Chapter 12 #3
“I don’t mind dreaming about it! That’s what I’ve done for years.
” Vern leaned back and fell into the grass beneath the arch, gazing at the painted sky.
Cautiously, Florrie settled next to him, careful not to dirty her dress or crush too many flowers or sprawl at an angle that would cause unpleasant textures to brush against her skin.
As she lay on the ground, Florrie was acutely aware that her shoulder was merely a few blossoms away from Vern’s.
“Most of it is what you’d expect,” Vern began. “When I was younger, I thought I wanted nothing more than to experience everything in your world. Feel every rainstorm, touch every fabric, travel to every distant museum…”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Doesn’t it? Some time ago, though, I wondered if that was what I wanted at all – or if it was only inspired by what I’d overheard and observed. I might get lonely here, but I also imagine I’d be awful at travelling.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Florrie.
Vern smirked. “So says the woman who just spent several days navigating Fairy landscapes without any assistance.”
“Navigating Fairy landscapes quite miserably!” she exclaimed. “Under ordinary circumstances, I rarely travel. My cousin says a craving for consistency is a sign of a most monotonous character, but it’s simply how I am.”
“We can be most monotonous together, then.”
Somehow, over the course of their conversation, Vern had woven together a little swatch of flower stems, which he presented to her with a flourish. Florrie marvelled at the fascinating new texture he’d created.
“Keep it. They’ll grow back by tomorrow. Always do,” Vern said. “At any rate, I don’t want to leave the painting for ever. I wouldn’t mind getting to know some neighbours or going for a swim or looking at artworks without being within one, but, in the end, I always intend to return home.”
“With a home like this, I’d feel much the same.” Florrie indulged in another examination of the scene – the elegant contours of the arch, the sparkling soil, the muted glow of the mysterious stars through layers of wispy white paint. “I’m sure anyone in our world would envy you.”
Vern rolled to his side, his face now parallel to hers – and only about a petal’s-width away.
“You truly love it here, don’t you? You can’t imagine how much that means to me.” The reverence in his voice nearly gave Florrie chills. “Both Lord Mauve and Sir Cerulean kept talking about my terrible situation – my imprisonment, my doom. But it’s not as bad as that, Florrie.”
“No,” she agreed, weaving and unweaving a few stems in the swatch he’d made. “It’s… rather wonderful, isn’t it?”
“You understand.” Vern sighed. “I suppose I can’t blame Lord Mauve for thinking otherwise, given how wondrous his world is.
Weren’t there ever so many curious things in that gallery where we met him?
And wasn’t Lord Mauve himself such a charmingly broody fellow?
Talk about the hero of a ballad! I suppose I can see why everyone dislikes my expression when they compare me to – well, him. ”
“Don’t be silly,” said Florrie. “Lord Mauve was pleasant enough. Having spent time with you both, however, I can say with complete authority that you are the far superior Vernal Mauve, in every aspect.”
She expected him to laugh at her needlessly formal judgement, or make a joke, or perhaps even strike a dramatic pose. Instead, Vern held absolutely still.
“Do you really think so?” he murmured.
“Of course I do,” Florrie said, before she could convince herself to be reasonable.
“I studied The Resolute Portrait years ago. At the time, I thought it perfectly decent. I found the rejection of the multi-arched compositional trope striking. Then I saw your painting for the first time – and I—” She was not adhering to expectations of conversation or decorum.
Her hands were probably gesturing in some peculiar way, or her leg was shaking, or she was blinking far more rapidly than usual.
Chary would have told her to stop. In fact, Chary would have extracted Florrie from the scene long before now.
Florrie was surprised to find, however, that she did not care as much as she usually did. She let her hands gesticulate. She forgot to count her blinks. She took her own advice and allowed herself to stop pretending.
“I was spellbound,” she finished, quietly.
“You were?” Vern whispered. “So was I.”
Florrie couldn’t tell whether Vern had gradually moved closer to her, or whether the distance between them had diminished in an instant, changed by some trick of perspective in the painting.
Which one, though? She realised she was too addled to name a single example of a relevant compositional technique.
“You didn’t look like other Folk do,” he said in a quick and low voice.
“Pardon me – that wasn’t a comment about your appearance.
I mean, you looked at the painting in the most unique way.
I saw you stretch up on your toes to see the brushstrokes in the sky and lean down to examine the moss at the front of my garden.
That little tress on the left of your face – it sprung about and cast odd shadows on the wall behind you.
You kept nodding and blinking and frowning to yourself.
Like everything was a riddle to be solved.
It wasn’t just that you were the first to study the painting, Florrie; I couldn’t stop watching you. I hardly can, even now.”
“I imagine there are far more fascinating things to observe in your very own garden.”
“Then why can’t I pay them any mind when you’re around?”
Florrie determined, at last, that their closeness was decidedly not the work of a perspectival device.
Vern was right next to her. Only the slightest of stems could fit between them now.
He was smiling, slightly and nervously. His eyes were near enough for Florrie to identify the exact admixture of grey and green pigments the artist used to create them.
Despite her general difficulty with interpreting the context of any given interaction, even Florrie could guess what might happen next.
Then she remembered that she was, for once, the person with the most awareness of social expectations relevant to the current situation.
The thought made her hesitate. In every context (other than art conservation, naturally), Florrie was accustomed to being the most inexperienced. The one who required additional support and helpful explanations.
She recalled, suddenly and unpleasantly, the first time she’d invited her then-sweetheart, Rosenne, to dine with her family at the Museum of the Mediocre.
As a glass-craft performer, Rosenne was naturally charismatic, and the Hyverfells found her banter delightful.
When the very dining table itself began shaking with unnecessary joviality – a peril for antique wood – Florrie excused herself under the pretence of examining a painting that an overenthusiastic visitor had “unintentionally” smacked with her fan.