Chapter 4 #3
In contrast to the darkness of the adjoining passage, the chamber featured a broad, bright window of coral-stained glass that overlooked the topiary gardens.
A bush resembling a shapely bowl of citrus fruits loomed outside the window, flanked by a leafy rendering of an arrogant brush-mole sticking up its starry snout.
The plum-stained brocade walls of a leisure tent were just visible beneath the tallest topiary, where a soap-bubble setter created clouds of ephemeral forms with a pipe and a palette of gem-dyed suds.
The view, however, could hardly compete with the room’s contents.
The walls were thick with maps, all crowded with geographical features represented in thirteenth-century visual styles that Florrie only vaguely recognised.
(She tried not to let this realisation horrify her.) There were no paintings, but several colour prints of fifteenth-century Fairy landscapes hung in simple wooden frames throughout the room.
A pair of lace-wire spectacles dangled on a green velvet cord beneath a bronze relief of a canyon.
On a long, glossy desk – very tenth-century, with its carved striations – were several spherical crystals Florrie could not identify in the least. (She did find that relatively alarming.)
“Welcome to my private shame,” said the prince. “If you must go to Fairy country, dear Florrie, I shall ensure you are prepared. It is an unpredictable and frustrating place.”
“How wonderful that you’ve been there,” she mused, her eyes still moving between the mysterious crystals and the landscape prints.
“Several times, I’m afraid.” Prince Ardant shook his head and approached the landscape that had caught her eye – a print of a rose-hued waterfall that formed a perfect arc over a most irregular cliff.
“In truth, the Fairy realms are utterly sublime,” he continued. “Put simply, Fairy country redefines one’s understanding of aesthetics.”
“It does reassure me to hear you say so,” replied Florrie. “I worried it might be dangerous, since few Folk travel there these days.”
“Not at all,” said the prince. “I went there and back countless times, and everything was safe as storage. The Old Amethyst Road may be a shadow of its former glory, but it’s reliable enough.
Why, I have the fondest memories of picking flowers and watching them sprout into paintbrushes before my eyes! ”
“I’ve heard tell of that road myself,” said Florrie. “How would I reach it?”
Prince Ardant turned back to the wall of maps. He identified a fittingly purple piece of parchment, carefully removed the pushpins, and rolled it into a scroll. Like all good conservators, Florrie happened to have a pocket scroll-protector handy.
“That should be recent enough,” he said as Florrie slid the scroll into a glimmering, feather-lined case. “The Amethyst Road runs past southern Stillscape’s agricultural art district. Your real challenge will be locating… wherever you’re going.”
“Well,” Florrie almost whispered, “the nearest Fairy museum is that of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve.”
“I feared you would say that.” Prince Ardant coughed. “Not that it’s a bad choice. Lord Mauve is the most hospitable of the local Fairy lords, even after— At any rate, he has all manner of marvels that shall astound you.”
Before Florrie could dare to ask further questions about the real Lord Mauve, Prince Ardant picked up a crystal sphere from his desk and placed it in her hand.
Florrie rolled the crystal gently in her palm, admiring its slightly grainy surface.
She watched as clouds of azure – nearly the same colour as the door, she noted – expanded, multiplied and fused with each roll.
“It’s a Fairy token – a wholly singular colour,” said the prince. “Allegedly, you won’t find that exact shade of blue in nature or art. It was given to me and I need it no longer. Bearing this token will show Lord Mauve that you are my affiliate.”
Florrie turned away, clearing her throat.
Prince Ardant had fully accepted her deception, and he’d made every effort to support her supposed quest. Though she’d convinced herself of the necessity of her journey, based on her Code-decreed responsibilities, Florrie could not help feeling ill about misleading him.
Rescuing his beloved painting from Lord Mauve was the very least she could do to atone for her actions.
“I cannot thank you enough,” said Florrie. “But I am sorry for giving you cause to come here.”
“No, don’t apologise. I probably ought to visit this room every so often.
” He grinned weakly. “Oh, I’ve become such a bore.
You’re off to Fairy country, and I’m off to leave it behind.
Perhaps, this evening, I’ll see if I can’t distract myself by taking someone out for…
who can say? A painting appraisal, followed by dancing?
Prince Valer would thrill at receiving my invitation.
I suspect she’ll propose thrice more before the appraiser unfolds their easel.
Or Prince Werith? Always found him a bit gallant for my tastes, but it might be time to become a little more open-minded. ”
Florrie felt a sudden, suspicious curiosity.
Ardant was, of course, a naturally cheerful gentleman, but he’d delivered that speech about his evening plans in a most insistently jovial and forthcoming manner.
She certainly knew a great deal about the art of performing good cheer to distract one’s self – or distract others.
From what, however, did he hope to distract?
“You have been most generous,” Florrie said, to stop herself from prying. She settled the colour-token securely in her pocket. “I may be absent for a few days. What tasks shall I complete in the galleries before I go?”
Prince Ardant led her back to the passage. Florrie bid a silent farewell to the Fairy landscapes, knowing she would experience them herself soon enough.
“Let’s leave poor Lord Mauve alone for now,” he said, “and I’ll give you something less delicate to occupy your time.
A few weeks ago, I removed a painting by…
Oh, I don’t recall the name – it’s one of those pleasingly modern, poetic things.
Could you reframe it? Then I will have something new to attract visitors while The Resolute Portrait remains indisposed. ”
Upon viewing the pleasingly modern, poetic thing in question, Florrie accepted her assignment with relieved enthusiasm. It was simply impossible that any of the barbed lines and irregular paint blotches in My Chorus of Isolation would vex her with their charms as the changeling painting did.