Chapter 6 #3
Her spirits lifted when she spied her stepmother eating luncheon in the museum’s garden – then fell, just slightly, when Florrie noticed Chary beside her. Dr Hyverfell gave Florrie a grateful wave as she approached.
“Florrie! What a welcome surprise,” Florrie’s stepmother gushed, with particular attention to the “welcome”.
“Chary was just saying— Oh, never mind.” She beckoned Florrie closer with a serving fork of tolerable quality.
“Would you care for some salad? I do hope you’ll like the flavours, though Chary insists my unwillingness to purchase more popular tinctures has ruined the taste of the dressing. ”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Glin. It’s not utterly ruined,” said Chary loftily. “The dressing is merely bland and pedestrian. And isn’t that appropriate for the Museum? Perhaps we ought to sell it to our visitors.”
Florrie did not need to look under the table to know her stepmother’s foot was twitching with irritation. They were not so unalike.
“You simply must try some, Florrie,” said Chary. “I’m sure you’ve not eaten anything all morning.”
As Florrie reluctantly agreed – some sustenance would do her well, even if she vastly preferred stew to horribly crunchy salad – Chary leaned in and grinned.
“Before you arrived, Florrie, I was telling Glin about your new beau.” As usual, Chary employed a tone of voice that suggested Florrie ought to consider her cousin’s indiscretion a favour.
“Oh, goodness, look at all those bags! Don’t carry too much at once, Florrie, dear – it’ll age you terribly.
Weighs down your face. I don’t suppose you’re off to see him? ”
Florrie felt the pull of the portfolio-bag on her arm and hoped Vern could not eavesdrop through multiple layers of board and fabric.
What a predicament! Chary believed Vern was Florrie’s beau, but Vern believed Florrie was involved with Prince Ardant.
If Chary revealed that Florrie was not a royal newlywed, her protective lie would be shattered in an instant.
Out of caution, Florrie placed the bag safely on a chair behind her.
“I won’t bore you with the details, but I am quite occupied with an art-historical errand,” Florrie said. “So, I wanted to say farewell on my way out of the city.”
She sank her boots into the soft grass beneath the table. Despite Chary’s presence, Florrie found that being home had calmed her already.
“Whereabouts are you bound? Down to Sightspel Harbour, perhaps?” asked Dr Hyverfell, dishing out the salad. As Florrie feared, the leaves were rough and the dressing too thick for her sensibilities (but flavourful enough, contrary to Chary’s claims).
“I only mention Sightspel because the city’s hosting a symposium about the golden age of door-carving this week.” Dr Hyverfell gave Florrie a stately wink. “Of course, we have no interest in golden ages of anything here.”
In truth, Florrie wished she were bound for Sightspel Harbour. It was only the next city over, and Florrie had never even travelled as far as that on her own. What a fine reminder of how truly ridiculous her plan was!
Still, she wasn’t about to add yet another falsehood to her collection.
“As it happens, I’m visiting the museum of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve,” Florrie announced. “I must consult with him about one of Prince Ardant’s paintings.”
“Goodness, Florrie!” said Chary. “You, travelling to a Fairy museum? Besides the matter that nobody with any taste would do such a thing, what if you arrive and decide you can’t manage?
Like when we travelled for hours in a most despicable horse-drawn cart to visit that phrontistery of yours and, when we arrived, you wept so profusely that we couldn’t attend the tour? ”
Chary routinely brought up this particular event as an example of Florrie’s general ineptitude, despite the fact that the fateful trip had occurred more than ten years ago (and that Florrie did, in the end, dry her tears, regulate herself, and consent to participating in said tour).
“I know where I intend to travel and precisely how I shall get there,” Florrie insisted with fictitious conviction. “I do hope you’ll wish me luck.”
“Of course! We wish you all the best, dear Florrie,” said Dr Hyverfell.
“Prince Ardant must be impressed indeed if he’s given you such a task.
I don’t suppose you could bring me some mediocre souvenir?
Fairies are exceptional artists, but I presume anything Fairy-made might be considered worse than mediocre by Folk’s standards… Perhaps not, then.”
“Perhaps not,” repeated Florrie, dutifully. “Did I happen to leave my great-cloak here? If I did, I’ll sneak in and fetch it.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Dr Hyverfell chided. “You’ve a long journey ahead, and you might as well enjoy the garden a little longer.”
When Dr Hyverfell vanished to fetch the cloak, Chary leaned across the table to seize Florrie’s portfolio-bag.
“Goodness, what’s in there?” Chary exclaimed. “It’s terribly heavy. I know you care little for style, Florrie, but injuring your shoulders has never been particularly fashionable.”
Though the bag remained in place on the chair, Chary made for the fastener on the top. While the charm would keep the bag immobile, it could not stop anyone from looking at the painting.
“Chary, please!” Florrie rose from her seat.
“Oh!” exclaimed Chary as she opened the bag. “What a dreadfully handsome man! A shame about that expression, I suppose. Does your beau know of this?”
“I am sorry, but that painting is incredibly valuable and essential to my work, and you must leave it alone!” Florrie wrested the handles from her cousin’s grasp and placed the bag protectively on her lap. “And there is nothing wrong with his expression.”
She hadn’t realised how quickly she was breathing until she fell back, gasping, on the chair. She didn’t make a habit of confronting Chary about anything, and found that the relative fierceness of her reaction was already making her panic.
“You’ll not convince anyone with that excuse.
” Chary gave Florrie a most unwanted pat on the shoulder.
“I do hope you’ll heed my advice, Florrie.
Even if your beau indulges your interest in paintings, he must find your peculiar artistic passions off-putting.
Imagine how discomposed my beau would be if I carried around nude portraits everywhere I went! ”
“That portrait is decidedly not a nude,” Florrie murmured. (Naturally, she immediately found herself preventing her brain from conjuring imagery of how the portrait might look if it were.)
“Besides,” she continued, “it’s not as though I study paintings recreationally. This is my occupation, Chary.”
“Perhaps the time has come for you to find a more respectable occupation. I know conservation accommodates your peculiarities, Florrie, but don’t you think this has gone a bit too far? There’s always room at the museum for you.”
“Don’t tell me Chary wants you back at the museum?” echoed Florrie’s stepmother as she returned, great-cloak in hand.
“I have no intention of returning,” confirmed Florrie. “Not as a guide, at least.”
“Excellent,” replied Dr Hyverfell. “You’ve toiled for years to establish yourself as a conservator, overcoming all manner of obstacles and frustrations… the likes of which most wouldn’t understand. It’s wonderful that you’ve obtained a fine position suitable to your needs. Isn’t it, Chary?”
Florrie flushed. Somehow, Dr Hyverfell always managed to celebrate Florrie’s accomplishments while acknowledging how unbelievably difficult it had been for her to achieve them.
“Well, I’m off to face whatever new obstacles and frustrations await me,” said Florrie as she wrapped herself in her cloak.
The Stillscape sunshine was a bit too warm for such a garment, but she couldn’t resist – the cloak was made from a rose-tinted brocade, fittingly embroidered with flowers, and she took comfort in the heavy pressure it applied to her shoulders and the gentle tug of the understitching against her dress.
She kissed Dr Hyverfell’s cheek and gave Chary a reluctant hug.
Chary, for her part, took advantage of the embrace to whisper, “I’m just saying – perhaps you shouldn’t tell that beau of yours about your trip.
Whatever would he think about his sweetheart, alone on the road, with nothing but a painting of a handsome man to keep her warm at night—”
“That makes no sense whatsoever. The fibres used to make canvas-weave are naturally cooling,” Florrie whispered back. “Besides, I really don’t think he’d mind.”