Chapter 12 #2
Once she had returned to her temporary quarters, Florrie allowed herself to focus on Vern again.
She set up the travel easel in the centre of the room, positioning the painting so Vern could glimpse the indoor fountain.
As she waited to see if he would appear, Florrie briefly risked a glance at her reflection.
The fountain’s sparkling water was not quite as effective as a looking-glass, fortunately; it split and shuffled her face so strikingly that she would never feel tempted to give into her worst impulses.
However, the vague impression helped her tidy her hair, which had fallen out of its pins during her journey through the museum.
“Florrie? Are you there?”
She nearly dropped a wayward pin into the fountain.
“Yes, here I am!” Florrie realised she’d managed to sit just behind the sculpted petals that graced the centre of the fountain – hiding herself from Vern’s limited perspective. When she emerged, the spectral Vern gave a half-hearted wave that made her heart sink.
“Come in, won’t you?” Vern said. “I’m sure you’d like to see the arch. It’s never looked better.”
She touched the painting, and the world became comfortable again.
The sounds of her lodgings – the voices from the corridor, the creaking floors and even the mostly enjoyable noise of the fountain – faded, replaced by the gently fizzy breeze of The Resolute Portrait.
Vern stood beneath the arch, which was far taller than she imagined.
The foul purple swirl had vanished. Instead, the ruin now featured decaying stones that listed under the weight of the flowers emerging from every crevice.
The top of the arch was embellished with sculpted blossoms that blended quite convincingly with the real ones.
Florrie took a moment to appreciate the rough texture of the crumbling mortar and spidery roots peeking between the imposts.
“However did Ceru render the stones’ textures without using a smaller brush?” Florrie paused, remembering her manners, and turned to look at Vern instead of the arch. “That is – good evening, Vern.”
“Good evening! Would you like to sit here for a spell? Perhaps the stars will appear.”
“Are there truly stars?” She sat on the very base of the arch, across from him. The foundation contained two of Loftus’s famed “perplexing plinths”, which appeared to feature an unrealistic combination of dry-stone masonry, brickwork, and heart-shaped amethyst slabs held together by silver nails.
“The artist covered them with a few strands of clouds, so they’re hard to see” – he leaned back onto a plinth – “but I’m always glad when they do show up.”
As Vern gazed at the overcast sky, Florrie took the opportunity to scrutinise him. Her analysis suggested that his eyes and the well-rubbed skin beneath were undeniable evidence of crying, though she could hardly imagine him doing such a thing.
“How are you?” she asked. Florrie settled against the opposite plinth, mimicking Vern’s pose.
“I’m well, of course! Why do you ask?”
“Because,” she said, “I’m quite certain there is a tear running down your cheek.”
He grinned feebly. “What does it matter? I’d rather hear about the rest of your visit.”
“Lord Mauve gave me the grandest of tours. You would have enjoyed it immensely. But are you sure you don’t wish to…
talk?” Florrie glanced studiously at the arch’s keystone.
It was carved with a coil of fern fronds, which meant it was either fourteenth-century, eighth-century, or ahead of its time in a way she couldn’t fathom.
“That’s the sort of thing I’m supposed to say to comfort you,” she continued. “But, for my part, I’m perfectly happy to sit here. No speaking required.”
“I can’t speak of it.” For a moment, Vern pressed himself into the stones, pulling his knees towards his chest. As though he’d only just remembered he was not alone, he unrolled himself and forced another smile.
“It’s kind of you to offer. But you won’t like it if I discuss something so unpleasant, so I’d rather not. ”
“Wherever did you get that idea?” she persisted. “Don’t tell me: are the protagonists of courtly ballads always cheerful, never revealing their inner turmoil to anyone else?”
That, at least, won her a real smile.
“They are, as a rule. But that’s not it.
The whole situation is altogether too sad.
I hate to be the cause of someone’s suffering, but I think I can understand why Ceru was so upset.
He was shaking when he saw me, Florrie. Me!
I’m sorry that my very creation caused so much trouble, I truly am, but, at the same time, I can’t help feeling—” Vern sighed.
“See? That’s why I try not to get too glum about, well, my fate, I suppose.
I must stay busy and keep my head up, because if I stop being cheerful for a moment, everything will fall apart.
And then I become so miserable that I don’t even like being around myself – so why would you? ”
Now Vern stared right at her, his every inhalation fluttering the flowers dangling from the arch above. The petals almost appeared to reach out of their own volition, as though the flowers themselves wished to comfort him.
Florrie shook her head, trying to focus. She’d intended to take a moment and consider the weight of his confession – to draw upon her knowledge of emotions and find the perfect, polished words with which to comfort him. What she did, in the end, was the opposite.
“I want you to be miserable,” she said. “That is to say, I would prefer it if you weren’t, obviously.
But if you truly are upset, you needn’t hide it.
I spend far too much time pretending, Vern.
Every day, even now, I’m constantly considering whether I’m saying the proper phrases or making the proper gestures or even moving my face in the proper way for any given conversation.
It’s exhausting, and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. ”
“Oh, I don’t know, Florrie. Are you quite sure? I promise I can be properly terrible when I’m sad. You might not even recognise me if I’m not cheerful.”
“I appreciate your cheerfulness,” Florrie replied, “but that is not why I—” She managed to stop herself just in time.
“Your emotions are merely part of how you express yourself. It’s that self that people find so charming.
It doesn’t matter if you’re happy or not – and considering that you usually are, you also deserve to be properly terrible from time to time, don’t you think? ”
“Did you just say people find me charming?” Vern tilted his head at her from across the arch. “Which people? Not Lord Mauve, though he was amiable enough. Certainly not the artist. So that leaves—”
“Oh, don’t go grinning like that. All I wanted to convey is the importance of letting yourself feel upset.”
“But I don’t feel upset any more!” Then he held up his hands and nodded. “I’ll do as you say, Florrie, but it might take me time to get used to the idea. You’ll recall I’m still new to speaking with anyone.”
“I hope you will feel as though we can discuss any topic comfortably.”
“Well, in the spirit of being comfortable around each other, may I say that you look very lovely in that dress?”
Florrie felt her heart race. He was joking. He must be. That argument wasn’t convincing her face, however, which she could feel growing embarrassingly warm. Fortunately, Vern was far too busy gazing at her left sleeve to notice.
“What kind of fabric is that?” he asked, seemingly oblivious to her reaction.
“It’s crocheted lace, I believe. I can’t tell you what it’s made from, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s plant fibre, not featherweave,” Florrie babbled. “I can’t abide the texture of featherweave.”
“That’s what Folk call lace?” Vern’s face hovered closer as he examined the textile from all angles. “Couldn’t be more different from Fairy lace. But I like yours, too! The shapes remind me of clouds.”
In a distant, enraptured way, Vern reached toward the sleeve – and retracted his hand immediately.
“Awfully sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help myself. I’m so curious about what it feels like. May I?”
“By all means.”
Florrie enjoyed the small smile that crept onto Vern’s face as he delicately touched the lace hem at the edge of her sleeve, pressing on the fibres.
She suddenly felt inclined to make a habit of wearing interesting fabrics.
Wouldn’t it be kind to help Vern enrich his craft as a textile artist? Florrie certainly didn’t mind.
She especially didn’t mind how his fingers occasionally brushed against her arm through the gaps in the lace – which was most unlike her.
There were far more important matters at hand, of course.
Vern was likely disinclined to relive his conversation with the artist, but it might cheer him to hear what Florrie and Ceru discussed.
So, while Vern was otherwise occupied with the fibre arts, she updated him about the bargain she’d struck.
“I don’t know if I can create a single work of art to his satisfaction, let alone three unique studies, but I will do my best on your behalf,” she concluded.
“Florrie!” Vern exclaimed. “That’s very kind of you, but isn’t it an awful lot of work?”
“I don’t mind. I’m grateful for the opportunity to paint again.”
“Do you require an opportunity?”
“I suppose I do.” Florrie was tempted to stop there, but thought better of it.
She ought to model her own advice about emotional honesty.
“Years ago, I failed my training as an artist. That’s prevented me from keeping up with my practice, and this challenge might be just the excuse I need to begin anew. But you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“Oh, but I do feel so hopeful, Florrie!” Vern let go of her sleeve, as though he could hardly trust himself around delicate fabrics in his state of excitement. “This is the closest I’ve come to believing I might leave the painting!”
“What would you do, if you could?” Florrie asked. “Then again, perhaps that’s not fair of me to ask.”