Chapter 8
When Florrie opened her eyes, she found herself beneath a most excellent blanket.
Specifically, it was a quilt, featuring abstract floral appliques atop homespun twill.
The faded-looking patches were no doubt created using petal-based dyes in the fourth-century style, as a clever reference to the era before artisans learned how to fix more vibrant hues.
But was it really fourth-century? No. That particular style was fifth-century, obviously. Florrie’s head ached so much that she could rebuke herself only moderately for such a lamentable error.
She felt hazy and disorientated. The darkness didn’t help.
Was that a wall? What flickered against it?
Like a young art historian tasked with discovering the source of light in a landscape painting, Florrie turned her head in search of the glow.
There it was – a candle, curiously round, with two tall wicks angling off the sides like arms. The candle sat on a smooth stone windowsill, which suddenly flashed silver.
Moonglow flooded her surroundings for a moment, then faded as the clouds shifted.
Florrie could have sworn that the moonbeam, before it vanished, had looked – well, almost textured.
Stippled, even. She blinked, only to be startled anew by a clicking sound that continued with rhythmic regularity.
Frankly, it was all a bit much. Florrie felt quite tempted to wrap herself back up and sleep until the world made sense again. She couldn’t even attribute a quilt to its proper century in this state!
“Florrie? Are you awake? Oh, thank goodness!”
As the reedy, eager voice spoke, the clicking stopped, followed by a quick patter of footsteps. Florrie was sure she’d never heard that gentle tenor before. At the same time, she couldn’t shake the distinct impression that it was somewhat familiar.
Of course it was.
The Fairy who’d spoken now stood beside the bed, and he was certainly not a tiny figure flickering on a canvas. Vern was simply himself, as Florrie had never seen him before.
Though the artist had used a few well-placed lines to suggest an enthusiastic expression, this Vern’s face was so much more than smudges of pigment.
He was altogether vivacious. Even with the boyish energy in his easy grin, Florrie was relieved to discover that Vern – by appearance, at least – was decidedly of her own age.
In the candlelight, she observed cheerful creases around his eyes and lips, which were the sort of endearing facial detail artists often eschewed in their pursuit of physical perfection.
His eyes were the same green–grey as a particular variety of pewter solder she used when repairing metalworks, and his hair shimmered like a polished rose-gold ewer.
And, at last, she could confirm the existence of two charming dimples that she suspected rarely supported anything other than a smile.
Despite these observations, Florrie still feared she could not trust her senses.
“Are we at Lord Mauve’s museum?” she asked. “Has he already freed you from the painting? In that case, would it be impolite if I slept for a while longer?”
Vern shook his head, sending a rosy ringlet tumbling in front of his right ear – something she never could have seen on the canvas.
“I don’t imagine so! That is – you’re welcome to sleep more, of course, but I’m here where I always am. I heard strange sounds, and I saw you fall, and then…” He paused and looked down. Goodness, she could even see the gentle curls of his eyelashes!
“I was so worried about you,” Vern continued, “that I, well, let you in. Then, as I didn’t want to frighten you, I sat and spun for a while until you awoke.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“For forty skeins!”
Though he had abandoned the aforementioned spinning, Florrie noticed his fingers fidgeting as though he still had a spindle in hand.
“How, precisely, did you let me into the painting?” she asked. “Did you even know this was possible?”
“If I did, I would have invited you long ago!” Instead of looking directly at her, Vern now glanced toward the ceiling.
“It was as though a formal question emerged in my mind: would I consent to grant you entry? I agreed, obviously, and suddenly you were lying right where you are. It was thoughtful of the painting to put you on the bed instead of the floor, don’t you think? ”
What Florrie truly thought was that the painting understood little of propriety.
“I still can’t believe how small you are!” Vern exclaimed.
“Unless there’s some strange perspectival device at play, I expect I’m still slightly taller than you.”
“I can’t wait to find out,” he replied. “I would have assumed all Folk were the same size if I hadn’t seen such variety in the museum.
And with Fairies, it’s even more pronounced!
Why, some of the courtiers assisting the artist were smaller than a paintbrush, while others could barely fit into the studio!
But that’s not exactly relevant, is it… What do you think of my cottage? ”
Ignoring the ache in her shoulders, she turned about the glimmering room.
The ceiling spiralled inward, giving Florrie the fanciful impression that she’d awakened inside a seashell – or, less fancifully, an Errant Era seashell-shaped funerary vase.
Yet there was nothing funereal about the cheerful gold tiles that were staggered across the floor in slanted diagonals, occasionally disrupted by the odd inlaid sapphire.
A golden fireplace, tall and thin, lurked behind the columnar legs of a banquet table.
Piles of quilts and blankets and runners and textiles she couldn’t categorise loomed around them in great orderly stacks.
“I never thought it would be as homely as this. Nor as shiny,” she said. Really, the place was unrecognisable. Only the twenty-three round windows confirmed she was inside the cottage from The Resolute Portrait.
“It’s quite bright, isn’t it?” commented Vern. “I wouldn’t have picked the gold myself, but I don’t mind. I’m grateful this little place exists.”
“It’s certainly an improvement upon lying unconscious on the Old Amethyst Road.
” Florrie’s head decided to remind her of that experience by commencing a great bout of dizziness.
She winced, grabbing the quilt to regain her focus.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Vern. It sounds impossible, but I rather believe I was assailed by the physical forms of magenta and violet.”
“Oh, rogue hues!” he exclaimed. “They serve as antagonists in – what is it, a good fifteen ballads?”
“What, exactly, is a rogue hue?” Florrie asked.
“I believe they are what happens when Fairy paints start running wild.”
“As paints often do, I’m sure.”
“I’m awfully sorry I didn’t mention them earlier,” Vern said, more seriously. “In the ballads, rogue hues only prey upon those who travel alone, so it wouldn’t have occurred to me to warn you.”
“But I am travelling alone.”
Vern gasped so audibly that Florrie wished she could retract her statement to spare him the distress.
“You are? Then I’ve spoiled everything!” he groaned. “I assumed you and the prince were travelling together – or, if not, that you’d gone off with some colleagues from the palace. That’s what Lord Ochre does in… Well, I’m dreadfully sorry!”
Florrie sighed. By this point, it was clear she was not suited to sustaining – or even consistently remembering – long-term lies. Yet how would she explain this lie without destroying whatever fragile friendship might exist between them? She must be exceptionally tactful and careful.
“I am not married to Prince Ardant,” her mouth said while her mind still considered tact and care.
Vern’s eyes widened, but he did not seem angry. His eyebrows angled upwards again, and he looked almost relieved. Or did he?
“So it was a protective lie, as I suspected!” he crowed.
“As you suspected?” Florrie echoed. “Surely it wasn’t that obvious.”
“Well, I did find it a little unlikely that you’d go to the effort to lie to your own cousin, who’s not a Fairy, about your ‘beau’, and yet—”
“Oh, yes,” said Florrie. “That was absolutely, unquestionably part of the lie.”
“And you’ve just dispelled it for me!” Vern was undeniably beaming – even Florrie could not dispute that. “What a ballad-worthy gesture! Does that mean you trust me?”
“Should I not?”
“No, no! I am honoured by your faith in me.” Now he was bowing. Florrie nearly covered herself with the quilt in embarrassment.
“Well, you did save me,” she said, “and since we’re travelling together, I thought it would spare us some trouble if I clarified the matter.”
Somehow, Florrie found herself under the impression that she had never made someone as happy as this.
He must have thoroughly enjoyed those ballads about Fairies and Folk developing trust in one another.
For a moment, she suspected Vern might say more on the subject, but then he shook his head and simply smiled.
“You like stew, don’t you?” he asked.
The stew turned out to be the worst thing Florrie had ever tasted, but she was quite sure she’d rather expire on the spot than admit that to Vern. When he asked what was wrong – seemingly concerned by the fact that she was consuming it one drop at a time – she tried her best to be kind.
“I’m afraid it rather tastes of… paint. Does it to you?”
“Everything here tastes like this,” he replied with a shrug.
In one horrifying moment, Florrie’s treacherous mind wondered how far this rule extended, and whether Vern himself would—
“How might I go about leaving?” she asked, rising quickly from the bed so he would not notice the rogue hue upon her complexion.
“Wait! Won’t you let me take that?” Vern replied, removing her bowl before it spilled. “Was the stew so terrible that you need to escape?”
“I am well provisioned, thanks to the prince,” she said, instead of answering. “I thought I’d fetch something new for you to try. Only if I can leave and bring food back, of course.”