Chapter 11
Lord Mauve remained companionably quiet as he led Florrie out of the Pellucid Gallery.
She suspected they would have proceeded to the artist’s studio in silence if not for Vern.
At his request, Florrie had not returned the forged The Resolute Portrait to her bag.
Instead, she carried the easel before her.
With the fastener bars in place and the painting within its encasement, it was perfectly safe, if unwieldy.
The unusual method of transportation made it possible for Vern to participate in – or, in fact, lead – the conversation.
“Have you a garden, Lord Mauve?” he asked.
“There are a few gardenscapes in my collections,” said Lord Mauve, “but living plants? No. Sustaining life is far beyond my capabilities. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was only wondering about the landscape in my painting. Why you chose it.”
“Loftus asked for my preferences. I requested anything but one of those ghastly oversized-toadstool backgrounds.”
“I’m surprised he respected your wishes,” said Florrie. “Loftus was the foremost fungus-painter of his time.”
At this, Lord Mauve merely harrumphed. Though Florrie expected the conversation to end there, Lord Mauve suddenly paced backwards to fall in line with the painting.
“Do you like to garden, Vern?” he asked. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Though Vern was characteristically enthusiastic as he extolled the virtues of various herbaceous plants, Florrie also observed something unusual about his voice.
Not that he was speaking poorly; years of eavesdropping had made him a capable conversationalist. Still, Florrie was quite sure Vern didn’t sound entirely like himself.
He didn’t skip syllables or smash words together because his speech could barely keep up with his mind – as he did when he spoke to her.
She quite liked how that made her feel.
Lord Mauve took them through an arched doorway onto a marble platform held up by an impressively solid column of water. At the Fairy lord’s command, the water sank slowly, lowering them through another passage in the canyon.
“What manner of enchantment powers this lift?” Florrie asked. She hadn’t intended to start a fresh conversation with Lord Mauve, but the fountain-lift fascinated her far too much. It reminded her of the needlessly elaborate waterworks found in “braggart gardens” from the eighth century.
“Elementary imaging,” said Lord Mauve. “Artistic magic, if you prefer. Someone paints a scene showing how the water should behave, and it becomes attuned to the image.”
“Can you really make water behave in a particular manner simply by painting it?”
“Not without a great deal of bother and paperwork.” Lord Mauve sighed. “I’ve long admired you Folk for your unwillingness to rely upon magic. It must spare you endless frustration.”
At the base of the canyon, they stepped off the platform and were greeted by a river-fresh breeze.
After a few moments of scrutiny, Florrie noticed a spindly tower set into the pink stone that surrounded them.
Small dots of windows were scattered across the tower’s front face.
Like many painters of Florrie’s acquaintance, the artist must be particularly fond of morning light.
Lord Mauve knocked twice before opening the door.
The interior he revealed had no floors or divisions: it was but one tall room, with two window-seats near the ceiling accessible via rickety staircases.
The tower was crowded with worktops, each covered with precarious piles of canvases, palettes, brushes and raw materials waiting to be transformed into pigments.
The studio was exceptionally quiet, save for the soft singing of a bard sprawled on a lace-topped daybed who plucked a harp with thrice as many strings as Florrie would have expected.
“Do you recognise this one?” she whispered to Vern.
“Naturally!” he exclaimed. “It’s a love ballad. I mean, they’re mostly all love ballads, so that doesn’t narrow it down, but this is one of my favourites because there’s a prince trapped in a tower who—”
“Pardon me, Sir Cerulean— No… I’m just dropping by with some visitors, Ceru,” said Lord Mauve. “As I often do, because I’m not one for ceremony, as you know.”
“Oh, give it up,” called the artist. He emerged from behind an enormous stack of gemstones and flower petals, rolling along proudly upon a wheeled stool. “The more informal you try to be, the stiffer you sound. Same goes for everybody here.”
“I suppose I must appreciate the informality of your candour.”
“Always happy to help, Lord Mauve!”
Ceru, if that was his preferred form of address, had pale, white skin (with a pinkish tinge) and long locks of pink hair (with a pearl-white gleam) that touched the floor.
For an artist, he was dressed rather plainly – in a grey, shapeless robe – but perhaps the humble outfit was his equivalent of a smock.
“Now, who is this curious stranger?” said Ceru, eyeing Florrie.
“That dress is certainly striking. Look at the pleats! I haven’t painted pleats for centuries.
Please tell me she’s here to pose for a portrait – no, surely not.
Nobody comes all this way for portraits any more.
Oh, perhaps it’s a momentous occasion? Is she marrying into the family? I don’t suppose Aesti—”
“My sister remains eminently unmarriageable. Her words, not mine. Florrie has some questions about a painting of yours,” said Lord Mauve. “And the painting has some questions for you, too. If you take my meaning.”
Lord Mauve stepped out of the way and gestured to the easel.
“How do you do?” said Vern. “Do you… remember me?”
The artist gasped. In a matter of moments, he wheeled his stool back behind the orange stack of detritus and vanished from sight.
“Come now, Ceru,” sighed Lord Mauve. “This isn’t the time for your theatrics, diverting though they may be.”
“You dare call me theatrical, under the circumstances?” The artist’s voice was barely audible over the sound of the bard, who seemed to have no intention of ceasing their ballads. “Why did you bring him here?”
“Because I promised I would, and now I have.”
Lord Mauve demonstrated his athleticism once again by making the speediest of exits.
“What now, Florrie?” said Vern. “Is the artist all right?”
New noises emerged from the back of the studio. Florrie suspected Ceru was either weeping or washing several moderately sized paintbrushes. “I’ll try to find out, I suppose.”
Ceru was not, in fact, washing paintbrushes.
“I apologise,” said Florrie. “We were only wondering if you knew—”
“I can’t,” whispered Ceru. His hands gripped a table leg as his shoulders shook. “Not with him here.”
“He can hear you!” Florrie protested.
“Florrie,” murmured Vern. “It’s no trouble. I’ll just disappear for a bit, all right?”
“I meant no offence. I do apologise.” To his credit, Ceru now stared in the painting’s general direction to address Vern. “I’ve agonised over my mistake for years. Seeing you here, trapped and suffering as you are – it’s startling, to say the least.”
“You certainly don’t need to tell me that.” Vern had spoken so quietly and so bitterly that Florrie barely caught his words. She was quite certain, however, that he had indeed said them, despite his immediate attempt to put her at ease.
“Don’t worry, Florrie!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry for leaving. But I’ll see you soon!”
Moments later, Florrie found herself alone with a stranger she very much wished to chastise.
How dare you? was the admonishment Florrie wanted to utter.
But, really, how dare she? Scolding the only Fairy who might understand the painting’s enchantment was unlikely to help Vern.
If Florrie let herself speak candidly, she feared it would soon become necessary to review Chary’s teachings about what she called “graciously condescending apologies”.
Besides, the artist was still shaking quite intensely. Instead of commencing a critique, then, Florrie found a carafe of water amid the orange miscellany and poured Ceru a glass.
“I hope that’s not what you use to wash your brushes,” she said.
The artist drank the water and dried his tears with a surprisingly pristine painting rag.
“I don’t know what came over me,” said Ceru. “I saw him and I panicked. Will… will he forgive me?”
“I’m sure he already has. You think he’s a mistake, but I promise he has a better heart than either of us.”
“I did not say that to be cruel. It is only the truth, don’t you see?
” Ceru placed his glass firmly on the table.
“I was describing my mistake – painting Lord Mauve’s mouth slightly differently, that is.
I thought it might add more authenticity to his apology for Prince Ardant!
That was all it took for the magic to do its grim work. ”
“If you knew Vern was in the painting, why did you send him off to live alone in the Commonplace Palace?” asked Florrie. “Vern’s told me about his time here. He remembers you and your assistants discussing him! Yet you exiled him without trying to communicate?”
“Don’t be silly. I spent hours watching that canvas and never saw any signs of life. Consequently, I assumed he was still blossoming within his seedpod, like any newborn Fairy. Perfectly reasonable, wouldn’t you say? Don’t you Folk do the same when you are born?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Florrie politely. She was woefully unfamiliar with these apparently fascinating details of Fairy biology. “Besides, according to Vern, he wasn’t born. He came into being as an adult. At the same age Lord Mauve was when he sat for the portrait, I suspect.”
“How fascinating. I suppose it’s because—” Ceru stopped himself. “That’s beside the point. The fact remains that there is a Fairy imprisoned in that painting because of me. I think of my error and its consequences every day.”