Chapter 4 #2
“And why didn’t you?”
“It’s silly… I really oughtn’t to say.”
Before Florrie could ponder his unusual reticence, Vern propelled himself slightly upward with a flap of his artificial wings, nodding firmly. “All right. I’ll try. The fact of the matter is that no one else has ever looked at my painting.”
“Why, that’s impossible!” Though the galleries had only recently opened to visitors, Prince Ardant’s grandfather would have hosted countless friends, colleagues and rivals at his famous galas.
Some invitees might well have been scholars of art, or experts in Fairy history – all perfectly equipped to conduct a visual analysis of The Resolute Portrait.
“Looked properly, you understand,” Vern added. “Some Folk take a peek in passing, but even they tend to move on in a heartbeat. You can imagine how surprised I was when I peered out of the painting yesterday and saw you.”
“Staring in a quite unmannerly manner,” Florrie said.
“Even Prince Ardant, who claims to love my painting, can barely give me the briefest glance. Why, one time, he began weeping the very moment he laid eyes on the canvas!” Vern cleared his throat.
“What I mean to say, Florrie, is that you are the most observant person I’ve ever seen.
All the paintings in the museum are lucky to have you look after them. I know I certainly am.”
Vern tilted his head and smiled again, and Florrie imagined, almost involuntarily, what it would be like to see him as he truly was. Not as a painting, nor a flickering ghost of an image upon one, but as an individual. One who might be the same size as she was, apparently.
Florrie felt quite unprofessionally breathless.
“There I go again! Don’t let me delay you. You’ve a journey to plan!” Vern said cheerfully. “With your husband! Perhaps preparing for the trip will help you become better acquainted?”
Though it was too late to speak with Prince Ardant just then, Florrie conveniently received a note the next morning requesting her presence immediately – or, as he put it, “as soon as you’d like” – in the sculpture court.
In her haste, Florrie donned yet another of her embroidered gowns…
for efficiency’s sake and no other reason, naturally.
When she arrived in the gallery, it was clear that Prince Ardant had put in a full day’s work before dawn.
Hanging before all twenty-five plaster parables were paper circles illuminated with brilliant crystallised watercolours, each featuring a different border.
The one nearest to Florrie was framed with delicate ivy; another featured a river surrounded by diving reedfishers.
The single element present in every creation was the elegantly scrawled inscription “Kindly do not touch.”
The prince was sprawled on the floor, his focus fixed on the twenty-sixth sign. His handwriting was as astonishingly graceful as his paintings, but the large, curving characters inevitably crowded the furthest reaches of the paper.
Florrie crept to his side. “May I assist you, Prince Ardant?”
“Ah, Florrie!” he exclaimed. “As you can see, I took Prince Talan’s good advice to heart. What do you think of these signs?”
“They are exquisite,” Florrie said. “The illustrations soften the admonitions.”
“And yet…?” the prince asked, with an inviting smile. “Be honest, please. Do remember that I employed you because I trust your judgement on gallery matters.”
Florrie mustered a smile of her own. If only he knew how misplaced his trust was.
“There are over three hundred works on this floor alone, Prince Ardant,” she said. “That’s a great many signs to make. Besides, you needn’t let a tepid frame-termite like Prince Talan tell you what to do.”
“But it’s not for his sake! At least, not entirely.
” Prince Ardant glanced lovingly around the gallery.
“In my grandfather’s day, opening the family collections to the public would have been utterly unthinkable.
I disagree; artistic treasures are not to be hoarded by a fortunate few.
At the same time, Florrie, though it makes me despise myself, I cherish every piece in the palace, and I dread to think of the dangers they face while on display. ”
“But if you truly believe art does not deserve to gather dust, I trust you will find the reward is worth the risk.” Florrie tapped the nearest paper circle.
“Why don’t we hang a single sign in each gallery?
And, perhaps, manufacture a few reproductions of objects that people may touch?
That won’t prevent all potential calamities, but if that ill-mannered prince returns, I will ensure the art receives the care it needs. ”
Prince Ardant clapped his hands and sprung to his feet.
“Well said, Florrie, well said!” He turned about the room, scrutinising his handiwork. “I will try to rest assured that you will take care of our dear friends here.”
Florrie helped the prince remove the extraneous signs and install the chosen one for the gallery – which featured an illumination of several dignified cats taking tea in a walled garden – in a spot that accommodated the sightline of the average visitor.
“Speaking of our dear friends,” said Prince Ardant, “how goes your acquaintance with Lord Vernal Mauve? It was not my intention to steal you away from him.”
“As it happens, I also wished to discuss The Resolute Portrait.” Florrie glanced through a skylight into an adjoining gallery for moral support.
Her eyes alighted on a still-life of a perfectly ordinary pot of daisies, accompanied by two amorous lizards whose eyes appeared to be flecked with gold leaf.
“After speaking with Mim, I remain concerned about applying solvents to the canvas,” she continued, letting her eyes trace the lizards’ curving limbs.
“In addition, some troubling new research suggests fifteenth-century paintings might be particularly susceptible to traditional treatments. Some believe a more delicate approach might be in order.”
So far, so truthful. Florrie felt both satisfied and discomfited.
“You believe we ought to leave him as he is?” Prince Ardant asked.
“I did hope to restore him to his former glory. But I am not too proud to accept defeat. Just say the word, and I’ll have The Ribald Portrait of Fragrant Lord Tempestuous Crimson Among Admirers removed so The Resolute Portrait can reclaim its gallery. ”
Florrie had forgotten that Prince Ardant had selected another Fairy portrait from storage to fill the spot left by The Resolute Portrait when it went into the studio.
The Ribald Portrait was relatively obscure, and its artistic style so uninspired that the painting practically belonged in her parents’ museum.
It didn’t help that the artist painted the subject, Lord Crimson, with a half-smile that suggested he was pondering the sort of underclothes the viewer might be wearing.
Florrie was grateful, at least, that this particular portrait did not wish to speak with her.
“There’s no need for that,” she said. “Some specialised solvents might be up to the task, if I can acquire them.”
“Of course! I will cover any expense you deem necessary.”
“The expense is less an obstacle than the circumstance,” said Florrie. “These materials only exist in the Fairy realms.”
She finally dared to look at the prince. To her dismay, he was grimacing. Florrie hadn’t realised he was capable of such an expression.
“But if that interferes with my duties, I will put the thought out of mind immediately,” Florrie clarified, though she hardly knew how she’d reclaim his painting if she couldn’t leave.
“No, no! Apologies. I’m not displeased with you.” Prince Ardant sighed. “It’s the notion of the Fairy realms, you see. Sets me into this state every time.” He released a second sigh. “You must do what is necessary for the sake of the portrait. I suppose I ought to show you my secret study.”
“Your secret study?” she asked, but the prince was already on his way into the next room. Florrie followed him through the galleries again, passing by landscapes and portraits so rapidly that she started seeing solemn faces superimposed upon mountainsides.
In keeping with its title, Prince Ardant’s secret study was only accessible via a door tucked behind a portrait of his grandfather as a dour thirteen-year-old.
“My third-least-favourite of all his miserable portraits,” explained the prince, as he reached boldly for the unprotected corner of the tenth-century sand-sketched frame.
“Oh, please, allow me,” cut in Florrie, stopping him with her gloved hand. Following Prince Ardant’s instructions, she pulled the painting forward so they could sneak behind, then securely tucked it shut after them.
“One might assume I maintain a secret study because I collect materials of great value,” the prince said as they navigated the dark passage.
How many passages did the palace possess?
Florrie certainly hadn’t seen any of them indicated on her gallery map.
Even with the lack of windows – and the apparent disuse suggested by the impressive level of dust – this passage boasted a surprisingly cosy carpet, decorated with encircled bat-and-blossom motifs.
The few cobwebbed lanterns probably made the place quite homelike when illuminated.
“No, the truth is,” continued Prince Ardant as they approached a gilded azure door, “that much of what I possess from my time in Fairy country brings back unpleasant memories. As a result, I hide my treasures from myself.”
Florrie watched, awestruck, as he inserted a filigreed key into the gaping whale’s-maw lock.
“I hadn’t realised you were personally acquainted with Fairies,” she said.
“Indeed. Though perhaps my acquaintance ultimately proved a bit too personal.”