Chapter 13 #2
Indeed, her mood was more elevated than it had been in days.
Both versions of The Resolute Portrait were safely in her possession, and she could now explain the theft to the prince without destroying her reputation as a conservator.
Besides, the little architect’s clever pathfinding did indeed transform the journey dramatically.
She scaled the canyon and avoided the Anatine Acquirer’s seductive lake in a matter of moments.
Crossing the open stretch of grass in the liminal lands, which she dreaded the most, took hardly any time at all.
If any rogue hues lurked in the shade of the landscape, they dared not approach with Heliotrope floating menacingly at Florrie’s shoulder.
It was dusk when they reached the familiar forests fringing Stillscape. The perfectly ordinary purples and silvers of the sunset seemed altogether austere in comparison to the spectacular spectra Florrie had seen in the Fairy skies. At last, she was home.
Home with the Folk, of course, who were sure to tut at her magical companions.
To avoid the judgemental stares of other wanderers, Florrie pushed the floating coffer groundward, creating the illusion that it was an ordinary cart on perfectly sensible wheels.
She managed to entice Heliotrope to hide on the coffer’s underside by offering him a vivid rose-loaf from the bottom of the hamper, then tucked the little architect into the pocket of her cloak.
As she strolled through the eventide shadows, however, Florrie realised how utterly depleted she felt.
Her fascination with the little architect (which, Florrie finally determined, functioned rather like a kiln as it fired tiles made from mud scraped off its feet) had, until now, distracted her from any awareness of her physical state.
Why, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a sip of water!
The walk to the palace from this point was simple enough, she reasoned, but there was also the matter of what might happen when she arrived.
Even if she entered through a backdoor and remained in the tunnels, Florrie knew she was bound to encounter someone.
She ought to find Prince Ardant, return both paintings and plead for forgiveness – but when she considered how much energy she’d need to converse professionally and keep her hands relatively still and not show her intense fatigue upon her face, as she so often did…
Florrie concluded she wouldn’t go to the palace – not yet. She needed to go home. For a little while, at least, to gather her strength.
“Would you mind if we stopped at the Hyverfell residence on our way?” she asked Vern as they approached the avian topiaries that served as a visual representation of the Stillscape city border.
To Florrie’s relief, their conversations throughout the journey had been perfectly mundane.
Vern had found her fixation upon the little architect fascinating and maintained a steady stream of questions about her knowledge of historic ceramic production.
“I wouldn’t mind in the least!” By this point, Vern was sprawled quite comfortably across the canvas, no doubt weaving his fifth textile of the day. “You just say the word and I’ll disappear.”
Though Florrie was touched by his discretion, she found herself overcome by a surprisingly practical idea.
Revealing Vern to the inhabitants of the Museum of the Mediocre might be a necessary first step in her quest to help him understand the world beyond Florrie Hyverfell.
Completing said quest was, as she had concluded the night before, the only ethical and logical response to his apparent fondness for her.
If that was how she was expected to behave, she ought to try her best; she had to ensure he knew, beyond a doubt, that he needn’t care for her simply because she was the only person with whom he was acquainted.
The more people he met, the easier that would become.
“Perhaps that won’t be necessary.” Florrie stopped, inspected the area for observers, and then pulled the portfolio-bag discreetly to her face so they could speak more privately. “Would you like to meet my family?”
“You mean, you want to introduce me? My goodness.” He laughed. “I don’t know what they’ll think of me, though.”
“I suspect it’s rather difficult for anyone to dislike you.”
“How many Folk will I meet? I now know twice as many Fairies as Folk, so I suppose this is an excellent opportunity to balance things out.”
“Well, we will likely encounter my mother, Bower, and my stepmother, Glin. My cousin will be there, too,” said Florrie, more grimly than she intended. “And then there’s Orchel. You’ll like him. He’s quite entertaining.”
“I see!” Vern said. “But won’t everyone find this situation rather odd?”
“Quite the contrary,” Florrie muttered. “My parents run this funny museum, you see, and they are utterly unfazed by most things. Why, one day…”
To her surprise, Florrie was quite comforted to see the museum’s second-rate rooftop come into view in the Stillscape skyline as she grew closer.
Everything at Lord Mauve’s was stunning, to say the least, but it was also decidedly mind-boggling.
There was nothing surprising about the Museum of the Mediocre.
Florrie could picture the exact contents of each room behind every badly glazed window.
She even could write up a thorough collections inventory from memory, if asked (though she would rather not recount all those terrible artworks).
There was nothing quite so homely as predictability.
Unfortunately, that predictability also meant Florrie could foretell with bleak accuracy that Chary would be the first to notice her arrival. Protective action was in order.
“I’ll greet everyone and make sure they aren’t otherwise occupied,” she whispered to Vern. “Then I’ll set up that easel – you’re comfortable with the easel, aren’t you? – and let you know when it’s time for your introduction.”
“I have only the best things to say about the easel,” Vern said. “I’m more anxious about the introduction.”
Before Florrie could murmur more words of reassurance, her prediction came true and Chary was upon her.
“Well, you’re later than expected,” said her cousin, ushering Florrie into the fifth entrance while holding the door open as departing guests pushed their way past. Startled by the rush of activity, Heliotrope fluttered off the coffer and settled in the shrubbery with a warning flap to fend off any briar-cats.
“I don’t believe I provided a specific date and time for my return,” Florrie muttered to herself – and Vern, she supposed, if he was listening.
“Florrie’s here!” Chary announced. “And the next tour’s in fifteen minutes, so I suppose she has only ten to tell us of her escapades.”
“Welcome back, Florrie!” said her mother, waving from the opposite corridor as she led her crowd of visitors toward the exit.
“Can you imagine it, my good Folk? Over there is my daughter – an adventurer who’s seen the other side of the Old Amethyst Road.
Mediocrity was never enough for our Florrie! ”
The visitors laughed politely. Florrie sculpted her mouth into a small smile before dashing to the safety of the staff room.
“Oh, Florrie, good afternoon!” Orchel was dressed exceptionally well, in a verdigris silhouette shirt and antique bronze-studded tailcoat that complemented his brown eyes.
“What’s the occasion?” Florrie asked, gesturing to his ensemble.
Orchel stomped with mock-outrage (or so Florrie presumed) and his steel-lined dress boots clanked horrendously. “Can’t a fellow dress well simply because it suits him?”
“Not here.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps my finery will enhance the mediocrity of our collections. Florrie, whatever are you doing with your hands? I know you enjoy your gestures, but I’ve not seen that one.”
Florrie folded her hands behind her back. Her left hand and wrist felt oddly numb, and she’d been trying her best to wake them.
“Remember those frustrating aches I used to experience after painting for too long?”
“You’re back at it?” Though Orchel’s eyebrows were nearly invisible beneath his stately felt cap, they were most certainly raised. “I found myself afflicted by something similar recently.”
“Aches, you mean? Have you taken up painting?”
“No, I strained my wrists lifting an alchemical treatise while helping at my favourite bookshop. I learned a new trick, though. Would you like to see it? Only if you don’t mind – I’m afraid I might have to touch you to demonstrate.”
Florrie held out her hand, and Orchel quickly pressed on the inside of her wrist and rubbed downward.
“Try repeating that a few times. It might just help.”
Florrie mimicked Orchel’s gesture, pushing against her wrist in a strange massage. “Thank you! Now, whyever were you helping at a book—”
“Not now,” he hissed, with a nod to the door behind him.
“Florrie, I ought to tell you what an awful lot of trouble you’ve caused us,” scolded Chary as she bustled in. “Yesterday—”
“Oh, Chary, give her a few moments. She’s fresh from the road,” said Dr Hyverfell. “Surely the other matter can wait until she rests.”
“As it happens, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss before I rest. But I must set up an easel first.” Florrie pulled her portfolio-bag onto the table and made the necessary preparations. Vern wasn’t yet visible, and she hoped he wasn’t feeling too nervous.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” asked Orchel. “The prince’s painting?”
Florrie gave Orchel a questioning glance that he promptly ignored.
Orchel was dressing well, volunteering his time and apparently familiar with the Commonplace Palace’s collections.
Whatever had happened since she left? It was a compelling mystery she would investigate after her introductions were complete.