Chapter 7 #3
“In a way, I suppose.” It was quite a delightful painting to imagine. “I’d like to play with scale, to make a flower look the same size as one of us Folk. Isn’t it always a little disorientating and enchanting to see something tiny from a different perspective?”
“Is that how you’ll feel if I ever manage to leave my painting? A little disorientated and enchanted?”
Thankfully, before Florrie could confess she’d felt that way since first meeting Vern, he frowned and shook his head.
“I shouldn’t say such things. I mustn’t get my hopes up.”
“Well, if Lord Mauve can help,” she said, “perhaps I shall show you some of Stillscape’s finest flowers one day. I could do that now, I suppose, but I’d argue that you need to touch a flower to truly understand it.”
“You needn’t argue that point! I’ve always dreamed of going into the world and handling as many different fabrics as I can find, but I’d be happy with flowers, too.”
“As far as fabrics go, you’ll be spoilt for choice. The Conservatory has identified thirty-three distinct categories of textile.”
“And how many of those are pleasant to touch?”
“At least twenty-five, I’d say.” Florrie reviewed her mental catalogue of the various fibrecrafts she’d conserved. “Make that twenty-four. Flax-tapestry is nothing special.”
Taking an interest in tactility wasn’t exactly a pastime.
She and Vern had not discovered a truly serendipitous commonality, like a mutual passion for the same dancing style or watercolour technique.
Yet Florrie continued to feel delighted about meeting someone who did not dismiss – and, better yet, seemed to understand – the physical way in which she experienced the world.
“And I would love nothing more than to hear you describe all twenty-four of those fabrics! Even the flax-tapestry, if time allowed,” said Vern, interrupting her unexpectedly warm thoughts. “But you’ve been generous enough with your time already. Don’t you need to continue?”
Florrie looked to the sky. To her surprise, it had already begun to resemble the esteemed tenth-century tapestry A Sad and Sudden Sunset.
Evening was upon her, and yet she had travelled such a short distance that the cloud-shaped pediment on the tallest Stillscape museum was still vaguely visible behind her.
“First I must rest for the night, I’m afraid,” she said, glumly. “Though I don’t know how well I’ll sleep on the road.”
“Perhaps there’s some curious flower nearby for you to examine before you go to bed?”
If Chary had made a similar suggestion, Florrie would have thought it nothing more than mockery.
The sincerity of Vern’s recommendation, however, convinced Florrie to take his advice moments after bidding him goodnight.
She settled on an uncarved branch, removed her gloves and delicately reached for a small pink flower sprouting nearby.
The pale blossom had the segmented and almost furred appearance of clover leaves, but its stem was smooth and streaked in a vivid burgundy that seemed mismatched with the petals.
As Florrie rolled the stem across her fingers, she appreciated the novelty of the sensation perhaps more earnestly than ever.
It did not, unfortunately, help her sleep.
Four hours of tossing and turning was all it took for Florrie to admit she was abysmal at camping.
To be fair, her entire understanding of sleeping outdoors derived exclusively from the seventh-century landscape mosaic The Wanderers’ Tender Velocity in the Wilderness.
The figures in that mosaic made outdoor living seem exceedingly simple, so Florrie’s inability to endure it seemed an astonishing failing.
She even possessed far more comfortable quarters than the eponymous wanderers, because the prince’s hamper had come stocked with a gorgeous collapsible tent.
There was no reason why Florrie shouldn’t be comfortable, yet she felt painfully unaccustomed to being without her own bed.
It had been odd enough to move from her old room at the Museum of the Mediocre to the Commonplace Palace, but she’d carried along familiar blankets and pillows from home to make it more tolerable.
She especially liked the texture of the antique thistledown quilt her grandmother had, allegedly, hand-embroidered years ago.
(As she’d once purchased an identical blanket at a textile market, Florrie always suspected there might be more to the story.)
Here, everything felt wrong. It didn’t matter how much she tried to reason with herself or recall Chary’s chiding words or admire the tent’s fabric.
Once she had grown so overwhelmed that she felt the urge to remove her gloves and start scratching at her skin – an urge she managed to resist, despite everything – Florrie gave up on sleep altogether.
The sun hadn’t risen and she didn’t feel rested, but it would be far more productive to continue her journey.
The sooner she made it to Lord Mauve, the sooner she could return home.
After disassembling her tent and bidding farewell to the tree, Florrie began a disgruntled promenade across the meadow.
Chary was right. Even if Florrie tried to pretend she was just a slightly quirky conservator (and what conservator was without quirks?), there was no concealing her sensitivities in any unusual situation.
She lacked the fortitude to sleep on the ground, stray in the slightest way from her schedule, or even offer a decent example of typical conversation to a man who’d gone his entire life without speaking to anyone.
However would she manage further travel in such a vast and varied place?
Fairy landscapes, after all, featured every manner of peculiar phenomena.
Before she departed, Florrie had noticed a note to travellers printed as a legend on one of Prince Ardant’s maps: “Beware the odd and ordinary alike on the Amethyst Road, for the most minute change in one’s surroundings might herald unfathomable danger.
” (The seriousness of the warning was rather undercut by the cheerful illustrations of yellow irises and cherubic owlets beside it.)
Fortunately, Florrie excelled at detecting the most minute changes in her surroundings.
She had already noticed the plant life transforming as she approached the foothills.
The soft grass of the meadows had vanished, replaced by countless vines with spiny leaves that she assumed would feel most unpleasant.
Small ferns poked through the road’s crystal cobbles, with fronds sporting silver spirals that resembled no spores she’d ever seen.
As she stepped, soft maroon patches of moss dissipated into mist beneath her feet and reformed once she’d moved on.
None of these changes were particularly alarming. Florrie did grow concerned, however, when the tallest hill ahead of her – one she had used as a landmark since she left Stillscape – suddenly turned magenta.
It could be a trick of the light. Painters often used unusual colours to indicate atmospheric perspective; Florrie knew that if she climbed a mountain and inspected the character of its stone, she would never find that pure, blue hue that appeared so frequently in landscape paintings of distant peaks.
The atmospheric conditions of this landscape, however, could not have changed so much in mere moments.
Clouds continued to cover the moon, so the colour was not caused by moonglow.
Florrie looked behind her – admiring the diminished tree in the distance – to ensure no strange star lurked on the horizon.
When she turned back, however, the magenta hill was now topped with a peak of violet.
Florrie glanced at the portfolio-bag. Perhaps she ought to consult Vern.
Her present circumstances did seem like something out of a Fairy ballad.
She felt terrible, however, about troubling him at such an indecent hour of the night.
But did the concept of “night” even exist in Vern’s world?
The painting was itself set in an evening landscape, and, therefore, perpetually dark.
If the sun never rose for her, Florrie concluded, she’d be rather miserable, so however did Vern maintain his cheerful disposition under such circumstances?
She certainly did not maintain any sort of cheer when the magenta faded from the mountain, pooled into a colourful cloud and jumped into a small tree right before her.
Florrie blinked. When she opened her eyes, the hill appeared fully violet, while the tree glimmered in various hues of deep pink.