Chapter 14 #2
“I believe we met during my visit yesterday,” he continued. “Miss Tesserine, isn’t it? Have you business with your cousin? I do apologise.”
“Florrie’s business is my business,” said Chary. “Don’t think you can wriggle out of a ball, my dear. Who will accompany you? That mysterious art-lover of yours? You’ve not mentioned him since you—”
Chary paused – a rare occurrence – and blinked at the prince, her eyelashes fluttering against the windowpane.
“Oh, Florrie,” she said, savouring every syllable. “Now I understand. I assumed your enigmatic suitor was a dreary old art collector, but I never expected you’d be so bold as to fall for your own—”
“Forgive me, Prince Ardant,” Florrie interrupted, feeling her cheeks warm. “May I take a brief leave of you? I’ll only be a moment.”
“No need,” replied the prince. “I ought to return home, now that the painting is in my possession. Heliotrope, would you do the honours?”
With a parting wing-flap, the butterfly hopped atop the floating box, causing it to move forward. Heliotrope returned to Prince Ardant’s shoulder, and the peculiar pair of friends bid Florrie farewell.
Then Florrie shut the door and prepared herself to face Chary.
Apparently, said preparation involved saying nothing while rocking to and fro – behaviour Chary did not appear to find particularly intimidating. Indeed, Florrie’s cousin had pushed open the window from the outside and was leaning against the grille in a most leisurely manner.
“You ought to have told me about the prince,” Chary chided. “It’s a terrible shame he’s so taken with Lord Mauve.”
“Did you—” began Florrie, but her words seemed faint and strange. “Did you happen to overhear every word of our conversation?”
“But I suppose things will go to pieces when they reunite, considering their history,” continued Chary. “If you took the slightest bit of pride in your appearance – I have many suggestions – perhaps you could seduce him first!”
Florrie pressed her feet into the floor.
As a rule, Chary was not exactly softly spoken, but her voice seemed especially strident at present.
Every exclamation agitated Florrie. She knew she ought to say something to challenge Chary’s assumption, but this onslaught of unexpected encounters – first with Prince Ardant, now with her cousin – left Florrie feeling shaky and breathless.
How funny, she thought, that she’d come home to rest and feel comfortable after her journey!
Instead, she felt an unpleasantly familiar sensation: an anxious hastiness.
Florrie jumped to her feet and began to pace.
With every step, she could feel the jointing of the pentagonal tiles (done by her mother in a poor approximation of the third-century style) and the small dents caused by the incautious dragging of crates.
“Chary,” said Florrie, sliding her toes from one dent to another, “could you please—”
“It’s hard to hear harsh truths, but that’s what family is for,” Chary continued. “If you want your romantic prospects to change, you must change yourself. You must stop pretending life is a painting for you to analyse, and face facts.”
“What – what facts are those? What facts?” said Florrie. She steadied herself against the wall. The evening air had seemed so pleasantly cool outside – why could she not stop perspiring now?
“Why, that you require help, Florrie. You know I’ve always done my best to look out for you.”
Chary smiled at her, as genuinely as Florrie suspected she could. Alas, that brief, kind expression brought no comfort. Florrie could already feel horribly hot, sticky tears on her cheeks, and it was embarrassing beyond measure, and she just wished she could tell Chary to go—
But she couldn’t. All of a sudden, Florrie found she couldn’t do anything but cry.
“Dear me. Not this again,” said Chary’s distant voice. Florrie could hear her cousin inhale and shut the window.
“I’ll… well,” Chary called through the glass. “I’ll let you be.”
Then, in isolation, Florrie let herself be.
She slumped against the crates, away from the window, and let the intensity overtake her.
It was the sort of wearying, unstoppable collapse that could not be fought.
Even as she wept, Florrie remained painfully aware that this was not the sort of thing expected from a woman of five and thirty.
It only confirmed what Chary had argued – that Florrie was different and incapable, and required a great deal of assistance to do what most Folk found natural.
As was usual during this sort of experience, Florrie felt adrift and utterly detached.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before she stopped weeping and shaking, but the fading light from the window suggested it was far too much.
The sound of her parents’ voices in the next room only confirmed her fears.
Florrie staggered to her feet, wondering if they’d heard her sobs. As she noticed her portfolio-bag on a nearby crate, she wondered, with substantially more horror, how much Vern heard.
“Vern?” she called, softly.
The door creaked open, and her mother peeped out from behind it.
“We’re here, Florrie,” she whispered, “if you’d like to join us. Supper’s ready, but you needn’t come out until you are.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Florrie fiddled with the lace at her collar, which had wrinkled during her outburst. “I was overcome by—”
“I know, my dear.” Lady Hyverfell smiled. “If it helps sway you, I suppose I ought to mention that Chary retired for the evening. Orchel’s gone, too. It’s just us.”