Chapter 14 #3
“Oh.” Florrie glanced out the door. If only three people would be attending this supper, Florrie suspected her mother had overdone it.
There was a tantalising array of sculpted bread in floral shapes, which had always been her favourite, and a straight line of silver ewers filled, no doubt, with herb-infused butter.
In the centre of the table stood the massive cauldron the Hyverfells had used since she was small.
One could not fault that fourteenth-century ironwork, nor the grimacing cat’s-head cast across its base.
“I’ll join you presently, Mama.”
Lady Hyverfell nodded, shutting the door so that Florrie barely heard it – which was no small feat.
Florrie pulled herself to her feet and shook the tension from her arms. When they’d regained their functions, she picked up the portfolio-bag and pondered its fate.
Bringing a painting near ewers filled with butter seemed woefully ill-advised.
She’d only be a moment, though, and perhaps Vern could see the first evening stars from the window in the meantime.
Florrie placed the portfolio-bag at an angle that might facilitate said stargazing and left to join her parents.
Though the staff room wasn’t ordinarily the site of family meals, this wasn’t the first time the Hyverfells had staged an impromptu supper here.
Everything felt so wonderfully familiar, from the creaking carriages and bellowing birds in the street outside to the light cast from the sconces, which resembled elegant cakes after the style of the Latter Illuminatory Era.
“I must apologise to you both,” Florrie said, moments later, as she stirred her stew and stared at the table. The surface looked a little worse for wear; she ought to revarnish it. “I know it’s been a long time since I—”
“We’ve not forgotten what it’s like for you, Florrie,” said Lady Hyverfell warmly. “Chin up – as far as I can tell, you recovered faster today than you did as a child.”
Florrie sighed as she twisted her ladle.
It required so much effort, in every aspect of her life, to pretend – to paint over herself with a portrait of a gracious gentlewoman who would never consider the notion of breaking down in tears or scratching at her own skin or, once, banging her head against the wall when the world felt impossible to handle.
Prince Ardant saw her as nothing more than a curious conservator (or so she hoped), and Chary saw nothing but Florrie’s challenges. Neither of them understood the unique complexity of Florrie’s task – how she had to make herself appear ordinary while enduring extraordinary challenges.
Over the years, however, her parents had come to understand. Only a little, perhaps, but Florrie appreciated their efforts.
“I’m dreadfully embarrassed, nonetheless,” Florrie muttered. “I came home because I hoped to avoid losing control of myself and disgracing you.”
“You’ve not disgraced anyone, Florrie,” said Dr Hyverfell. “You simply became overwhelmed, and your mind and body reacted—”
“In the specific way they must,” Florrie continued, perfectly mimicking the tone and delivery of her stepmother’s oft-repeated phrase. “I know. Yet I succumbed more easily than usual, I fear. My life has felt oversaturated of late.”
“Then you must rest,” instructed her mother. “Slow your pace until you can manage again.”
“But I can’t – not with the new position, this affair with The Resolute Portrait, Prince Ardant coming to the Museum of the Mediocre, of all places—”
“And your new friend from the painting, too,” said Lady Hyverfell with a knowing nod. “Or is your acquaintance with him a more… fortunate development, perhaps? It’s been a long while since you introduced us to someone, Florrie.”
“A long while,” Florrie echoed, automatically, then sat up in her chair. “Yes, I did literally make an introduction, but that’s not – I wasn’t – we’ve not even—”
“This seems rather rude, but I simply cannot help myself.” Dr Hyverfell gave Florrie a keen academic’s grin. “Is he always in that painting?”
“He can’t come out of the painting,” Florrie admitted. “For now, at least. I can, however, go into it. Please don’t ask me how.”
To Florrie’s surprise, both her mother and stepmother beamed.
“You’ve visited a painting,” said Lady Hyverfell, slowly.
“Yes. Your point being?”
“That’s only been your fondest dream since you were a child.”
“Yes,” Florrie repeated. “I am well aware.”
“Goodness me,” said Dr Hyverfell. “I suppose the joke’s on us for worrying that you spend too much time in galleries and would never meet anyone.”
“He seems perfectly lovely,” her mother added. “I never thought—”
“I am perfectly exhausted,” said Florrie. She stood up as though about to leave in a huff, but she couldn’t help smiling. The gentle teasing from her parents made her feel real again – so different from how she’d felt while sobbing. Coming home for a spell had, indeed, been a sound decision.
“Prince Ardant does not expect me until tomorrow,” she continued, “so I might stay over. If I may?”
“Of course,” said Lady Hyverfell. “Your bedchamber’s always made up for you. Though perhaps, for propriety’s sake, we ought to insist upon moving that painting of yours to the guest quarters—”
“Please leave the art-handling to the professionals, Mama!” exclaimed Florrie, though she feared that statement would not exactly help her case.