Chapter 6 #2
“But haven’t you overheard anything about Fairy etiquette?” She paused, clenching her hands and releasing them again. “I thought, if you had any ideas, I could prepare, well, a sort of soliloquy in my head.”
“A soliloquy,” he repeated. “I’ve not heard that word in years, but someone once said— Oh yes, that group of visitors – the performers! You’d like to perform for Lord Mauve – is that it?”
Florrie shook her head, then nodded, then quickly realised it was futile to try both at the same time.
“I suppose I do perform, though not in the way you mean. When I don’t know how to handle a particular client, or when my cousin wants me to meet one of her many friends, or when I need to ask a vendor at the market for a particularly rare solvent—What I meant is that in preparation for such scenarios, I like to plan what to say and how to say it, and practise until I think it’s right. ”
“Oh, yes!” Vern exclaimed. “Why, I did that this morning!”
“You did?” Florrie bit her lip to disguise a gasp. “Whatever were you practising for?”
“Talking to you! What else? Though I never get far, because it’s rather difficult to predict what you might say to me.”
“Then I suppose you’ll need to speak with me more often,” Florrie said. “That is, I find I can best prepare for conversations when I feel confident of the other participants’ possible reactions. Which is why I’m so concerned about Lord Mauve, as I know practically nothing about the fellow.”
“I can’t claim to know much myself,” Vern mused, “but you could try— Oh, what was the precise phrasing from that verse in ‘The Gallery Aghast’? Yes, that’s it! ‘Invoking the tenets of curatorial honour.’”
“Curatorial honour…,” she repeated. “Well, that’s not an unfamiliar concept, though I can’t say we Folk ever formalised its tenets. What will that mean to Lord Mauve?”
“It’s my understanding that this social expectation obliges him to respect the wishes of fellow collectors, like Prince Ardant,” said Vern.
“Even though Lord Mauve stole Prince Ardant’s painting? That certainly doesn’t seem respectful.”
“And if Prince Ardant had the foresight to ask Lord Mauve not to steal it, I suspect Lord Mauve would have gone home empty-handed. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
At the very least, it sounded like a rule, and that was precisely the sort of thing that brought Florrie comfort.
“Curatorial honour doesn’t rely on any sort of reciprocity, does it?
” Florrie asked, just to be safe. “Folk gallerists, for example, often establish art loans on a like-for-like basis. That is to say, if you desire a painting, you must give up a painting. Will Lord Mauve want to keep your painting, for example?”
Vern shook his head. “I don’t imagine any honourable Fairy wants to keep a painting like mine.”
The sudden drop in his voice reflected something – sorrow, perhaps? Or shame? Florrie wasn’t quite sure, but she found it unsettling.
“There’s nothing wrong with your painting,” she said.
“No, of course not!” Vern chirped, his smile returning. “Not to me, at least. So, there you have it – curatorial honour. Will that suffice?”
“I suppose,” she relented. “Now, may I begin securing the painting?”
“I only wish I could be out adventuring with you!”
“If it’s any consolation, I’ve spared you no comfort in that bag.”
“That’s awfully, awfully kind of you, Florrie.”
“It’s simply my duty! As I said, I’ll look after you – and the painting, obviously – so there’s no need to worry.”
She could just glimpse the fluttering of his hands as he finished the skein on his spindle.
“I’m not worried in the slightest,” said Vern.
The certainty in his voice made Florrie feel warm, even after Vern’s figure faded from the canvas.
Her fingers shook only slightly as she removed the painting from the easel and folded the shield-cloth into a respectable triangle – but her confidence soon dissipated.
The actions themselves felt perfectly natural; she’d handled paintings and folded shield-cloths hundreds of times.
This scheme, however, still felt unfair to Prince Ardant, no matter what the accursed Code said.
As she toyed with the lid to a nearby inkwell to calm her racing heart, Florrie hit upon a reassuringly practical solution.
She’d leave a note on the easel, in The Resolute Portrait’s place, for Ardant to consult in the unlikely event that he visited the studio and noticed the painting’s absence.
Yes, a note was just the thing – a way of convincing Prince Ardant, if necessary, that his conservator had not simply absconded with his greatest treasure.
Florrie found a piece of Commonplace Palace letterhead (pink and cream with the gold-embossed insignia of a comet dropping into a teacup) and wrote a hasty explanation, nodding to herself and swaying gently as she did so.
Before she could lose her nerve, Florrie placed the letter in a matching pink envelope, sealed the flap with painter’s paste and returned to the more enjoyable task of preparing The Resolute Portrait for the journey.
Inserting the painting into the encasement pouch would require some elevation, so she gently lifted the canvas onto two wedge-supports.
She angled the painting into the transparent pouch, which domed in the centre to keep the canvas from pushing against its surface, and pressed in the flaps on top.
Then the whole object went straight into the portfolio-bag.
The combination of the bag and her hamper was substantial indeed, but Florrie stretched her shoulders and accepted her burdens.
After all, the physical strain of carrying The Resolute Portrait was not nearly so taxing as her anxiety about carrying it out of the palace.
Florrie kept to the tunnels as long as she could, but she couldn’t reach the back gates without crossing at least one gallery.
Her passage of choice took her to the sculpture court, where she peered out from another hidden door to assess the situation.
It was a dark, cloudy day, even for summer’s end, and the sculptures seemed mere shadows in the dim windowlight.
Spurred by apprehensive energy, Florrie practically dashed across the empty room.
Her cheeks ached from the innocent smile she’d plastered on her face in preparation for any unexpected encounters.
How, she wondered, could art thieves carry out heists without feeling ill the entire time?
Though she tried to rationalise her actions as “not-quite-theft intended to serve a higher purpose”, Florrie knew her stomach had no tolerance for nuance.
She was either an art thief, or she wasn’t, and, considering the extremely valuable portrait hanging from her shoulder—
“Why, good morning, Florrie! How are you?”
At that moment, the nearest statue stood up and bowed.
“Oh,” Florrie murmured under her breath, “oh, oh—”
“Have I given you a fright? I do apologise. I enjoy finding a moment of peace among the sculptures before a tour.” A man stepped forward and bowed again. He was no living statue, but simply Pennery, the gallery guide.
“I… I beg your pardon, Pennery,” Florrie murmured. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Good morning.”
“It is, now,” Pennery agreed, “because Ardant has relieved me of dealing with his bothersome princely suitors. Plural.”
“Of course,” said Florrie, her shoulder feeling numb beneath the portfolio-bag. “But I’m afraid I must—”
“As must I. The galleries beckon. Do enjoy your day!”
Florrie nodded politely before continuing towards the door.
She’d thought losing her career and returning home was the worst possible outcome.
What she’d yet to consider, fully, was the prospect of losing her career and returning home because she’d been caught with a painting in her bag under questionable circumstances.
Fear quickened her pace and Florrie soon found herself gasping outside the palace gates. For now, she’d survived the worst of it; she was just another conservator with a portfolio-bag, strolling around Stillscape by herself.
Though the responsibility of protecting a historically significant painting – even a forgery of a historically significant painting – still weighed upon her, both literally and figuratively, Florrie had to admit she was delighted Vern could travel with her.
That delight, in turn, made her feel embarrassed and somewhat alarmed.
In truth, she had begun to suspect she might be developing a bit of a silly fancy for this version of Lord Vernal Mauve.
As she’d concluded previously, Vern was in possession of many objectively appealing qualities.
It evidently took only some kind words, a well-limned face and a sweetly sunny disposition to turn her head.
Yet she and Vern effectively inhabited different worlds at present.
Odds were that he simply considered her a curious, oversized conversation partner – and a married one, at that!
This reminder of the bizarre exhibition of falsehoods she’d curated brought Florrie to her senses. She needed to focus on the task at hand and keep the nonsense of her feelings in check.
When she arrived at her family’s house, however, it appeared her feelings were already the primary topic of discussion.
As she reached the Museum of the Mediocre’s gate and saw the subpar engraving announcing a temporary closure, Florrie remembered it happened to be the sole day each month when the entire family granted themselves a reprieve.
Her mother would be indulging in a dancing lesson or a wood-carving workshop, and Orchel was probably shopping in the capital.
Even her stepmother, who generally preferred the comforts of home, might be enjoying the day at some ancient library.
Would anyone be home to see Florrie off?
The museum’s schedule had directed the rhythms of her life for years, and she felt rather disappointed in herself for forgetting the routine.