Chapter 7
Florrie soon concluded that she was unexpectedly well suited to travelling with only a painting for company.
The road out of Stillscape was aswarm with journeying crowds, most of them young Folk off to Sightspel Harbour for a scandalously unchaperoned holiday spent sitting for portraits and admiring the new underwater exhibitions in the seaside-gallery district.
Among them, Florrie spotted a few collegial art transportation crews, which she strode past with great haste – hoping to avoid unwanted colloquy with any conservator who might recognise her.
How thrilling to be a lone traveller, with the freedom to accommodate both her whims and her needs as she chose.
If she wished to fawn over the chunky corbelling on a nearby arch, no one could complain.
If the sounds of irascible birds-of-burden honking at each other from behind gilded carriages overwhelmed her, she could retreat to some quiet corner without having to explain her oddly extreme distress to her party.
(If an errant feather with a pleasant texture happened to fall off a frustrated bird during such a squabble, Florrie could also take the time to fetch it from the dusty cobbles.)
The solitary adventurer’s life – there was nothing quite like it!
Or so she kept telling herself, whenever she felt just a bit lonely.
It wasn’t that Florrie wanted company – or much of it, at least. She was not, however, above yearning for the presence of a quiet companion whose whims and needs complemented hers.
More than once, she wished she had someone to join her in grousing about the terrible cobblestone texture, or to shield her from the birds as they galloped past, or to listen as she compared the bustling street to the obscure genre of sixth-century “haste portraits”.
Vern would do all that and more, she suspected.
Yet every time Florrie glanced at the bag, hoping for a moment to show him something, the preponderance of strangers in the streets dissuaded her.
It simply wouldn’t do to be seen speaking to one’s portfolio-bag in public – if only because such a spectacle would likely attract the attention of a curious bystander, and then Florrie would be obliged to talk to a stranger.
As a result, Florrie felt quite companionless by the time she passed into those odd, intermediary lands between Stillscape and the Fairies’ domain.
There was no formal border between the Folk and Fairy realms – just a long stretch of liminal landscape.
According to Folk myth, the world was merely a collaboration between two Great Artists, each specialising in their own technique.
The First Artist created the Folk realm in a series of celestial sketches, rendering every leaf and lake and life in a most naturalistic way.
The Fairies, meanwhile, owed their land to the hand of the Second Artist (no doubt called the First Artist in Fairy myth, Florrie assumed), who used cosmic colours to depict a stunningly stylised terrain, where enchantments and impossibilities emerged from the overlapping pigments.
Having divided up the known universe in this way, the pair of Artists maintained a respectable distance between their two projects.
In these in-between spaces, where Florrie now found herself, the combined influences of both artists – stray drops of otherworldly watercolour, smudges from godly graphite – ensured neither Fairy nor Folk explorers knew what they might find.
In other words, it was not the sort of place inherently suited to someone of Florrie’s disposition.
To her great relief, however, she immediately found the route she sought.
Just outside the city gates, down a particularly steep precipice and across from the well-travelled Sightspel Harbour thoroughfare was the Old Amethyst Road, which seemed intent upon disproving its bejewelled reputation.
Florrie crept away from the harbour-bound crowds to approach the road, wondering why the gemstones were a sickly grey instead of purple.
She picked up a loose cobble and rolled it in her palm.
Certain gems were prone to sun damage, which was why designers of public works were loath to use them.
What the Old Amethyst Road needed was a conservator’s care.
Florrie was no lapidarist, but she had restored jewellery.
She could try injecting a solvent to enhance what remained of the stones’ natural pigments…
It would be an exercise in futility, of course.
She reminded herself of this fact as she began following the grey path into the meadow before her.
Even if conservators could take on public projects without formal contracts, why restore this road that few used?
Perhaps that was precisely what appealed to her.
Nobody would care if she made a mistake in the restoration.
People did, however, care about the painting she carried with her – and none more than the Fairy who inhabited it.
After Florrie had completed some brisk and breathless hours of walking along the Old Amethyst Road, something caught her eye.
In the near distance – about three gallery-lengths ahead – was the sort of Fairy tree Florrie had never seen outside of a painting.
She hastened, ignoring her previous breathlessness.
From here, she could tell that the bark was smooth and shiny, resembling a fine cut of polished veined-stone more than anything arboreal.
Gashes and gaps in the trunk revealed a sparkling interior of mottled crystal.
As she strode forward, Florrie felt the portfolio-bag jostle on her shoulder and thought – once again – of Vern.
She had promised to share the landscapes when she could, and this tree seemed immensely appealing.
Besides, there were no other travellers about, and only distant shudders in the grass to suggest the presence of other creatures.
Beasts of all kinds were strangely shy in these borderlands, and Florrie was not especially concerned about a branch-cat or dappled shrew witnessing her conversation with a painting.
She turned the bag around, allowing its little window to face in the general direction of the tree. Perhaps, when they reached it, Florrie might be able to unpack the painting for a moment – but, for now, Vern would have to make do with a somewhat blurry view.
Florrie was already halfway to the tree by the time she worked up the courage to call upon him.
“Greetings, Vern. I – I thought you might appreciate this tree,” she tried, having come up with nothing better. “No need to bother if you’re busy.”
“You can safely assume I’m never busy. Are we on the road already? Oh!”
Vern flickered onto the canvas directly beneath the bag’s window.
“I remember it now,” he breathed. “The artist stopped there to rest. How magnificent it is! It’s completely unlike anything in my painting.”
“Do you know its history?” asked Florrie. “Are all Fairy trees so crystalline?”
“No, it’s quite unique! I’ve only ever heard of such a thing in…
Which one was it?” Vern paused and stared into space (as Florrie, who was staring at him, nearly stumbled into a dappled shrew’s burrow).
“Not one, but two separate courtly ballads, I believe. ‘Riddles Called and Answered in the Shade of That Fair Tree’, obviously, but also ‘The Unkeen Sculptor’. The third verse of the latter describes how these trees are marvels of nature. The seeds crystallise after falling into just the right sort of ashen mire, then the sprouts take flight, soar to some far-flung locale like this one, and put down roots. How did that line go…?” Vern hummed a clear note, then cut himself off.
“I’m sorry! As I said, I imagine I’m horribly boring after all this time in isolation. ”
“And I am horribly boring myself, so you’re in good company,” Florrie replied. “Do you truly know that many ballads off the top of your head?”
“I remember every one I’ve heard. For years, they’ve kept me company – all, what…? Three hundred and fifty-one of them, at my most recent estimate. Is that difficult to believe?”
“Not for me,” said Florrie, barely managing to step over a fallen branch. “You won’t believe how many catalogues and historiographies I’ve committed to memory.”
“Why don’t you recite one for me?”
Florrie stopped in her tracks. She couldn’t quite analyse Vern’s expressions and gestures through the bag, and she wasn’t entirely sure she could interpret his intent via vocal tone alone.
“That’s… a joke, I presume?” Florrie attempted.
“Oh dear! No, not at all! Did my tone suggest insincerity? Perhaps I ought to adjust my technique.” Vern cleared his throat. “Florrie, I would truly love nothing more than if you recounted the catalogue of your choice for my edification. Is that an improvement?”
Florrie nodded, wide-eyed. Even Chary could not have faulted that graciously keen request. Nobody had ever addressed Florrie in such an ardent murmur before – and about catalogues, too!
“Profane Profligacy,” she began, trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation of her cheeks burning. “Excessive Irrelevance in the Printmaker’s Studio. Curated by…”
She’d summarised four of the catalogue’s seven essays by the time she reached the tree, then promptly fell silent.
At that moment, Florrie realised she’d been mistaken in her assessment.
This was not merely a tree, but a work of art bedecked with countless carvings.
The overlapping motifs – vines of stars and clouds of blossoms – set in a lushly detailed composition on the branches were hallmarks of Fairy style.
The roots of the tree, however, featured miniature portraits, of subjects old and young, that she could identify as decidedly Folk in origin.
“Florrie? Is something the matter? I’m afraid I’m looking at the ground at present.”