Chapter 9 #3
“Why, you’re worried about me!” she exclaimed.
“Of course I am! You’re on your own, and the most peculiar things keep happening, and all I can do is wait here and offer unhelpful advice from old songs.” He seized the nearest hand-spindle and began turning it about in his hands, though there was no thread to spin. “I feel utterly useless.”
Before she knew what she was doing, Florrie placed her hand on his shoulder.
This time, Vern didn’t seem startled by her touch – but he did stare at her, wide-eyed, as his mouth fell open with a soft, startled gasp.
“It’s a gesture of comfort,” Florrie explained. “Intended to soothe you by indicating my support.”
Then Florrie heard an almighty tap that resonated like thunder through the painting. The butterfly was flying dangerously close to the portfolio-bag, waving its antennae at them.
“Now that is simply unacceptable,” Florrie grumbled. She pulled her hand away. “I’m terribly sorry, Vern. I must give my new guardian butterfly an education in art-handling etiquette.”
“I wish I could accompany you.” Vern had found a new cloud of fibres and was now twirling the spindle furiously. “Everything would be so much easier if I could travel in and out of the painting. Why can you do it, when I can’t?”
“You can still keep me company.” Florrie took a breath. “Folk sometimes say it’s hard to guess what I’m thinking, so let me tell you: I’m rather terrified, Vern.”
She did not mean to speak so honestly, nor to make him worry more. She also did not imagine he would respond by mimicking the gesture of comfort she’d just demonstrated for him.
“Is this correct?” Vern asked, as he raised his hand to her shoulder.
Florrie evaluated his technique. His delicate fingers had fallen just over her shoulder blades and his palm felt warm and steady, and she rather hoped, against all reason, that it could remain there for the foreseeable future.
“I suppose I’m no expert on the subject,” she said.
“In your novice opinion, then. Does this help you feel better?”
“On a practical level, it shouldn’t,” Florrie whispered. “That’s what’s always flummoxed me. A gentle touch has few tangible benefits.”
“Sure,” said Vern.
“It certainly won’t keep me safe from predatory ducks.”
“I wish it could.”
“And yet,” she said – and found she could say no more.
“And yet is good enough for me,” he murmured, just before the din of the butterfly’s impatient tapping made further conversation impossible.
When Florrie emerged from the painting, the butterfly fluttered from the bag and settled quite confidently on her shoulder.
“If you insist,” she conceded.
They turned away from the lake, with Florrie taking particular care to avert her gaze from the cursed easel.
It was truly a shame to lose the shortcut.
The staggering incline of the Old Amethyst Road up the crag proved as arduous as Florrie had feared.
Though she didn’t have the spare breath to speak with Vern, she kept herself occupied by watching for additional examples of mountaintop flora.
She’d identified what she believed were five separate varieties of alpine harebell by the time she reached the top.
Sumptuous strands of lilac clouds formed around her as she ascended the peak, making the path almost impossible to see.
At one point, the fog became so opaque that Florrie could barely glimpse the butterfly on her shoulder.
Moments later, the fog cleared – in a manner of speaking.
The wispy clouds were now fully transparent, and less distracting than their coloured counterparts.
The butterfly flew before her, glowing a cheerful purple that matched the shade formerly sported by the clouds.
Clearly her strange new companion had enjoyed a second supper.
“Drinking colours is a most peculiar practice,” Florrie said. “But I confess I’m curious about how that lilac tasted.”
Perhaps out of fear of the butterfly, the clouds dissipated completely and soon Florrie found herself looking into a jewel-hued canyon as resplendent as any ninth-century inlaid charm-box.
It was Florrie’s understanding that Fairy collectors built their museums exclusively in landscapes rich with materials used for crafting pigments.
The ravine was lined with ribbons of red and violet rock, with more glistening mineral deposits – surely a boon for Fairy paint-makers – shining here and there among the striations.
At the bottom of the canyon, a river gleamed with smooth crystal islets, all sculpted to perfection by wind and water.
Florrie inched the portfolio-bag forward on her shoulder for Vern’s benefit.
“I didn’t realise your home looked like this!” she exclaimed. “I pictured Lord Mauve’s museum in the middle of a forest glade, like in your painting.”
“It certainly is splendid,” said Vern. “But it’s not quite my home, is it?”
Suddenly, he sounded immensely weary. Florrie suspected the mere act of witnessing her climb was enough to exhaust anyone.
“Are you well, Vern?” She took a sip of water from her flask – which, fortunately, was made from colourless glass that held no appeal to the butterfly. “You needn’t worry. Prince Ardant’s map suggests the museum is just down this ridge.”
“I’m so glad! But…” He shrugged. “This is rather silly, Florrie, but I’m rather nervous about returning to Lord Mauve’s.”
“That’s not silly at all.”
“Are you… you know, excited?”
“Excited about visiting a Fairy museum?” Florrie smiled in what she knew Chary would describe as a terribly unbecoming expression of unbridled joy. “I am indeed. I only hope I might be able to peek at the collections before I depart.”
“Well, I knew that. No, I was asking whether you were looking forward to meeting Lord Mauve.”
“What? No, I hardly know the slightest thing about him,” Florrie replied, airily. “I do, however, look forward to consulting him about Prince Ardant’s painting – and yours, too.”
As she began her downward climb, however, Florrie considered the matter more carefully.
Presently, she would meet someone identical to Vern: though, technically, Vern was the one who looked identical to Lord Mauve, since the Fairy lord was the original from which Vern’s appearance was copied.
It was extremely evident by this point that said appearance created a profound effect upon Florrie.
Vern (and, by extension, Lord Mauve) was handsome in a dainty, cheerful way.
His very presence tended to fluster her, and he possessed the most memorable smile in the history of art – there was no point in pretending otherwise.
Would Lord Mauve make her feel the same?
The only task more intimidating than requesting an audience with a Fairy gallerist, Florrie assumed, was requesting said audience while acting like an infatuated apprentice. At the very least, she had no intention of teaching Lord Mauve about gestures of comfort.