Chapter 9
In times of uncertainty, nothing brought Florrie as much comfort as a good set of rules.
In addition to her adherence to the Conservator’s Code, she found it easiest to cope with the vexing unpredictability of the world by placing restrictions upon her engagement with it.
Always wear gloves. Never discuss Fairy paintings without an invitation.
Wake, eat and sleep at precisely the same times every day.
But she hadn’t ever set herself a rule she truly resented – until now.
Do not indulge in frivolous trips into the painting.
Florrie had awakened after a relatively restless night, ashamed of her behaviour.
She never should have tarried with Vern while the painting lay abandoned on the road.
What if the rain had returned, and a flood had saturated all fifteen protective layers of the portfolio-bag?
What if some peculiar creature had attempted to consume the bag (despite the naturally unpleasant taste of its fibres) or nest within it (despite the naturally thick weave, which had been legally declared birdproof)?
Though the Code only applied to genuine paintings, Florrie still felt inclined to protect this version of The Resolute Portrait. It wasn’t simply a forgery. It was home to someone – someone Florrie was desperate to call upon, rules or not.
Despite refusing to visit the painting again, Florrie continued to enjoy Vern’s company.
He was an excellent listener with a seemingly insatiable interest in discussing the vagaries of painting conservation.
Over a dull two days of ascending the mountainous terrain leading to Lord Mauve’s museum, Florrie spoke more than she’d ever spoken in her life.
Stranger still, she found it suited her.
What remained unsaid throughout their discussions, however, was the embarrassing fact that Florrie’s thoughts remained stubbornly fixed upon Vern.
It wasn’t always practical to converse with a painting, so their interactions weren’t endless.
Whenever he retreated into the canvas to garden or spin, Florrie missed him.
Did he feel the same? Naturally, he must – but only because he had no other company.
It didn’t matter how kindly he’d cared for her in the cottage, or how enthusiastically he’d asked about her approach to replicating craquelure – Vern was the sort of Fairy who would do such things for anyone, if given the opportunity.
Florrie was tormenting herself with this internal lecture for the twentieth time when she reached the shores of an alpine lake, tucked behind the crags she’d just overcome.
At last, a proper Fairy landscape! Even up in the peaks, everything appeared so vivid and lively.
Clusters of soft yellow flowers peeked from every crack in the wind-carved silt.
The lake reflected the periwinkle sky with a satisfying shimmer, and the rocks contained an enthralling mix of ice-blue mineral spirals.
She settled onto the edge of a sapphire-encrusted cliff overlooking the lake and allowed herself a moment of rest. Based on the map and her current pace, Florrie imagined she might reach Lord Mauve by evening, if she persisted.
With that in mind, she certainly had no time for a chat.
Still, the lake was so lovely that it seemed ill-mannered to pass without letting Vern take a look.
She positioned the portfolio-bag at an appropriate angle and was immediately rewarded with Vern’s wonder. “A mountain lake,” he said, enthralled. “Why, it’s like the one from the painting that once hung next to mine…”
“You mean An Ocean’s Alpestrine Prayer, I presume,” Florrie said. “Fifteenth-century, oil on— I mean, yes. An excellent comparison.”
Vern beamed at her, and she tried her best to enjoy it. Though some time had passed since her visit, Florrie still found it odd to see Vern in miniature instead of the Fairy man who cooked her stew and took her hand.
“The appearance of the water is quite unusual,” Florrie mused. “In my experience, ripples take the form of concentric circles that spiral outward. These ones are strange. Scattered. Like there’s something enormous rocking under the surface. It’s too far away for me to see, though.”
Vern raised his small hand to shield his eyes. “And I can’t see even a single ripple, I’m afraid.”
“Why don’t we take a closer look once I’ve had my supper?”
Florrie turned back to the hamper and promptly froze.
“Florrie?” called Vern. “What’s the matter?”
Sitting politely atop the hamper’s straps was a butterfly the size of an average portrait bust. Its wings rattled the lock, and its proboscis prodded curiously into the wicker.
Florrie took two massive steps backwards and rotated the portfolio-bag.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea of how I ought to handle that?” she hissed to the canvas.
As if in reply, the butterfly opened its black wings to reveal splotchy pink patterns that reminded Florrie of Vern’s patchwork quilt.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what that is,” Vern breathed. “Is it like a bird, but with Fairy wings? No, I suppose birds already have wings… Like a winged worm? And what are those wretched things sticking out of its head?”
“Ah, well, I recognise the creature itself – we call it a butterfly,” Florrie said gently. Apparently, ordinary insects were not addressed in the courtly ballads. “But usually, butterflies tend to be no bigger than a paintbrush-head. It’s the size of this one I find alarming.”
“Don’t you think you ought to hide in here until it leaves?”
Though the invitation was immensely tempting, Florrie shook her head – and turned to shake her head again near the portfolio-bag so Vern could see her response.
“I’d hate to spend another night on the road because of one butterfly. Let me see if I can frighten it away.”
“Goodness, you’re brave. Do be careful, Florrie.”
“I’ll try my best,” Florrie assured him as she strode towards the hamper with what she hoped was aggressive confidence.
To her satisfaction, the butterfly behaved as one ought to. As she drew closer, it flew from the hamper before settling a few paces away.
“Well, that’s some progress,” Florrie said. Keeping watch of the beast, she unfastened the hamper, seized the first piece of bread her hand touched and nestled into the rocks. As she ate, the butterfly glided over from the rock and landed at her feet, regarding her with baleful iridescent eyes.
Despite her fright, Florrie also felt delighted to view a familiar creature from such a unique perspective.
She’d restored her fair share of butterfly portraits, which enjoyed a brief period of popularity during the sixth century, but had never turned her magnifiers on any real-world insects.
While the creature’s upright wing structure and colouring were indeed those of a butterfly, it was also fluffy in the manner of a moth.
Luxurious feathery tufts trailed like clouds around its head, shining with a silver haze whenever the light struck them.
“Do you think it’s after your food?” Vern asked. “It’s quite unsettling, isn’t it? Like a Fairy gone wrong.”
“Funnily enough, early Folk artists often depicted Fairies as Folk with butterfly wings. And it can’t have any of our food.” She gave the butterfly a stern look. “Butterflies subsist on nectar, and there are plenty of flowers about.”
Still, the butterfly crept closer, its antennae quivering, until it collapsed before Florrie in what appeared to be a pleading bow.
“Oh, all right,” Florrie said crossly, tearing off some bread. “I don’t know how you imagine you’ll eat this, but – by all means.”
When she tossed the bread before the butterfly, the insect glowed a fierce, excited chartreuse.
It placed its proboscis into the bread and, as Florrie watched with mingled curiosity and horror, appeared to drink the very colours as though they were nectar.
Moments later, a dull, grey piece of bread lay on the ground, and the butterfly fluttered about excitedly.
“That’s more than enough bravery for one day,” said Florrie, hoisting the hamper onto her back. “We’re leaving, Vern. I do not want that butterfly to turn me grey, thank you.”
“Suits me!”
Florrie considered the paths before them.
The Old Amethyst Road took a turn and bent around the cliffs in a series of switchbacks that did not seem particularly pleasant.
On the other hand, a smaller path – enticingly smooth, as though something large and flat had been dragged across it – looped around the mountain lake.
“If we follow that path,” she proposed, “I suspect I can rejoin the road after a short scramble up the other side. It might save some time, and we can walk around the lake together.”
“I wonder what it’s like to walk around something so large? Maybe I ought to do a circuit of my garden while you’re walking. To feel like I’m there.”
Florrie’s first instinct was to say that she’d much rather pace in the painting than walk about the lake, but she realised how insensitive that might sound to someone who had no choice in the matter.
Instead, she said, “If you were here by this lake, what would you do?”
“Oh, loads of things,” replied Vern, with an endearing dreaminess to his soft voice. “But I suppose most of them amount to experiencing the water. It’s quite common for ballad lyricists to compare the surface of a lake to cloth, and I’m desperate to understand why.”
Florrie gazed at the lake. With its unusual ripples, the lake did look a little like the embroidered frame-veils that often hung in front of paintings with more titillating subjects. It was an artist’s dream, really.