Chapter 17
Never before had Florrie entered the painting by herself, without an invitation.
The apple-gold varnish on the cottage door was in perfect condition, and the grain of the ribbonwood felt exceedingly pleasant when she knocked.
Her efforts were immediately answered by the eager creak of Vern leaping up from his chair, or so she presumed.
“Florrie?” he called. “Goodness, no one’s ever knocked! I’ll be out in a moment.”
Then she caught a glimpse of Vern through the window. The glazing made him look blurry, like a painting in the late mist-colour style, but she could still discern the contours of his face. Eyebrows skyward, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape…
As far as she could see, he seemed perplexingly captivated.
Their eyes met through the glass. Vern promptly vanished from the window and opened the door.
“I’m sorry for staring.” His hands twitched, but he seemed to have forgotten the spindle. “Through the window, you… well, you looked like a painting.”
“Don’t you always see that frame around me when I’m outside?”
“I meant you resembled a particular painting.” Vern cleared his throat. “It used to hang to the left of mine when I was in the pink-walled gallery upstairs. Doesn’t matter, really.”
“It matters to me!” Florrie exclaimed. “I now know every painting at the Commonplace Palace, so which one was it? Not the one of the angry fellow tossing his hat into a maelstrom?”
“Certainly not.” Vern kicked at a stray leaf.
“It’s the lady in a library. I wouldn’t have known that’s where she was, except a gallery guide mentioned it to a visitor in passing.
I always thought she was the most… but I suppose Prince Ardant must have many paintings of finely dressed women in libraries. ”
“I don’t suppose you remember any other details?” she persisted. “Was it half-length or a bust? Was the brushwork linear or painterly? What did the woman look like?”
Realising she was gesticulating quite wildly, Florrie pre-emptively refastened the loose button to be safe. “I didn’t mean to interrogate you,” she said with a sigh. “I ought to have simply accepted the compliment. If it was indeed a compliment.”
“It was.” In true Vern fashion, he did not seem the least overwhelmed by her outburst. He was, in fact, smiling.
“The woman in the painting gazed into the distance, as you did,” he said. “The bodice of her gown featured similar beadwork. And she was exceedingly handsome, just like—”
“Oh!” Florrie shouted. “You mean the lady from The Weary Scholar’s Delayed Repose! She’s the only one who wears a beaded gown.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I couldn’t read the accompanying label.”
“It’s gemstone and gilt, thirteenth century, by Nervure Farbidder. The subject is her wife, Tempest. It’s long been regarded as the loveliest portrait of the thirteenth century…” Suddenly, Florrie let her lecturing lapse. “I resemble the loveliest portrait of the thirteenth century?”
“Through the window, yes. Though now that I’m out here, I’d say you’re far lovelier.”
Florrie knew she ought to say something gracious, insist that no art critic could possibly agree with his assessment, or blush prettily as she shook her head. Instead, she stood there, tapping her fingers against her skirt and feeling like she could barely catch her breath.
“Won’t you come in?” Vern opened the door, letting candlelight spill into the garden. “If you can spare a moment, I’ve something to show you.”
“Your mysterious project?” Florrie followed him, enjoying how her gown’s beading caught the lamps’ rays.
One of the chairs by the table had vanished. Vern gestured to the remaining chair until Florrie acquiesced and sat.
“The other’s still at the loom,” he explained. Florrie watched as he skipped to the far corner of the cottage to fetch the chair – as well as a small parcel wrapped in simple brown weave.
“It’s only a trifle,” Vern said as he sat beside her. “Something for you to wear this evening. I should have asked about the colour of your gown, but I feared that would give away my plans.”
Florrie took the parcel with some degree of apprehension. She wasn’t the most gracious at receiving gifts. There was always the temptation to perform – to imagine how the giver would like her to behave, because the ways in which she naturally expressed gratitude did not seem especially grateful.
“If it’s something to wear, why don’t you put it on for me?” she suggested.
In Florrie’s mind, this was a perfectly reasonable solution. If she gave Vern something to do, he would be distracted from any apparent insufficiency in her reaction.
“If that’s what you’d like. Close your eyes, please.”
With her eyes dutifully shut, Florrie heard Vern unwrapping the cloth and rustling something about. She felt the softest brush of his hands on her shoulders – and a light and welcome weight embraced her soon after.
When she opened her eyes, Florrie found herself wearing a superlative lace shawl.
“Lace shawl”, of course, was but a general category she selected due to its appearance and apparent method of production.
It was more like an entire world sprawling over her shoulders.
Instead of the usual stitched gemstone motifs, the lace featured woven images of leaves, acorns and flowers she immediately recognised as part of the painted flora outside the cottage.
Interspersed with these natural forms was a likeness of a butterfly that looked suspiciously like Heliotrope, a stunning rendering of the great carved tree from the Amethyst Road, and a needleworked landscape of the canyon outside Lord Mauve’s museum.
“You made this for me?” She knew that should be a statement, not a question, but she couldn’t help arching her voice in disbelief.
“I’ve spent a lifetime making things just to pass the time. You can’t imagine how wonderful it felt to create something for a purpose. For you.”
“Landscape lace enjoyed a brief burst of popularity in the tenth century,” Florrie mused.
“Curtains with simple garden scenes tend to show up in private collections on occasion. But I’ve never seen anything like this.
And you made it in a matter of days?” She shook her head. “You astonish me, Vern.”
“Do I really?” Vern murmured. “But won’t you please wear it? It complements your dress ever so well.”
“I would love nothing more.” Florrie smiled as she wrapped the lace more securely over her shoulders, marvelling at this wonderful, unbelievable man with whom she felt so peculiarly comfortable.
Then she remembered the rather peculiar circumstances of this wonderful, unbelievable man’s existence.
“Can I wear it to the ball?” she asked, her good cheer dwindling. “Remember that flower-weaving you gave me when we were travelling? Well, that night, when I went to reach for it when I was in bed—”
Vern smirked. “Whyever would you do such a thing, Florrie? Perhaps you could explain…”
“Yes, well,” she said, hurriedly. “The point is that it had disappeared. Turned into mere spots of paint. What if I lost your shawl, too?”
Vern’s face fell, with even his dimples dangerously close to vanishing.
“How terrible! I never considered that. It is a Fairy custom to make lace like this when you… Anyway, I’m awfully sorry.”
“How could you have known? Why, I came here because I hoped to borrow a needle and thread. I suppose that won’t be possible, either.”
Vern took a deep breath and straightened the shawl on her shoulders.
“Florrie,” he proclaimed, “I must tell you that I feel absolutely wretched about this development and I lack the strength to pretend otherwise.”
As much as she appreciated his honesty, Florrie wished she could spare him from the disappointment. It was certainly a uniquely complicated problem. She suddenly realised, however, that she might be uniquely qualified to fix it.
Tenderly, Florrie removed the lace from her shoulders and placed it safely into its creator’s hands.
“Excuse me for a moment!” she exclaimed, hitching up her skirts and running towards the forest. Once she had returned to her studio – where the music and conversations from the galleries outside became unpleasantly loud once more – Florrie searched through her supply drawers until she found a round jar of silver-speckled paint and a fishtail brush.
“We shall address two problems at once,” Florrie announced when she returned, somewhat breathlessly, to Vern’s home.
He had retreated to his weaving corner during Florrie’s absence, but looked up with a smile as she approached.
“Is that paint? May I have a look?”
Florrie handed him the jar. She had long ago perfected the art of passing people objects without making any contact – and yet their fingers still brushed together.
“It is indeed paint,” she explained, “for fabric. I keep several jars on hand for restoring painted tapestries or historical garments. Even today, most Folk take pride in painting their formal attire before a grand occasion.” Florrie sighed, remembering the incredible examples of such artistry she had repaired.
“I hadn’t the time to paint my gown, so I’ll see to it now. ”
“How lovely! What will you paint?” Though Vern’s voice had regained some of its brightness, Florrie still found his forlorn expression rather heartrending.
“Since I cannot take your gift with me,” she said, gently, “I thought I would create a painted replica, as an experiment. I’m curious to see what happens if we make something in the painting with materials from the outside world.
If it works, I’ve a wonderful notion of where I might get you some new wool, perhaps; but, for now, my focus is on the shawl. ”
“Oh, I see!” Vern exclaimed. “That’s… that’s the loveliest idea I ever heard, Florrie.”
“What I need, to start, is a looking-glass.” Florrie was greatly anxious about that part of the plan, but she couldn’t think of any alternative.
Vern bit his lip. “You’ll have to tell me what a looking-glass is.”