toe and strode to the door.
“If you wish to run a proper museum, you might consider demonstrating the teensiest bit of care,” he called over his shoulder.
Once they were alone, Prince Ardant sank onto a bench adjacent to the soiled sculpture.
“How did I bumble that so abominably?” the prince exclaimed, head in hands.
“Didn’t you recognise him? That was Prince Talan of the Distinguished Drawers Institute,” Florrie said.
“The what?”
“He’s a furniture collector,” she clarified. “Though he dabbles in sculpture. Years ago, I had the misfortune of repatinating his forty-seven bronze self-portraits.”
“Another prince? Why, Florrie, that makes matters even worse,” Prince Ardant moaned. “How could a fellow collector damage an invaluable sculpture?”
“It’s merely a bit of mud,” Florrie soothed. “Easy enough to remedy with the proper tools.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Mud was mud, but ameliorating its damage was still simpler than fixing what she had done to a certain Fairy portrait.
It took Florrie the rest of the afternoon to remove the spots of sediment from the sculpture’s uncharitable elders.
Her progress was impeded by the presence of The Resolute Portrait, which served as a reminder of how any basic conservation job might go terribly wrong.
Still, the painting also reminded Florrie of her resolution to speak with Vern – for the purpose of acquiring information about the Fairy realms, of course.
After hauling the sculpture back to its court and tidying her worktable, Florrie stood before The Resolute Portrait as she swayed to and fro. Would Vern notice her presence? What if damaging the canvas was the only way to summon him?
Florrie certainly did not expect a cheerful voice to say “Good day to you, Florrie Hyverfell!” not long after she lifted the shield-cloth from the easel.
“You can’t believe how happy I am to see you,” Vern continued. “It’s a bit quiet in here.”
“How thoughtless I am!” Florrie cried. “You’re accustomed to being in your gallery, where you can observe—”
“Oh, let’s call it what it is,” he whispered with a conspiratorial air. “You mean ‘eavesdrop’.”
“I’ll put your painting back on view straightaway.”
“There’s no need to rush, of course. I didn’t mean to complain.
Besides, there are some benefits to my present circumstances.
” Once again, that startling smile flickered over his translucent face.
“Out there, I overhear people; in here, I converse with you. One of those is far more engaging than the other. And this is already my second conversation! May I ask how you are?”
Florrie stared at the painted cottage behind him, wondering how to answer.
Should she reveal that she had met a conservator who didn’t wish to see her, barely escaped her cousin’s meddling and now felt tormented anew by the conviction that she could only save her career by completing an impossible journey?
“I am well enough,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”
“I know it can be challenging to settle into a new home. I struggled a great deal when I suddenly found myself in this museum. I suppose that’s nothing like marrying a near-stranger, though.”
Florrie was horrified to realise that the frantic hours she’d spent fixing her “husband’s” sculpture had put that other lie entirely out of her mind. How kind of Vern to remind her.
“I’m managing, under the circumstances,” she said, which was true enough. “But, Vern, I wanted your advice. I must – that is, I am considering the possibility that I may need to – travel to Fairy country to retrieve the original Resolute Portrait. Do you know how I might go about doing so?”
Vern paused, humming faintly as he considered her question.
Once again, Florrie wished she could clearly discern his expressions and gestures – for art-historical purposes – but she wondered if bringing out her loupe or, more appealing still, her conservator’s bonnet with its magnifying lenses, would seem impolite.
“I’m trying to remember the journey, but it’s a bit of a blur,” he said.
“Even the most minor detail could prove useful.”
“We travelled upon something called the Old Amethyst Road, I believe. I remember seeing the entrance sign, and the loveliest crystal set into it.”
Florrie recorded the name of the road in her notebook before returning to the more pressing matter at hand.
“Can you really see and hear everything that happens outside the painting?” she asked.
“Not exactly everything. Let me see,” Vern said, thoughtfully. “What is it like for you when you look at a painting?”
“A number of foundational art historians compared the experience to seeing through a window.”
“Of course, a window! I know windows. My cottage has—”
“Twenty-three of them,” Florrie said before she could stop herself.
“Goodness, yes,” Vern breathed. “Anyway, I find that no matter where I am in the painting, I can summon a window that floats before me and provides a glimpse into your world. An especially fancy window, I should say. It even has a frame!”
Florrie frowned. “But I can’t see an especially fancy window at present – nor do I recall seeing it during our first meeting.”
“How curious!” Vern exclaimed. “I’m not surprised, though. You wouldn’t be able to see me, either, without my say-so. It must be part of the painting’s magic.”
“So, you can always see your surroundings, but we can’t always see you,” Florrie mused. “That doesn’t seem entirely fair.”
Vern grinned. “That’s why I’m letting you see me now, isn’t it? To balance things?”
“I appreciate your efforts.” Florrie glanced curiously about her own surroundings. “How much of the studio can you see at present?”
As Vern turned his head from side to side, Florrie was quite charmed by her first glimpse of his profile.
His nose was slightly turned up and large, dark freckles graced his cheeks.
Vern’s overall visage was something that an art historian might describe as “an archetype of aesthetic asymmetry” – because they were too cowardly to say “adorable”.
“There’s the wall,” he noted, “and a round door, like the one in my cottage, but that’s all I can make out.
You might describe my perspective as very vertical.
When I look at you, for example, the painting’s viewpoint extends from the top of your head to that pretty embroidery at the neck of your dress.
Oh, I do apologise – I didn’t mean to stare. ”
“I’m thrilled you like it,” Florrie said, wishing she could brag to Chary and the prince that someone, at least, appreciated her dress.
“It’s only natural! I’m extremely keen on cloth,” said Vern. “I have a spinning wheel and a loom, and I weave to keep myself busy. I prefer blankets over garments, but that embroidery caught my eye because I wondered what made the thread sparkle so much.”
“Gemdust threadcraft isn’t fashionable, but I enjoy the texture. Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I mess about with the embroidery on my sleeves to make myself feel better.” Though she didn’t know what possessed her to reveal this dull information, Florrie flipped her wrists into view to demonstrate.
“I do the same!” Vern exclaimed.
He took several steps forward. Now Florrie could spy embroidered spirals on his sleeve hems, surrounded by golden rays that extended across his arms. As she followed the stitches up Vern’s sleeves and around his shoulders, Florrie estimated there were hundreds of dashes marching over the fabric.
“How many years did it take you to make all those stitches?”
“Ten years, three months and four days!” He turned to the side, revealing hundreds more – these stitches green, instead of gold – growing down the back of his shirt like blades of grass. “How else would I measure the time?”
Though Vern was smiling as widely as ever, Florrie could not help but find this revelation profoundly sad.
“I know your cottage is meant to resemble a weaver’s,” she said, “but I didn’t notice a wheel or loom in the painting.”
“You can’t see everything from where you are,” Vern declared. “Do you think my world’s as small as that? You’d have a different perspective in here. Why, I reckon we’d even be about the same size! But now I’ve distracted you once more. Do you truly intend to visit Lord Mauve’s museum?”
“If I can,” she said, with a casual flounce she’d learned from Chary. “Yet I haven’t the slightest idea of how to reach this Old Amethyst Road. Do you recall anything else about your journey?”
“Only vague flashes of scenery. I’d describe them, but I suspect you have far better ways to spend your evening.
” To her dismay, Florrie had no time to object before he continued, “Why don’t you ask Prince Ardant?
I’ve overheard him mentioning the Fairy realms while showing visitors my painting.
He has probably travelled there himself. ”
“Has he indeed? I shall have to inquire.” Florrie bit her lip, eager to change the subject. “I’ve been wondering: why didn’t you reveal yourself to him, rather than me? I know my carelessness with the painting forced you to speak for the first time, but, before that…”
“You didn’t force me to do anything,” Vern chided. “I suppose I could have tried to speak with Prince Ardant anytime over the past ten years.”