Chapter 15 #2
When Vern didn’t answer, Florrie stole another glance at him.
He was gazing at the stars again, his brow unexpectedly furrowed.
Florrie felt quite tempted to humour the whimsical notion that the stars themselves had dimmed slightly to match his mood.
What a silly idea that was! Contemporary art historians considered the pathetic fallacy woefully sentimental.
“Am I part of that?” he asked. “The so-very-muchness, so to speak?”
“No! How can you say so, when you’re kindly listening to my troubles?”
“Not now.” Vern slid his hands down the branch, sloughing off a mass of lichen.
The tiny tufts and branches twirled around each other as he spun them in his palm.
“All the other times, I mean. When you’ve been looking after my painting, carrying me around, listening to me tell you any number of ridiculous things.
Ever since your last visit here, I thought – I wasn’t sure, but I had the slightest sense you were acting differently and… I thought I’d made you uncomfortable.”
Florrie pressed her forehead against her skirt and felt the fabric against her face.
“It wasn’t you.” Her voice was rather divertingly muffled by the cloth. “I only thought perhaps you’d prefer the company of others. There’s a whole world beyond this painting, full of Folk and Fairies far more interesting than I am.”
“Please, Florrie. Stop right there.”
His voice was so uncharacteristically serious that Florrie, to her surprise, did as he asked.
“I can’t believe it, but – I think we’re worrying about the same thing,” said Vern. Behind him, the painted moon shifted in the sky. New stippled rays pushed through cracks in the tree crowns and Florrie stilled, spellbound.
“Meeting your family made me realise what burden I am,” he said.
“Out there, you have a profession, your art, and Folk who care for you. Now that you’ve found the real painting, I want you to know that you can just carry on with your life.
I won’t be offended. You aren’t obligated to keep dealing with me. ”
“But I didn’t want to burden you!” she exclaimed. “I am the only person you’ve ever met—”
“First. Not only – not any more.” Vern rose to his feet, balancing precariously on the tree.
“Besides,” he continued, “I’ve spent years watching Folk.
I’ve encountered all kinds of visitors. Like fancy scholars, who tried outdoing each other with their knowledge of my…
provenance, I think? And countless Folk with their friends or partners.
I’ve seen them gasp at the artwork and argue with each other and steal kisses in the corner of the gallery.
I watched so many different moments between individuals from all walks of life, and I can’t say anyone ever fascinated me as much as you do. ”
He reached out to steady himself on the branch that hung directly over Florrie’s head.
“Introduce me to as many Fairies and Folk as you like,” Vern proclaimed. “How many would satisfy you? Ten? A hundred? What a lovely thought – having so many new friends! But I suspect you’ll find, Florrie, that I prefer your company. All that remains to be determined is what you think of mine.”
Florrie decided it was time to commence an updated visual analysis of The Resolute Portrait of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve Among the Ruins.
On a branch near her hand, she observed new moss, rust-red and smooth – had it sprouted from the bark moments ago?
She was happy to examine anything, as long as it did not involve looking at the Fairy next to her when she answered him.
“I think the world of it,” she said in an extremely small voice.
With shaking hands, she pulled herself to stand beside Vern on the broadest part of the branch. Somehow, they’d wound up wonderfully close again. If Vern’s face were painted like the rest of his world, she imagined she would have seen every brushstroke from this vantage point.
“Oh, Florrie. I didn’t imagine I would hear you say so.” He laughed in a gorgeously giddy way that resonated through the forest.
“But really,” she said, “I must warn you. I can try to provide guidance, and look out for you, and explain everything logically, as is my responsibility, but I may be too inept myself to introduce the social expectations of courtship with accuracy…”
Vern frowned as she trailed off.
“Now, wherever did you get this idea of responsibility?” he mused. “I don’t recall that in any courtly ballads. Is it because I ask you so many questions? I don’t expect you to explain things to me, you know.”
“I know you don’t expect it.” Florrie glanced down again. “But I was, well, rather under the impression that those were the rules. The most vulnerable requires careful handling by the least vulnerable, to address the imbalance.”
“Well, it is my inexperienced opinion,” said Vern, straightening up, “that there are many ways to achieve a balance with someone. And, if it makes you feel any better, I suspect I might know a little bit more about the world than you think I do.”
“You know even more than most Folk do, in certain subjects,” Florrie conceded. “Textile production, Commonplace Palace museum gossip over the years, ballad history, gardening… to name a few. Besides, you’re a far better conversationalist.”
“Why, thank you! So it’s decided, then: on average, we are equally experienced and equally vulnerable.
I hereby absolve you of any responsibility to handle me.
” Somewhat daringly, Vern let go of the branch and placed his hand on her shoulder instead – as he’d done after Florrie’s narrow escape on the lake.
“Besides, I’ve already learned a great deal from you. ”
The treetop setting rather transformed the simple, comforting touch. To retain his balance, Vern had no choice but to grasp her shoulder quite firmly – and Florrie, in turn, realised she must contribute to their mutual stability by clinging on to him as they stood beneath the dangling leaves.
Then a breeze struck out of nowhere, encouraging them to pull even closer together.
“Can you see it?” Vern whispered.
“See what?” If he was asking whether she could see how lovely his eyes were, Florrie feared she’d have no choice but to answer truthfully.
“The wind.”
Movement stirred at the edge of her vision.
It was something pale and flickering, ghostlike.
Florrie followed the motion until it settled into recognisably familiar iconography.
A lithe, spry swirl of a shape – exactly how wind might be depicted in a stylised illustration of the sky – shuddered around them, ruffling the leaves as it exhaled.
Florrie tilted her head as far as she could, following the path of the illustrated wind as it fluttered this way and that, until she leaned too far and nearly fell off the branch.
“Florrie, do be careful!” Vern cried, pulling her back. “Why don’t we sit down again?”
“The wind… the wind,” Florrie repeated as they settled into a more secure position on the branch. The homespun cloth of Vern’s shirt smelled like raw soap and dried roses. “Precisely like the gale portraits of the fifth century. It’s astonishing.”