Chapter 13 #3
“Anyone might assume this is Honnor Loftus’s The Resolute Portrait of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve Among the Ruins,” she started.
“Made in 1484, jewel-pigment on… apologies. You don’t need to know that.
What you see here is actually a forgery by a Fairy artist. I travelled to Lord Mauve’s museum to fetch the original.
It’s in the coffer over there, so do be careful. ”
“The only thing worse than carrying around one painting of a handsome man,” chided Chary, “is carrying around two. Why must you always seek out trouble?”
“I might ask the same question myself, for different reasons,” said Lady Hyverfell, with a tremor in her voice. “Were you really chasing art thieves? In Fairy country?”
“It’s just like Florrie, isn’t it?” continued Chary.
“Going off alone, by herself, in isolation, without telling anyone. To a Fairy gallery, too! Why, I heard from an acquaintance’s acquaintance about a canvas merchant who went to Lord Mauve’s museum and never returned.
Miserable fellow, I’m sure, so it was probably for the best, but that’s hardly the point.
He was at the prime of his career, too; about to open a new shop.
Then he became consumed with the idea that he needed to go and procure a certain sort of Fairy ribbon for packaging customers’ purchases.
Perhaps he’s like you, Florrie, with your little fixations—”
“I was perfectly safe,” said Florrie, cutting in during the brief pause as Chary took a breath, “and I didn’t go alone. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This painting was created by a Fairy artist and it was accidentally enchanted in the process. Someone lives here.”
Florrie’s final statement was not the most direct cue for Vern, but she found, in the moment, that she could not make some ridiculous announcement like “And here he is, this painting’s fabled inhabitant, of whom I have become rather unfortunately fond!”
To her relief, Vern didn’t require much cueing.
Florrie glanced at her family as Vern appeared in the foreground, just to the right of the painted Lord Mauve.
She tried to imagine what they saw – what they thought – as they met the Fairy who had served as her companion on a most unusual journey.
Were they impressed by the cable-knit wool shawl slung across his chest like a shield?
Or did they perceive nothing more than a vague blur on the canvas?
“Good afternoon,” said Vern in his faintest voice. “I haven’t the slightest idea of what to say, but I’m glad to meet you.”
How rare it was for Florrie to see her entire family fall completely silent! She couldn’t let that opportunity pass her by.
“Vern, these are my parents – Dr Glin and Lady Bower Hyverfell – and Miss Chary Tesserine, and Mr Orchel Patian,” she said. Vern turned to look at each of them, but his gaze didn’t linger on anyone. She had the distinct but not unpleasant impression that he didn’t wish to take his eyes from her.
Florrie’s mother pulled on her spectacles and stepped toward the table.
“Why, good day, Vern,” she said as Florrie held up a hand to stop her from getting too close. “Is it comfortable in there?”
“Comfortable enough! Though it looks pleasant out there, too! Is this your home, Florrie?”
“Essentially,” she replied. “One could argue I’ve spent more time in the museum than in our living quarters.”
“And that’s because Florrie never stops working,” said Chary with authority.
“Really, Florrie, having a speaking painting does not excuse you from talking to Folk. I know you find it uncomfortable, but you’ll only get better with more practice.
This is why I hope you’ll let me introduce you to Lilla.
I almost convinced her to join you for supper at an establishment of my choice, but, alas, she’s busy every evening for the next fortnight. Can you believe it?”
“He is not a ‘speaking painting’,” Florrie began.
“If you’ll let the painting speak for a moment, I think you’ll find there’s no need to worry so much about your cousin,” said Vern.
Vern’s voice sounded polite and cheerful as ever, but there was a shocking sternness to it. Directed at Chary, of all people! Florrie’s delight was quickly outweighed, however, by her fear of what might happen next.
She expected Chary to protest or, more likely, ignore Vern and begin an unrelated lecture about Lilla’s virtues. Instead, Chary gave the painting a pitying look.
“You wouldn’t know, Mr Vern,” Chary said loftily, “but Florrie requires a certain amount of looking after. Because, I assume, speaking paintings understand little of Folk cognition, let me simply say there is a difference in how she—”
“Chary, that’s quite enough,” said Lady Hyverfell.
“Yet she’s spent the past few days travelling by herself and negotiating with a host of strangers on my behalf,” replied Vern. “The only one who required looking after was me.”
“That sounds just like Florrie,” said Dr Hyverfell.
“Well, Vern, I welcome you to our home, or what little of it you can see. Now I find myself wishing we’d repapered that wall in front of you – we needn’t live by standards of mediocrity in our private spaces.
Florrie, I don’t suppose you could turn the painting towards the window? ”
“Oh, show him the ceiling!” Orchel exclaimed with a wink at Florrie. “It’s historic. A mosaic from the whatever-century—”
“Fifth,” Florrie clarified.
“… and we’d all spent years dodging its tiles as they crumbled and fell. When Florrie was fifteen, she found a book of fifth-century tile patterns and decided to restore the old thing. She became so intent upon her work that she eventually fell asleep on her ladder.”
“By the next day, though, she’d restored it perfectly,” said Lady Hyverfell. “Down to the same sort of glue or what-have-you they used back then. A professional from the day she was born.”
“He won’t believe that,” Florrie murmured.
“I believe you’re capable of just about anything,” said Vern.
Florrie suspected she might be on the verge of blushing. She tried to think of a way to change the subject, but was surprised to see Orchel already rising to leave.
“It’s been a pleasure, Vern, but I’m afraid I’m expected elsewhere,” he said.
“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Chary.
“Do recall that it’s my afternoon off.”
“Enjoy yourself, Orchel,” said Lady Hyverfell. “Would you like to rest for a moment, Glin? Chary and I shall chaperone the next tour.”
Dr Hyverfell smiled. “You are too kind. Perhaps Florrie and I will have a cup of tea and a chat. With her new friend, too, if he is so inclined.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to intrude,” Vern said. “I ought to have my supper, besides. I hope I’ll see you again one day!”
Florrie felt a sudden panic as Vern faded into the canvas. She took her time repackaging the painting in the portfolio-bag, keeping a nervous eye on the assembled crowd. Surely her family would be upon her with a barrage of questions now that Vern was gone.
Yet she shouldn’t have underestimated their collective ability to handle eccentric situations. Nobody seemed particularly surprised to have spoken with someone in a painting.
“However does he eat supper?” was the only question spoken aloud – by Orchel, specifically.
“As anyone does, I suppose?” said Florrie, not sure whether the question was practical or anatomical. “There are gardens outside his cottage. It’s just like living out in the country, in a way.”
“That’s marvellous! Well, he seemed perfectly pleasant,” said her mother on the way out the door.
“Perfectly pleasant indeed,” agreed Orchel, giving Florrie an approving nod. “Certainly a work of art, I’d say.”
“Yes,” said Florrie, puzzled. “The Resolute Portrait is renowned for—”
“Florrie, I suspect even you know that’s not what I meant.”
With another rather alarming wink, Orchel dashed off to his mysterious destination.
“A bit quieter now, isn’t it?” said Florrie’s stepmother with a comfortable smile. Dr Hyverfell had softened her voice and dimmed the lights without Florrie even asking.
“You’ve been through a great deal, my dear,” Dr Hyverfell continued.
Florrie leaned on her elbows and let her head collapse onto the table. “This entire affair has me completely out of sorts.”
“I imagine so. We’ve been rather worried about you since yesterday, when we had an unexpected visit from – of all people—”
Lady Hyverfell had reappeared in the doorway, her face flushed. “Terribly sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but we have a visitor, Glin. The visitor who stopped by last evening. A stately visitor. A royal one, if you take my meaning.”
Dr Hyverfell sighed. “I was just about to tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Florrie sat up. “Who is it?”
“Why, Prince Ardant,” said Lady Hyverfell. “And – oh, dear me, he’s been swarmed by eager museum-goers. I ought to rescue the poor fellow. Excuse me.”
“Prince Ardant?” Florrie repeated. She scratched her palms anxiously through her gloves. He must have found out about the painting. But had he read her note?
“She’s home at last, is she?” called a deep voice from the corridor.
Moments later, Prince Ardant stepped into the staff room, one hand delicately holding a half-eaten piece of cake from a street vendor. The confection had been decorated with an elaborate spun-sugar sculpture of furious sea monsters, which the prince defeated with one quick bite.
“Welcome back, Florrie!” he said with a bow. Prince Ardant extended his hand, and Heliotrope swooped in through the open window to alight upon it. “How are you faring these days? And how, may I ask, is my painting?”