Chapter 16 #2
“He did sign it yours, rather than sincerely. And look here!” Florrie turned the letter over. “He sketched a small smiling face on the verso. Is that meant to be him?”
“Why, that is the most perfect circle I ever saw,” marvelled Prince Ardant. “No matter. He must have used an anchor and string.”
Florrie shook her head. “The imprint of his left wrist in the margin is perfectly consistent with freehand drawing.”
At last, Prince Ardant laughed, and reclaimed the letter so he could place it tenderly in his breast pocket.
“I’m not quite myself, am I?” he asked. “I’m rather dreading this ball, which is most unlike me. No doubt all of us – Lord Mauve included – will have a lovely time.”
The dreaded ball would take place in the grand gallery itself. As artisans draped the walls with garlands of beaded blossoms and weavers bedecked the entry columns with unsuitably voluminous ribbons, Florrie prepared the collections for the occasion.
She spent nearly an entire day de-installing the handsome array of landscapes on the western wall so The Resolute Portrait could take their place.
While Prince Ardant and Pennery bustled about in the background, calling out frantic questions about dancing-carpets and refreshment tables, Florrie tried to focus on her own contributions: the dusty screws she tightened in old wall brackets in case they were jostled by revelry, and the sturdy gossamer curtains she hung over the other paintings on view to protect them from spilled drinks and crumbly appetisers.
Still, she could not shake a sense of great discomfort.
Even now, even before the ball, the room around her was already too loud, too bright and too full of activity.
The overwhelm affected her mood, her energy and her ability to continue working on Ceru’s portfolio.
Though Florrie had finished the first two paintings to her (vague) satisfaction, the third eluded her.
The night before the ball, as she wandered the darkened gardens in a most dreadful state, Florrie decided she would simply have to finish the final painting after the event’s conclusion.
Ceru had promised her an entire week, and there was time yet.
Besides, Florrie had far more distressing activities to occupy her on the day of the ball.
In Stillscape, social balls were invariably artistic events.
The elaborately painted gowns and sculpted hairstyles so in fashion at present were essential to any successful party.
To ensure visitors possessed the resources to make their appearances as fine as possible, princes paid the tailoring and styling costs for members of the public who wished to attend.
True to this convention, Prince Ardant had secured the services of no fewer than six local fashion houses, and Florrie suspected each tailor had been overrun with Folk eager to order their complimentary finery in advance.
She, however, had put off this responsibility until the last possible moment.
Florrie detested tailoring. It involved holding still for long periods of time, feeling the unpleasant coolness of dress-pins and measuring tapes, and enduring the vexatious sensation of being touched – no matter how gently and professionally – by strangers.
As a result, Florrie had never visited the fashion houses that crowded the tidy street a short distance from the palace.
To reach them, Florrie crossed behind a textile marketplace, which would have been an irresistible diversion even if she weren’t attempting to delay her tailoring appointment.
She tried to calm herself by admiring the bolts of embroidered fabric, spools of braided ribbon and whorls of hand-limned wool.
“See how soft they are, if you like,” one wool-vendor called to her.
Florrie grimaced, embarrassed that he’d caught her staring, but could not resist the urge to admire the yarn. The skein was painted with swirls of azure and silver to resemble a river, and she wished Vern could see it.
“I don’t suppose you knit?” the man asked.
When Florrie shook her head, the wool-vendor sighed. “Pity. Folk are always asking to buy shawls and whatnot, but my hands aren’t what they once were. If you know anyone, won’t you send them my way? We could share the profits on the woollens.”
“I’d spend the rest of the day learning to knit if that would spare me from a day at the tailor’s.” Florrie smiled politely at his confusion. “My apologies. I do hope you’ll meet someone more talented than I.”
There was no more time for dallying. Florrie soon found herself seated in a passably comfortable chair and chatting to a Miss Apricity Nettersel, half of Nettersel Siblings’ Stitchery.
“Why, you must be Prince Ardant’s conservator!” Miss Nettersel had practically squealed when Florrie introduced herself. “He sent along your portrait and I’ve been studying it. My conclusion is that nothing would suit you better than Celestial Blue.”
She held up the swatch to Florrie’s cheek – not quite touching, but close enough – and Florrie worked admirably to conceal a wince.
Miss Nettersel smiled warmly.
“You prefer keeping to yourself, don’t you?” she said. “That’s grand. I can measure you discreetly.”
Florrie blinked. Clearly, she had not concealed the wince as admirably as she thought.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” she murmured.
“No trouble at all.” Miss Nettersel seized a measuring ribbon from behind her ear and draped it to the length of Florrie’s sleeve without touching her.
“See? It’s perfectly simple. My brother is the same way, you know – doesn’t like to be touched, doesn’t like touching others.
That’s why he comes up with the patterns in his quiet little room, and I take care of lovely Folk like yourself. ”