Chapter 12
Upon exiting the studio, Florrie spotted Lord Mauve standing stiffly against a canyon-stone column. She felt strangely touched that he’d waited for her.
Then Lord Mauve noticed Florrie and deliberately slouched backward into a more relaxed position.
“Oh, there you are,” he said. “What did you think of my artist? Will he help you?”
“Somewhat, it seems.”
Lord Mauve glanced at the portfolio-bag. “Where’s your gregarious friend?”
“He required some time to himself.”
“I see,” said Lord Mauve, gravely.
In Vern’s absence, Florrie and Lord Mauve returned to the water-borne lift without exchanging a word.
Florrie found herself peering at the painting every few moments, willing Vern to return.
However would she handle Lord Mauve without him?
If Lord Mauve were a client, she could have followed her protocol for engaging in light discussion about their collections – but he was no prince of Stillscape.
Besides, she couldn’t interrupt Lord Mauve while he was sighing or taking a breath.
Or looking in the other direction, as he was at present.
And now he was sighing again! How soon after a sigh was it appropriate for her to speak?
Ages later, it seemed, Lord Mauve started another sigh before cutting himself off midway.
“How much time do you spend with Prince Ardant?” he asked.
“Time?” Florrie echoed aimlessly as she recovered from the surprise. “Well, I’ve only been in my position for a very short while, but the prince and I see a good deal of each other.”
The lift had nearly ascended the full height of the canyon when Lord Mauve broke the silence once more. “Would you say Ardant is… content?”
The platform shuddered to a stop, but Lord Mauve made no move to exit.
“I’m not the best judge of contentedness in anyone, to say the least of an employer I’ve just met,” Florrie replied. “He smiles at everyone. I’ve heard him laugh loudly. But he is so committed to his museum, and I wonder if he can spare the time to feel content or otherwise.”
“Indeed,” was all Lord Mauve said. Then he strode off the platform and led Florrie back into the upper galleries.
“I imagine you are about to proclaim that you simply must be going,” said Lord Mauve, “just as I am about to insist that I must take my leave of you and return to my usual responsibilities. But that would be far too formal of me. May I give you a tour of my museum, instead?”
“A tour, a tour?” Florrie repeated delightedly, before she settled herself.
“That would be wonderful, Lord Mauve, but I’m afraid I simply must be going.
Ceru said he’ll help Vern if I produce a portfolio of painted studies in a week, and I’ve only just realised I need to go back to the Commonplace Palace to resume my duties as soon as I can, but it took me the better part of three days to come here in the first place—”
Lord Mauve snorted. “How inefficient. You’ll leave first thing tomorrow, after a good night’s rest, and return home by evening. In the morning, I’ll fetch what you’ll need to travel between our respective realms more quickly. Any objections?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Florrie. “In that case, I would love nothing more than to visit your galleries, but I don’t want to trouble you by demanding a spontaneous tour…”
“Spontaneity never troubles me.” His voice had the dark timbre of someone casting a curse.
Florrie tried to convince herself that strolling about a Fairy museum did count as starting the portfolio project. Seeing new styles and subjects would surely inspire her own art-making, after so many years out of practice.
To her surprise, Lord Mauve proved a fine gallery guide.
Over the course of her career, Florrie had overheard hundreds of tours at various Stillscape institutions.
(That number did not include the many tours of mediocre art she’d observed at home.) As an individual, however, she found it quite impossible to attend a tour without feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the end.
Like the Commonplace Palace’s own Pennery, the average gallery guide was required to speak loudly, move quickly, and ferry guests about in the most efficient way.
Lord Mauve, on the other hand, possessed a tendency to ramble and mumble.
The Fairy lord also proceeded at a slow pace through the galleries, and, on several occasions, stood in front of a painting in silence for ages before finally beginning to speak.
Florrie couldn’t believe her good fortune.
As she viewed an object, she enjoyed taking the time to memorise its every texture, angle or brushstroke.
Florrie stored each image in the museum of her mind, dedicating one imaginary “gallery” to those artworks she found particularly compelling: a small amethyst coin engraved with wispy petals, a rose-shaped pavilion painted on black paper with gently glowing Fairy pigments, and a delicate teacup adorned with abstract leaves drizzling from a raincloud.
Lord Mauve explained, circuitously and calmly, that his collections represented nearly a thousand years of artistic production.
Fairies considered it exceedingly uncouth to sell art; instead, all the objects in Lord Mauve’s museum had been donated over the centuries by their makers.
The most successful Fairy collectors were those kind enough to earn the respect and friendship of their fellow community members.
“I do not, in the least, wish to suggest that I myself am kind,” Lord Mauve clarified hastily.
“The majority of our present holdings were acquired during my mothers’ time.
After that, anything else was given out of respect for the two Fairy women who loved these galleries so well.
They’ve left now, to live a quiet life by the sea.
In everything I do, I hope to honour them – and make the curatorial choices they would have made. ”
“They would have chosen to forgive any accidental scribbling in your notebooks,” intoned a shrill voice. “You know the Mothers considered word-puzzles the noblest of arts.”
Florrie flinched, covering her ears. The voice was uncommonly loud and strangely grating, filling the entire rotunda. Even when the speaker had finished, a bizarre, wind-like sound continued to whoosh about the room.
“Aesti,” groaned Lord Mauve. He glanced at a grate on the ceiling. “Must you eavesdrop?”
“I am at my post, Lord Mauve,” crackled the voice. “Unless you’d like me to take some time to relax? Can you believe, Florrie, that this man never lets me relax?”
“That’s because you are incapable of relaxation.” Lord Mauve fiddled with a circular knob on the wall until all peculiar noises ceased.
“I do apologise for my sister,” said Lord Mauve, as Florrie unclenched her hands. “Let us continue. I’ve not shown you my favourite gallery.”
Lord Mauve opened the door to a broad, barrel-shaped room containing at least one artwork from every medium. As far as Florrie could tell, everything on view featured Fairies throughout the ages engaging in various outdoor recreations.
“I thought you were not fond of games,” she said as they admired an ovate canvas together.
The artist had used continuous narrative to depict three silhouetted figures racing up a waterfall while brandishing extremely unwieldy nets.
A silver ball floated atop the waterfall, waiting for the most successful swimmer to seize it.
“Games? Games?” Lord Mauve frowned. “Do you think I would dedicate a gallery to such silly trifles? No! This collection celebrates the wits, persistence, and courage required to participate in ceremonial athletics.”
“Was this your game – I mean, sport – of choice?”
“It was. Ardant and I announced our engagement to my friends, foes and family during a waterfall-skirmish much like this. But only after I proved victorious.”
“Did the prince participate himself?” she asked.
“He did not. Though I never played as well as when he was among my spectators.”
Florrie left Lord Mauve to his nostalgia and peered along the wall at the surrounding artworks. Amidst the vivid weavings and striking woodblock prints was a miniature frame, its contents obscured by a shade.
“What’s behind the shade?” Florrie asked. She glanced upward. “Something sun-sensitive, perhaps? Because of that skylight?”
“Oh, see for yourself,” Lord Mauve grumbled. “I’m certainly not going to open it.”
Warily, Florrie approached the frame, pulling her gloves tightly over her fingers.
What could it be? A delicate silverpoint that would crumble to dust if a single ray fell upon it?
A moonprint rubbing of Lord Mauve’s first sporting medal?
Due to her exhaustive knowledge of photosensitive materials, Florrie did not expect to see a perfectly ordinary painting – and a Folk one, at that.
The painting was jewel-pigment on weave, and perhaps a few decades old.
It was a traditional hedge portrait – the sort that involved the subject peering out from behind a bush in a manufactured state of surprise.
The subject in question was a young man in his twenties, gazing fondly at a crowd of butterflies.
The translucence of his cobwebbed chemise revealed a stylish garden of skin-inkings – depicting pink vine-roses and amber sunflowers – interlaced with the tidy chirurgical scars upon his chest. As she studied the handsome youth, Florrie took note of his curly dark hair, his full moustache and the startling familiarity of his beguiling grin.
“Do tell me he’s not shaved off that moustache.”
“That’s Prince Ardant?” Florrie gasped. “However did you find a portrait of him? He said he sold them all!”
“Fortunately, I am no stranger to the Stillscape markets. Now, I’m afraid I must return to my duties. May I escort you to the guest chambers?”
Even with Lord Mauve’s apparent haste, Florrie noticed him give the canvas one last glance before they departed.