Chapter 16
The next few days passed in a blur of painting and yearning – but it was, at the very least, a pleasingly well-scheduled blur.
The unpredictability of Florrie’s travelling life had reached its end.
Now, she could comfortably divide her time between carrying out conservation for Prince Ardant and dedicating her other waking hours to Ceru’s portfolio.
On the first morning after her return, Florrie was surprised to discover she didn’t entirely detest the painting she had begun at Lord Mauve’s.
She’d depicted the crimson vine from the fountain snaking through the composition, creeping in pleasing loops from one corner of the page to another.
There had been no time to block-in the background before she left, so the vine hung in eerie isolation, its red flowers bright against the beige flax-weed paper.
It was most unusual to paint a still-life without a background.
Florrie knew “melodramatic miniature” still-lives – which often featured small, compelling scenes set tantalisingly in the distance behind oversized fruit – currently reigned supreme in Folk artistic practice.
As she highlighted the theatrical curlicues of the painted vine with a hairsbreadth brush and pearl oil, however, Florrie couldn’t escape the feeling that this particular plant was sufficiently dramatic on its own.
Ceru had told Florrie to paint whatever she wanted – whatever felt fitting to her.
In that case, why couldn’t she indulge herself by creating the “flower portraits” she’d yearned to paint for years?
With this resolution in mind, Florrie decided to pass the better part of her evening in the prince’s gardens, in pursuit of the most striking Folk flowers – and in Vern’s company, too.
The notion seemed ridiculous, at first. What would Folk think if they saw a young lady astroll in the gardens with Honnor Loftus’s The Resolute Portrait of Vibrant Lord Vernal Mauve Among the Ruins? But her portfolio-bag was fairly discreet, and the grounds tended to empty once the sun set.
Still, Florrie spent ages tiptoeing through the tunnel of ferns that framed the perennials, hoping to avoid prying eyes. Only after she emerged among the wildflowers, in utter solitude, did she and Vern proceed to spend nearly an hour staring at the same flower.
She hadn’t expected him to go along with it.
In fact, Florrie had introduced the entire idea of their outing with a string of apologies.
“I’m sorry to say that it won’t be particularly enjoyable,” she’d confessed.
“When I paint from life, I find I need to look at the subject for a frightfully long time. I do apologise. I’ve been told I’m quite a poor excuse for company in that state, and can make my companions lonely. ”
“Anyone who believes that doesn’t know true loneliness,” had been Vern’s reply. “Looking at something together sounds perfectly companionable to me.”
Now, she had no idea if he was looking with her.
Florrie was far too engrossed in her own observations.
The flower she had chosen provided the perfect contrast to the wispy blossoms of the Fairy vine she’d already painted.
This plant’s common name was the Wise One’s Tower, and Florrie found its strangely architectural make-up fascinating.
Using a cheerful blend of woad and ochre, she sketched out stepped sepals winding impractically up the stem, creating the illusion of a spiral staircase.
The stamens wove together to form an elegant pinnacle that would have looked at home on any great turret of the eighth century.
The orange petals themselves grew in a variety of peculiar forms, with some curving up to resemble balconies, and others dotted with pink patches reminiscent of windows.
A light wash of some rosy pigment underneath, Florrie thought, would help her replicate those perfectly.
As she began outlining the petals, Florrie kept remembering that Vern was there beside her.
Had he glanced at the flower at all? If so, what did he make of the peculiar pistil, which towered far above like a golden spire?
Would she need to explain what a spire was, or was his painting ever installed next to the prince’s third-century cityscapes?
Out of respect for Vern’s time, she tried to work quickly – but it was always difficult for Florrie to gauge her pace when painting.
By the time she’d finished layering smudges of Wary Rose for the mid-tones, the sunset sky had become a nightscape.
Florrie added a final stroke to the flower’s shadowy stem and rubbed the excess pink pigment with a rag to create a slightly smoky glow.
Satisfied, she turned to look at the other painting present.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve fallen asleep,” she said.
“How could I fall asleep with that flower before me?” Vern exclaimed. “I’ve been just as industrious as you – can’t you see?”
Florrie squinted at the painting. In Vern’s small hand was an even smaller embroidery wheel, its frame stretching a blue swatch of plain-weave into a taut drum. She could just make out the outline of the Wise One’s Tower upon the fabric.
“I think you’ve been far more industrious,” she said. “How did you happen to possess those precise shades of thread?”
“Oh, it was fortunate chance – and bad habit. I carry all sorts of scraps in my pockets and rarely empty them.”
Florrie shook her head in disbelief. “Are you quite sure you can’t submit a portfolio for Ceru’s consideration yourself?”
“It’s your work he wants, Florrie. From what I can see – on the part of the paper not hidden under your hand, that is – you’ve done a fine job.”
Florrie reluctantly removed her hand. “There is some promise, I suppose, but it requires further effort. I hope I might finish the petals this evening…”
She glanced at the flower to draw fortitude from its sturdy construction.
“Unless you’d like me to visit?” she added, her tone about as “casual” as Lord Mauve’s ever was.
“Perhaps not. I don’t imagine you’ll get any painting done this evening if you do.”
Florrie suddenly felt terribly dizzy. Their garden excursion had proceeded in a perfectly amiable fashion. Neither of them had addressed the conversation they’d shared among the stars, nor the feeling of Vern touching her in a way that was both startlingly gentle and surprisingly thrilling…
“What?” was all she managed to say now.
Vern nodded sweetly. “Well, we often get talking, don’t we, and lose all sense of time? What did you think I meant?”
“I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the best at interpreting tone,” Florrie said, breathlessly, “but I find it very difficult to tell when you mean to tease me and when you are truly unaware of the implications of your speech.”
“Which of the two would you prefer?” His voice was teasing now, wasn’t it?
“I… don’t know. Whichever you intend.”
“Perhaps you ought to assume it’s always a little bit of both.” His face glowed as light from the garden chandeliers shone on the frame’s protective glass. “But I do think you shouldn’t visit tonight. I’ve a project of my own, and it’s a surprise.”
“Really?” she asked. “What sort of surprise?”
“You finish your paintings, and then I’ll show you,” he said, laughing. “When, exactly, will Ceru and Lord Mauve arrive?”
“Three days from now.” Florrie could not help but sigh at the reminder of the dreaded ball.
“Splendid. You can visit me afterwards.”
“But that feels so far away!”
“Then you can enjoy looking forward to it, can’t you?” Even in the dim twilight, Florrie could discern the enticing intensity of Vern’s expression. “I know I certainly will.”
Florrie was indeed looking forward to it, though she wasn’t sure what to anticipate. She could not imagine herself behaving with such casual confidence in her flirtations as Vern did. Somehow, despite his circumstances, he seemed much better at that than she was.
As the week proceeded, Florrie realised she was not alone in her struggle to navigate romance with one of the two Vernal Mauves in the world.
Prince Ardant was beside himself about the impending reunion with his Lord Mauve.
Ardant spent days waiting anxiously for Heliotrope, his newly appointed messenger, to return from the canyon with a reply to the prince’s invitation.
The butterfly finally beat against the rose-window of the grand gallery on a bright and breezy afternoon, interrupting Prince Ardant and Florrie’s discussion of The Resolute Portrait’s reinstallation.
Prince Ardant read the letter to himself first, but his smile dwindled as he finished the page.
“Is something the matter?” Florrie asked.
“Oh, nothing of consequence. He will attend the ball.” Ardant sighed and folded the letter neatly – first in half, then into quarters and eighths. He tried to attempt one additional fold, but the paper would not budge.
“In the thirteenth century, a paper artisan determined the average sheet of letterhead can be folded in half as many as twelve times. But one must use a proper creasing-stick. Once, while rebinding an antique manuscript, I managed seven.” Florrie cleared her throat.
It was the sort of irrelevant aside she had trained herself to suppress.
Evidently, she was far too preoccupied to do so at present.
“If he accepted your invitation, whatever is the matter?”
“Considering what you told me about Lord Mauve’s new commitment to informality, I suppose I hoped he might have written a less rigid reply.”
He passed her the letter with trembling fingers.
“Dear Prince Ardant,” Florrie read, “your invitation is a testament to your forgiving and generous nature. My courtiers and I graciously accept, and will be fortunate to return to Stillscape once more.”
“A testament! Graciously! That’s the same old Lord Mauve, through and through. Besides, Aesti always begged him to stop saying courtiers when he meant friends, family and colleagues.”