Chapter 10 #2
“Dusty?” Florrie echoed as the door slid open and slipped neatly into the wall on a hidden track running across the threshold.
She’d tidied many a historic room installation in her time, but she’d never made one quite so pristine.
Puffs of rosy clouds floated flatly from the wallpaper on to the wainscoting.
There was a charming picture-wardrobe painted with riverscapes, a canopied bed with a pink sheet that looked moderately acceptable to touch, and certainly no dust.
The Fairy produced a tiny silver tray from behind his back and placed it on a trestle table near the door. Once it left his hands, the covered tray grew until it matched Florrie’s own proportions.
“However did you do that?” Florrie asked. The Fairies had introduced many intriguing marvels to Stillscape during prior centuries, but she didn’t believe enchanted metalwork was ever among them.
“It’s child’s play, really! Simply whisper words of kindness during the smithing, and the finished object will be remarkably accommodating.” Sir Emblem gave the tray a tap. “Some provisions for you, if you’re hungry. Should you require anything else, just ask Heliotrope to seek me out.”
To Florrie’s surprise, the butterfly stroked Umber Emblem’s shoulder with an affectionate antenna.
“I’m happy to see you too, you rascal! I’m sure you were a great help to…” Sir Emblem checked his folio before glancing at Florrie. “How peculiar. Lady Aestival neglected to give me your name.”
“I neglected to give it to her,” she answered as Sir Emblem pressed his ear to the butterfly’s wing. “My name is Florrie Hyverfell.”
“My word, Florrie!” Sir Emblem gasped. “Heliotrope tells me you were nearly collected by the Anatine Acquirer!”
“Do you happen to mean that enormous duck?”
The Fairy nodded gravely. “Three hundred years ago, a haughty Fairy lord decided to house his collections in a vessel shaped like a fierce waterfowl. It was the artistic triumph of the century, until the duck sculpture grew tired of being a boat and escaped. And now it… curates its own collections, let’s say. ”
Florrie shuddered.
“If you can speak,” she said to Heliotrope, “why didn’t you warn me of the danger instead of frightening me half to death?”
Sir Emblem inclined his head toward the butterfly again, then frowned.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Florrie,” he said. “Even if you could understand the swift and spirited language of insects, Heliotrope says he’s forbidden from speaking with you directly, to avoid distressing your delicate Folk sensibilities.”
“Forbidden? By whom?”
When Sir Emblem shrugged, Florrie gave up. Likely the knight was merely joking.
“Did Heliotrope live here in the past?” she asked.
“No, but this lovely bug sure loved to visit!” cooed Umber Emblem, delicately petting the butterfly’s wings.
“At any rate,” he continued, straightening up, “You’ll see me in the morning when I bring you to Lord Mauve. Unless an escort is too formal for you?”
Either Florrie was more exhausted than she expected, or time worked differently in the Fairy realms. After Sir Emblem departed, she managed to eat her supper (a fascinating confection of flowers and rice she was too tired to fully appreciate), bathe herself (in a peculiar fountain that rather reminded her of the Fairy water feature in the fourteenth-century engraving A Gentle Soul’s Ablutions) and say a quick goodnight to Vern in what felt like a matter of moments.
All too soon, yellow sunlight recoloured the lunette window over the headboard and Florrie was awake once more.
She dressed quickly, pulling on a striking moonstone-blue dress she’d brought for this precise moment.
The skirt featured several panels of silk in slightly different shades, which came together in a gradient that reminded her of the summer sky.
Dramatic stitches of gold cord curled across the waistline, and she appreciated how they felt against her hips.
It was the rare sort of gown that was both comely and comfortable.
True to his word, Umber Emblem knocked politely a few moments after she had finished dressing. Vern gave her a nervous little wave through the bag’s window as they exited the room.
“I’ll look after you,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.”
She assumed Vern must have replied, but she couldn’t hear his faint voice over Sir Emblem’s reassuring chatter.
“Lord Mauve will receive you – that is to say, he will meet with you in a most casual manner – in the Pellucid Gallery,” said Sir Emblem once they had returned to the courtyard.
“Through that silver door, if you please,” he continued, gesturing ahead of them. “We’ve moved past giving announcements, so feel free to introduce yourself as you would to any new acquaintance.”
“Won’t you come along?” Florrie asked.
“There’s no need to fret! Lord Mauve is an informal man, the most informal of us all!”
Just as Florrie wondered – not for the first time – whether any one at Lord Mauve’s museum truly understood the Folk definition of informal, Sir Emblem ushered her inside the gallery, stepped back out, and shut the door behind him.
She took a deep breath, ran her fingers along the cord on her dress and waited for her eyes to adjust to the light.
The Pellucid Gallery’s walls, ceiling and floor were formed from hexagonal glass cabinets, each containing a treasure more colourful than the next. As she gazed at palace-shaped music boxes, vase-shaped pianos and ornamental goblets without any recognisable shape, Florrie felt afraid to move.
“Don’t be foolish,” called someone from further along in the gallery.
“Surely you can manage a step or two if I can?” The call sounded like Vern – yet it wasn’t.
There was a sort of rugged raspiness to this voice, as well as a confident elocutionary style that suggested the speaker had never tripped over a word in his life.
Florrie took a step forward to face Lord Mauve himself, who was not in the least upstaged by the wonders around him.
Nor did he look exactly like his portrait.
Lord Mauve was lying on the ground, his hands behind his head, in what seemed like an uncomfortable attempt to appear relaxed.
Instead of the regal finery from the painting, the Fairy lord wore a black chemise that blended seamlessly into his matching trousers.
Lord Mauve was built like Vern, for the most part – though, curiously, Lord Mauve appeared somewhat brawnier and a bit taller – but there was nothing of Vern in his expression.
The skin around Lord Mauve’s eyes was too smooth for any wayward smile lines, and his eyebrows jutted outward at forbidding angles.
All in all, it could be said that Lord Mauve was handsome in the sort of way that was just the slightest bit terrifying.
As Florrie completed her visual analysis, however, she discovered something altogether surprising. The Fairy lord inspired no feelings of infatuation within her. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or concerned by this development.
Curiously, Lord Mauve held an amber playing-ball in his right hand. He rolled it to the tips of his fingers, as though it hurt him to touch it.
“Are you a player of Tempest-Tossed?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”
“Terrible game,” growled Lord Mauve. “As though there’s such a thing as a good game.
But I thought eschewing – I mean, giving up – the noble pursuit of ceremonial athletics for recreational trifles like games would make me come across as more casual.
No matter.” He tossed the ball over his shoulder before Florrie could stop him – and, to her surprise, it rolled away without injuring a single glass cabinet.
“I know Heliotrope well enough, but who are you?” He gave the butterfly a seated bow. “I suppose you are here on behalf of Prince Ardant.”
“However did you guess?” The only tangible connection between Florrie and Prince Ardant was the colourful orb, which remained in her pocket.
Aesti must have spread word of Florrie’s arrival.
“My name is Florrie Hyverfell, I am a conservator, and I was hoping to speak with you about a certain painting from the prince’s collection. ”
“Evidently,” said Lord Mauve in an impressively flat tone. “Is that what you’re carrying in that unwieldy bag?”
Though Florrie did not feel particularly reassured by Lord Mauve’s response, she had no choice but to reveal the portrait she’d worked so hard to transport.
She sat on the floor, mimicking Lord Mauve’s pose, and opened the portfolio-bag.
As she carefully removed the painting, Vern appeared, flashing a small smile that left her feeling rather encouraged.
Florrie unfolded a travel easel, settled the painting upon it, and presented The Resolute Portrait of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve Among the Ruins to Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve himself.
Vern, for his part, stepped forward and waved at his near-twin.
“Good day, Lord Mauve,” he said in the most anxiously high-pitched variation of his natural voice.
“At last,” Lord Mauve said, looking darkly at the canvas. “Long have I anticipated this day. The day you would return to remind me of all I have lost – and of the great cruelty I committed by condemning you to an imprisoned half-life.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” said Vern. “I do enjoy this life of mine, despite its challenges.”
At that, Lord Mauve’s frown twisted slightly, as though even he could not find a way of responding negatively to Vern. He had no such reservations about Florrie, however.
“Why did Ardant send you here, Miss Florrie? No doubt it was an act of vengeance!” Lord Mauve exclaimed. “And what, may I ask, is your relationship to him?”