Chapter 7 #4
She felt, strangely, as though she ought to run. For the painting’s sake, she attempted a rapid walk instead, hoping her renewed pace might carry her away without attracting the questionable attention of the colourful presences.
In another instant, the tree and the hill swapped colouring again, with the tree taking on the violet hue. Somehow, the tree seemed even more sinister and sickly in this new colour – and Florrie normally liked violet.
She was almost relieved when it began to rain.
As the deluge darkened the landscape, Florrie found it increasingly difficult to discern the strange colours at all.
The changes must have been an indication of the coming storm, like leaves rustling, birds-of-burden lying down in their meadows, or tempest-painters packing up their palettes.
She pulled the hood of her great-cloak over her hair.
The cloak was not entirely weatherproof – Florrie could already feel the wind churning about her – but it could shield her until she reached the hill, at the very least. According to her extensive study of alpine landscape paintings, there must be at least one beautifully jagged outcrop she could use for shelter.
Florrie squinted into the wind and continued pressing forward.
Raindrops rippled about her, shifting in shape and size.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a dark bubble of colour in the distance – one by one, the raindrops nearest to the tree were turning violet.
It was as though the hue itself was travelling from the tree and towards her, sliding through the raindrops as it did.
A similar ribbon of magenta raindrops began shuddering its way out of the hill.
Florrie tightened her hood – mostly for the benefit of touching the embroidered velvet fastenings – and did her best to run in the opposite direction.
Her plan, as much as she had one, was to return to the tree, reassemble her tent and shelter there until the storm passed. But she barely had time to complete any meaningful progress towards this goal before the colours were upon her.
The swift magenta arrived first. In an instant, her eyes seemed trapped behind magenta lenses. Florrie tried blinking and shaking her head, but the colour would not leave. When she shut her eyes, all she could see was a blaze of pink on the inside of her eyelids.
Far better to keep them open. Florrie fixed her focus upon the magenta ground, waiting for the colour’s next attack.
“Is that all you wanted? To make my perspective rosier?” she shouted into the rain.
It wasn’t the worst fate, as Fairy curses went.
When she arrived at Lord Mauve’s museum, she would work up the courage to ask if anyone knew how to free her from the colour’s influence.
Florrie took several deep breaths, touched her sleeves and composed herself as best as she could. All would be well.
Then a second rush of something swept around her head, and Florrie’s vision became a blend of violet and magenta.
The two colours usurped her eyes and mind, battling for dominance over her senses.
The world would flash in violet or magenta, or both, one after the other.
When she could, Florrie marvelled at how the two colours never mixed – they persisted in wrestling with each other.
It was immensely curious, and she was starting to feel immensely ill.
A few years ago, Florrie had read a review of a contemporary exhibition in Sightspel Harbour, for which an artist had created a sculptural installation featuring filters of various colours affixed to candles.
The artist commissioned a troupe of dancers to carry the candles on the hour, thrice a day, for the purpose of “drawing back the tides on the great oceans of colour”.
The reviewer had enjoyed the experience thoroughly, but Florrie could not help imagining how unpleasantly overstimulating it would be.
At any rate, she no longer needed to imagine it.
The two colours clashed more and more violently as they tried to push each other out of her mind.
The landscape would not stop flickering and flashing before her.
Florrie suspected, regrettably, that she could not endure it much longer without fainting.
Somehow, she had the presence of mind to know she ought to get close to the ground.
That wouldn’t stop the colours, but she’d rather take her chances among them than risk falling and hitting her head on a cobble.
She dropped slowly to her knees, putting out her hands to reduce the likelihood of injury.
It was excellently executed. Florrie practically congratulated herself – until she realised the portfolio-bag was still on her arm, crunched awkwardly to her side.
By her reckoning, however inexpert, she was about to faint atop it.
Her last thought before succumbing was a prayer that no one would come upon her and The Resolute Portrait in such a compromising position. No rescue would be worth the inevitable consequence of Chary never letting her live it down.