Chapter 5
The contemporary painting proved to be silent, but not unpleasant, company.
When Florrie removed the canvas from its original frame, she revealed a weakness in the backing’s auxiliary spine.
While she repaired the spine’s soft wood with jewel-paste, Florrie happened to notice severe light-mottling on the edge of the canvas.
A quick peek at the provenance records confirmed that My Chorus of Isolation spent months on display – as she feared – in Stillscape’s infamous Glassed Galleries.
Though visitors found the Galleries’ transparent walls enchanting, Florrie took a dim view of the resident curators, who boasted that sunbeams were their greatest patrons.
The mottling was a lost cause, no doubt, but Florrie suspected she ought to swap in a new sheet of crystal-glazing to be safe.
These days, glazings were far more than mere glass insets.
Over the past few centuries, artisans had perfected the art of melting and binding glass with the absorbent crystal colloquially known as “sun-hungerer”.
When done properly, the final product shielded paintings from light without obscuring the artwork within.
(The rudimentary glazings of the tenth century, in comparison, were prone to superimposing the viewer’s own reflection over the framed image.
In response, one tenth-century artist placed a blank canvas into a glazed frame and gave it the title Unsolicited Self-Portrait – which would have been clever, if twenty other artists hadn’t simultaneously done the same.)
Thanks to her inventory of the studio, Florrie could already remember which cabinet (fourth down in the second row, under the picture-rails, opposite the half-shattered frames) contained the supplies she needed.
Applying the glazing, however, would likely occupy several hours.
The process would involve delicate work, careful attention and a willingness to tear everything out and start over again.
Florrie was thrilled.
As she primed the frame and waited for the unrolled glazing to set, though, Florrie couldn’t help glancing at The Resolute Portrait.
To her horror, she noticed the shield-cloth had slipped slightly.
That wouldn’t do. Either a draught had gusted in from the galleries, or the cloth had warped in the summer air, losing the carefully starched shape that prevented it from falling.
She could now spy a corner of the painting, where Loftus (or the Fairy forger, really) had placed a tangle of roots reaching up through the soil.
Real flecks of minerals sparkled amid the layers of paint.
Could Vern see into the studio now? If he truly missed his regular place in the museum, he might be happy to glimpse something besides the back of a cloth.
He might even wish to speak with her again.
Florrie wasn’t about to wait for that, of course. There was plenty to be done. She tapped the coat of primer with a billow-brush to assess its condition, measured and trimmed an appropriately sized oval of glazing and began applying it to the painting with careful strokes of sealant.
The Resolute Portrait, meanwhile, remained still and silent. Perhaps Vern was asleep, or simply bored by what he saw. She assumed most non-conservators would be.
Florrie remained blissfully disconnected from the passage of time until she noticed her candle had dwindled to the size (and, quite frankly, the style) of an eighth-century waxen bust. She could stop to fetch a new one – or she could help herself see better in the low light.
Just yesterday, Florrie had finally unpacked her magnifying equipment, which included headwear graced with a brim of lenses she could pull in front of her face as necessary.
Advertisements for this top-of-the-line conservator’s bonnet claimed the most powerful lens made it possible to spy a glint of light on the eyelash of the most distant figure in an archetypal crowd portrait.
Why, if she truly wished to analyse the details of The Resolute Portrait—
Not The Resolute Portrait. Not until her present work was complete.
Florrie regarded the contemporary canvas beneath her. It was… perfectly decent.
Actually, that wasn’t fair: up close, with tiny bubbles in the paint suggesting disruption by real raindrops, My Chorus of Isolation was a bit of a marvel.
Even considering her fondness for historical portraiture, Florrie was not one to dismiss anything that rendered the world in less naturalistic ways.
Abstraction was nothing new. (Today’s painters claimed they were rejecting the work of abstract artists of the thirteenth century, who were themselves subverting the abstraction of antiquity, who were themselves parodying the abstract shapes of the natural world, or so they said.) My Chorus of Isolation featured the most spectacular spattering of pinks and greys intended to capture the feeling – if not the precise visual experience – of observing the sunset on a moderately rainy day while grappling with one’s yearning, specifically, for a distant coastal home and the long-lost grandparent who resided there.
“Might I have a look?”
The sudden emergence of a small voice from a painting was inherently surprising, Florrie supposed. It was therefore entirely natural that she should turn her head so quickly in response.
“You gaze at all paintings intently, then? Not just mine?” Vern continued.
“Technically speaking, conservators never gaze,” Florrie clarified.
“Upon its founding, the Conservatory designated five distinct categories of professional looking: observing, inspecting, scrutinising, evaluating and observing scrupulously. That, just now, was scrutiny, because my act of looking focused on the front of the canvas, involved no magnification and lasted at least one minute but no longer than five.”
He wouldn’t reply, surely. Not after that lecture. What was it that Chary always told her? “Conversation is about connection, Florrie dear, not information.” Or something of the sort. Florrie ground the handle of her brush into the back of her hand.
After a few moments, she mumbled, “You’re not jealous, are you?”
Thank goodness she wasn’t a forger. That pale imitation of casual banter wouldn’t fool the rankest of amateur curators.
“Jealous? I suppose that depends on which painting it is,” Vern answered. “I might be a little disappointed if it turns out you’ve been gazing at – sorry, scrutinising – the one with three boots afloat in a darkening sky.”
“The Parable of the Incautious Cobbler, thirteenth-century, amberpoint on board,” Florrie said, because she couldn’t help it. “No, it’s not that. Why don’t you see for yourself?”
She applied a final streak of sealant before leaning over to adjust the hanging easel. Thanks to the tracks in the ceiling, she could give Vern a better view of the painting by gliding the easel’s hook slightly forward.
Once the hook clicked to a halt, Florrie saw Vern’s small form flicker into place next to the figure of Lord Mauve.
Today, he wore a wheat-coloured shirt embroidered with near-triangular leaves like the vines that swarmed the edges of his painting.
Gold-threaded stars sparkled between the vines.
She still couldn’t quite understand his expression, though.
What precisely was he thinking while looking at My Chorus of Isolation – and at her, for that matter?
“Imagine living in colours like those!” he exclaimed. “Was it simple for you to fix?”
“That remains to be seen,” she grumbled. “After what I did to your painting, I find I can hardly trust my own judgement any more.”
“Oh, I know that isn’t true,” Vern said. “You’ve done well with it, haven’t you? And, let me guess: your conversation with the prince went well too, didn’t it?”
Florrie gaped at him.
“Did I… Did I say things went well?” she floundered. “I am impressed by your prescience, or your optimism. I assume both may be Fairy gifts?”
“No, not particularly. Only, you seem calmer than yesterday, and your shoulders are down and you’re not playing with that enchanting embroidery on your collar, even though it looks irresistible to touch. So I assumed everything turned out better than you expected.”
“Well, your ability to discern my mood from my physical appearance seems like Fairy magic to me.” How had this Fairy from a painting – “new to conversation” as he apparently was – completed such a compelling visual analysis of her?
“Speaking of your physical appearance,” said Vern, “may I ask what’s on your head?”
Florrie flung her hands up and somehow managed to strike every finger rather painfully against the magnifying frame.
“It’s a conservator’s bonnet,” she said with a wince, sliding the lenses down to demonstrate how it worked. “The first prototypes were developed in the mid-500s. And then… well, never mind. Would you consider granting me leave to look at your painting more closely?”
“That depends. Do you intend to observe, inspect, scrutinise, evaluate or – what was it? Scrupulously observe me?”
Before Florrie could restate the distinguishing features of each category, Vern laughed. The sound was as gentle and delightful as she remembered. Florrie possessed many negative opinions about the qualities of various sounds; it was remarkable how much she enjoyed this one.
“I’d be honoured,” he said. “The gallery guides regularly present my painting to the world without my say-so. I’ve always wanted to show it off myself.”
“And I would adore a tour. Give me a moment to find the right lens, won’t you?”
Florrie took another step, getting as close to the painting as was safe, and began experimenting with a few key candidates. The first lens transformed the canvas into deep-green blurs. She overcorrected with the second, which barely made the details of the painting any larger at all.
When she tried the third option, it was as though Vern was standing in the studio with her.