Chapter 5 #2
Well, not quite. He was still small, and his odd transparency on the canvas seemed more noticeable at close range.
She couldn’t see the intricate details of his face, either – no matter what that cursed bonnet advertisement claimed about eyelashes, et cetera – but Florrie did enjoy a much better glimpse of his cheerful and curious expression.
In addition, it almost appeared as though he had dimples.
She should, no doubt, note that in the official condition report.
What struck her most was the frantic movement of his hands. With the aid of the magnifier, she could see he held a small cloud of raw fibres in one hand, and what appeared to be a spindle in the other.
During a contract with a textile collector, Florrie had once varnished a renowned collection of over fifty wooden hand-spindles from the seventh century.
She was the sort of Folk who remembered the look and feel of each one.
In comparison, the design of Vern’s spindle was completely novel.
Instead of a linear staff encircled by a whorl at the bottom, the object featured a chain of several spirals, around which the yarn twisted as Vern pulled at the unprocessed fluff.
“How do you unspool the yarn when you finish?” she asked, too enthralled to recall Chary’s exhortation that technical questions had no place in small talk.
“Can you really see what I’m doing?” Vern replied. He grabbed the half-spun yarn as it twisted in the air, halting the spin of the spirals. “I spin all the time without thinking. Is it impolite? Shall I stop?”
“Oh, please continue,” she said. “It’s fascinating. Won’t you tell me more?”
The words had barely left her lips before the spindle’s rotations began again.
“The spirals swing open and shut. Like a door, I suppose.” Vern gestured at the minute gap in each semicircle. “This spindle produces such small skeins of yarn that I usually toss them under the bed when I’m done. Helps keep the floor warm. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”
“So you spin for the sake of the process, not the product.”
“You do understand! It helps me think more clearly. Is that unusual?”
Florrie watched, transfixed, as the thread stretched and snagged on the spirals – then sagged snugly onto the nearest whorl.
“Unusually beautiful, perhaps,” she replied. “And the funny gestures and movements that help me think clearly aren’t as productive as your spinning. I imagine I could watch that for hours.”
“Well, if you ever have hours to spare, you know where to find me!” Vern cleared his throat. “But I’m sure you don’t. By the way, do I look different to you? You’re much the same. Though that lens makes your eye seem enormous!”
“I wouldn’t call you enormous, but you are easier to see.”
Vern took a step forward, as though to evaluate – no – inspect her.
“It’s a very lovely yellow-brown,” he commented. “Like new ferns all curled together.”
It took Florrie far too long to realise he was still going on about her eye.
“Won’t you please tell me about your home?” she asked, hoping the bonnet’s lens might obscure her unfortunate blushing. “I’m terribly excited to see it.”
“And I’m excited to show you!” Vern replied, his wings shaking as he shuffled back. “I apologise in advance if I’m a bit of a bore. I’ve studied conversation for years, but I’m afraid any sense of what makes one interesting eludes me still.”
That, at least, was something they had in common.
“You’ll find it’s nearly impossible to bore me, especially when it comes to art,” said Florrie, which earned her a grin she was pleased to see magnified at ten times its actual size. “Where would you like to begin?”
“Well, since we’re here – please, let me introduce you to my garden!”
Vern extended his arms and gestured to the surrounding landscape.
Florrie let her eyes wander the foreground, admiring the artist’s devotion to detail.
The vines that trailed along the ground in lazy strands were not simply embellished with the abstract outlines of leaves.
Each leaf was unique, wrinkled and weathered, with the stray bites of imaginary insects making space for dots of light to shine through.
Crisp dewdrops glistered here and there, perfectly rounded like the resin beads Florrie found so frequently when restoring costumery from the Era of Profligacy (in its latter decades, not the early period).
Vern’s “garden”, such as it was, consisted of wildflowers layered as though they’d been stitched into the background of a twelfth-century tapestry.
She had never seen flora precisely like this – cupped blossoms splayed open like birds’ beaks; strings of alabaster seed-pods that looked likely to be pleasantly rattly; and long-stemmed, star-shaped blooms that seemed extraordinarily soft.
“There’s not much order to it, but I keep the more edible plants in one corner,” Vern continued, pointing to a patch just behind him.
“You do eat, then? What a ridiculous question – of course you do.” There, in the midground, mossy tendrils topped a series of strikingly striped vegetables tucked just beneath the soil.
Even the dirt itself was striped, with rows of rich beige, chestnut and coal-black illuminated by mineral pigments.
“I eat all sorts of fine meals – or I try to. Cooking is one of the few skills one can’t learn through eavesdropping, unfortunately.”
Florrie glanced away from the mysterious vegetables. “What have you managed to learn that way?”
“Whatever anyone dares to discuss in a gallery. The histories of other paintings, for one. The names of the prince’s frequent guests and their formal titles.
” Vern let the spindle dangle just above the ground while he counted on his fingers.
“A bit of your current events. Who’s neglected to invite whom to which important ball.
What else? How to laugh, how to smile, how to look at someone while making it clear you don’t wish to see them, how often to nod in a conversation, how to avoid going on and on and— Well, why don’t I stop there? ”
Florrie nodded, then rebuked herself. Alas, she’d already nodded ten times in their conversation, which no doubt exceeded whatever established limit Vern knew.
She wanted to say You’re not alone or I’m endeavouring to learn that myself or Perhaps you could teach me someday? It was too much, though, and too soon. She couldn’t reveal that she needed to study these matters as thoroughly as he did – without the excuse of lifelong isolation in a painting.
“I’m not an expert,” Florrie said, at last, “but I’ve done my fair share of cooking. Mostly stews. If I can find equivalents to those vegetables out here, perhaps I can help you discover a new way of preparing them.”
“How kind!” Vern exclaimed. “Here – let me show you.” His small figure flickered over to the vegetable patch and, moments later, held what looked like a triple-chambered pink potato covered in a pattern of crescents.
To Florrie’s fascination, the painted garden remained intact, while the object in Vern’s hand gained a ghostly aspect just like his.
“I’ve studied four hundred and thirty-eight produce-based still-lives in my lifetime,” Florrie admitted, “and I have never seen the likes of that. I might not be much help after all.”
“Not to worry. Besides, I imagine you’re not cooking for yourself at present, are you?”
Once again, Florrie stared at Vern in befuddlement for a few moments before he generously relieved her.
“You’re married to a prince, so he does all the cooking for you, since you won his heart – isn’t that right?
” he asked, suddenly looking a little shy.
“Or is that specific to ‘The Ballad of Sir Cinereous and the Pie-Pan’? I always found it hard to believe that all princes are excellent chefs. What if you were a prince who hated cooking? Would you do it because that’s what Folk expected from you? ”
“I wouldn’t say that’s true of all princes,” she said gently.
Fearing Vern might ask additional questions about the nature of princely romance, Florrie decided to change the subject.
“How do you manage to cook?” she asked. “You haven’t an oven or a cauldron, or even a fire.”
“That’s right – I’ve not revealed the painting’s great secret! Would you like to be the first to know?”
Vern grinned again. Had his studies taught him the number of times one ought to smile in a conversation? If so, Florrie rather hoped they were far from reaching it.
“How could I decline such an enticing offer?”
“You might not find it so enticing,” Vern said, deflating a little. “But it is important to me. The secret is that there’s an entire room inside that cottage, Florrie, and I live there!”
Florrie turned to the quaint cottage, which she had neglected in her current observation of the painting.
If she recalled correctly, the wall’s blue-and-peach stones were intended as a visual reference to those found in Late Diluvian Fairy riverscapes.
In keeping with its somewhat dated style, the cottage featured a roof thatched with living flowers, a wrought-iron heraldic sign with the emblem of a loom, twenty-three round windows and an equally round door painted to resemble iridescent ribbonwood.
“Are you suggesting the artist somehow…,” she began, after looking at the cottage for no more than one minute (which was classifiable as observation). “No. Why would he take the time to paint an interior, only to cover it up?”
“He didn’t paint it,” explained Vern. “At least, that’s my guess.
I think it’s to do with how the painting was enchanted.
When the artist created his forgery, everything came into being with everything it needed.
If there’s a cottage exterior, it must have an interior.
It’s like how he didn’t specifically paint me a heart, but I can still feel it beating. ”
“How fascinating,” Florrie breathed. Then she cleared her throat and played with the lenses on her bonnet. “So, in your cottage, you cook your meals, and rest, and— oh, practise your weaving, too?”