Chapter 6
By her best estimate, Florrie had prepared no fewer than five hundred paintings for transport throughout her career.
(And that was only paintings – never mind the number of unwieldy sculptures and ceramic knick-knacks she’d boxed up.) In each of those instances, Florrie followed the Code’s regulations to the letter by completing official transport condition reports.
Strictly speaking, there was nothing remotely official about Florrie’s transport of The Resolute Portrait.
It would be silly to waste time with a report.
Still, Florrie felt so fixed to the routine of completing pre-shipment documentation that she did, at least, give it a try on the morning of her departure – even if she was still in her bedchamber, addled by anxiety and incapable of answering any question to her own satisfaction.
What manner of vehicle will be used to transport the work? A lonely conservator on foot.
Which potentially hazardous conditions exist in the region through which the transit shall occur? All of them, quite possibly.
What preparations has the receiving institution made for the work’s arrival?
While Florrie would never intentionally crumple a report, even an unfinished one, she did slam her record book shut with unprofessional force.
She used a bevelled buttonhook to fasten the back of her lavender travelling dress, which she’d selected because its textures were the cosiest of everything in her wardrobe – and because the embroidered roses on the sash made her smile.
She had barely reached the final button when a ribbon-bound scroll, addressed to her, rolled beneath the door.
Florrie, I intended to see you off, but a most vexing circumstance demands my attention. I’ve left provisions in the corridor (goodness, they were heavy!). Travel safely!
P.S. Forget all my grumbling from yesterday, won’t you? You’ll have a marvellous time.
Florrie touched the star-shaped indentation of the prince’s personal seal and sighed. However had she found herself in such a wretched situation?
She thrived in the straightforward world of conservation, governed by the procedure and predictability of the Conservatory and its Code.
Though some of her colleagues resented the massive tomes of updated professional standards the Conservatory released in multi-volume sets each year, Florrie appreciated them.
If she ever found herself in a peculiar situation – if she noticed damage she could not immediately classify, or if a client handed her a tapestry so altered by time that she could not recognise its exact material – she needed only consult the rules to respond appropriately.
While the Conservatory did not offer specific guidance about finding a Fairy within one’s painting, its approach to handling sensitive issues was clear enough.
Conservators must not express suspicion about the quality of princely collections without faultless evidence – and, above all, must never trust a collector.
Prince Ardant, however, had been nothing but kind to Florrie – and, as far as she could see, was never anything but kind to anyone. Would he help her, if she dared to tell him the truth?
She reached for the doorknob – pausing for a moment to appreciate its bronzed flourishes – and flung it open.
“Prince Ardant!” she called.
All she could see before her was a melon-pink reed-and-ribbon hamper that certainly did look heavy. Then she heard a skidding of well-polished boots and looked down the corridor as the prince’s retreating figure reversed course.
“Ah, Florrie!” he exclaimed, striding back towards her. “Good morning! While you’re here, would you take a peek and tell me if the food is to your liking?”
“Actually,” Florrie began, “I wanted to say—”
“Prince Ardant!” shouted a voice from a nearby horn on the wall (the latest in household innovation, but designed to resemble a mid-century goblet). “I’m sorry to rush you, but the situation grows direr still.”
“I beg your pardon, Florrie,” Ardant murmured. Into the horn, he said, “What a nightmare I’ve caused for you, Pennery. I’ll be down in just a moment to take care of it.”
“Do hurry, please. They are both here, flaunting about most unbearably,” Pennery replied.
“Both, you say?” The prince bit his lip and heaved the weariest of sighs. “Florrie, I’m afraid I must go. You see, I decided to spend the evening in Prince Werith’s company, and the fellow had such a fantastic time that he also wishes to… Well, I do hope I won’t be a married man when you return.”
Florrie barely had a chance to call out a wish for his delayed nuptials before the frantic Prince Ardant vanished.
Alone once more, Florrie turned to the hamper.
The ribbonwork was exceptionally fine, and the braided straps made of tolerably smooth fibres.
Inside, Florrie found an impressive pantry of road-safe provisions – dried berries, stewing vegetables, firm wanderer’s bread and even an ice-chilled layer of sculpted cheeses at the bottom.
The capacious velvet pouches dangling from the sides would be sufficient to contain her various garments and toiletries.
Florrie felt quite pleased when she hoisted the entire thing onto her shoulders with moderate ease.
All she needed now was a certain painting.
Though she took half the night to settle on it, Florrie had finally determined the safest method of carrying The Resolute Portrait.
Among the many containers and carriers in her possession was something she wanted to forget: her portfolio-bag, a relic from her ill-fated days as an aspiring artist. The bag featured an ingenious woven sleeve between two thick walls of padding, with straps and fastenings that could guarantee the safety of its occupant.
The antique Fairy ownership charm, acquired by her late grandfather and rigged so no one other than Florrie could lift the bag, was a bonus.
Since she would also place the painting in a gallery-grade encasement before tucking it into the bag, Florrie felt confident in her ability to keep the canvas safe.
She felt somewhat less confident, however, about how the living resident of the portrait might react to being carried in a bag, as if he were nothing more than a parcel of paintbrushes.
What if the prospect offended him? If it did, Florrie would have to assemble an alternative on the fly – say, a casing made of pressed-pine fibre and whatever metal she could forage from storage?
“What do I think? Why, I’ve never heard anything so exciting in my life!” Vern exclaimed after she explained the accommodation currently available to him.
Florrie couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, though she was a little disappointed at the lost opportunity for storage-foraging.
“Last night – that is, earlier this morning – I tested the bag by filling it with a blank canvas and frame of similar weight and dimensions to yours and subjecting it to a variety of batterings. Not a dent appeared.”
“You went to all that trouble on my behalf?”
Vern gazed at Florrie with admiration that she did not deserve in the slightest, in her opinion.
“Any decent conservator would have done the same.”
“When I travelled here, the artist tied me to his shoulders with a piece of string!”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” Though she had no idea what the artist looked like, Florrie could picture the rest of the precarious scene – the painting, rubbed with coarse cord, dangling dangerously off its bearer’s back…
“You’ve found me out,” said Vern with a sigh. “There were, in fact, two pieces of string involved. But please don’t misunderstand. I enjoyed myself very much! I often think back on those Amethyst Road landscapes when I feel especially weary of the Commonplace Palace.”
“On that note, have you noticed this?” Florrie pointed out a translucent patch next to the topmost handle of the portfolio-bag. “It’s light-proofed and weather-ready. You might glimpse our surroundings from time to time.”
“How extraordinary! Was this bag made with changeling paintings in mind?”
“Likely not. The window helps artists keep an eye on their work while travelling. We can get terribly nervous.”
She cursed her error. Florrie ought to have said they can get terribly nervous.
The facts were simple: though she intended to be an artist, she was now merely a conservator.
Conservation did possess its own kind of artistry, yet it wasn’t quite the same.
Years had passed since she first took up the solvent-spattered mantle of conservation – why did she still slip up like this?
“I’ll pause regularly, so you can have a look at the road,” she continued. “But there won’t be anything interesting to see or hear until we leave Stillscape.”
Florrie did not mention that she planned to stop at the Museum of the Mediocre on her way out of town to bid her family farewell.
It seemed impractical and childish, under the circumstances, but Florrie knew she couldn’t possibly face the unknowns of the road ahead without drawing strength from a familiar location first. She certainly hoped Vern would not overhear whatever nonsense inevitably took place there.
Fortunately, there was no distracting Vern from his present delight. “If I catch a glimpse of anything, I’ll be thrilled,” he said. “You needn’t go to any more trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Florrie said, and she meant it. “Though I wondered if I might trouble you for a favour, before we depart?”
Even without her lenses, Florrie could discern how eagerly he nodded – yet she was still nervous.
“I simply wondered if you had any suggestions as to how I ought to approach Lord Mauve,” she said shyly. “I’ve never been to his museum, nor any other Fairy gallery. I suppose I might have asked Prince Ardant for advice, but I don’t wish to trouble him further.”
“Remember, I’ve only overheard—”