Chapter 17 #3
The tone of his voice was firm, even and calm – remarkably calm, really, considering that Vern had also taken this moment to lay his fingers atop the collar of her dress, vexing button and all.
The golden walls of the cottage dazzled dreamily in the periphery of Florrie’s vision. Vern’s hand settled around her collarbone as he leaned closer.
“Do you think anything could stop me from wanting to touch you?” he whispered into her neck, his breath ragged.
“I’ve missed you. I spent the past week alternating between two states of mind.
I’m either utterly consumed by desire or wildly confused by what that means and how I’m supposed to act upon it.
I’ve told you I don’t entirely know what I’m doing, and that’s true.
But now that you’re here with me again, Florrie, I find myself completely lost to you. ”
Florrie concluded that no established category of visual observation could suitably describe the way in which he was looking at her. She couldn’t quite link it to any particular emotion, either, as it was somehow both vulnerable and… desperate.
She suspected she might very well look the same.
“If you like,” Florrie said, “I could help you with the latter.”
“The latter?” Suddenly, Vern was his usual self again – all curiosity, cheer and confusion. “Which latter do you mean? I, well… I got a bit carried away and I don’t remember the exact order in which I—”
“How to act upon it.” She tilted her head upward. “Specifically.”
When their lips met, Florrie was relieved to discover that Vern did not, in fact, taste of paint.
Though her perception felt unsteady, everything was gentle and light and soft.
Vern’s hair brushing against her forehead.
The embroidery on his sleeve that pressed against her cheek…
she hadn’t even the presence of mind to identify the stitched motif.
An embroidered cloud, perhaps? The shape of the threadwork felt vaguely cirriform, after all.
Or was it more cumuliform? She was no meteorologist, but one could not restore cloudscapes without possessing a basic knowledge of nephology.
He was kissing her again before she had the opportunity for further analysis, and Florrie found herself perfectly happy to put her investigation on hold.
Then the room started to rumble around them, and a great roar commenced out of nowhere.
Much as she wanted to focus, Florrie found the roar increasingly audible – and frustratingly distracting.
After a few moments, she almost fancied the strange sound was like somebody calling her name.
Even then, however, she would have tried to ignore it if Vern hadn’t suddenly pulled away.
“I’m afraid your prince has arrived,” he whispered.
Florrie scrambled to her feet. Indeed, the roar had now acquired a vaguely familiar timbre.
“Florrie?” called the ear-splitting voice. Vern’s spinning wheel trembled on its treadle. “I wanted to see if you’d like an escort to the ball – I thought some company might allay your worries about attending?”
The din subsided, and Florrie steadied herself on the table.
“Do I sound like that when I’m outside the painting?” she murmured, horrified.
“Honestly, Florrie, I couldn’t tell you! If you want me to remember anything beyond the past few moments, you must wait until I recover my senses.”
Vern lowered his head, but Florrie could see he was beaming.
“I know I ought to be sad you’re leaving,” he said, “but I cannot possibly be anything but delighted at present. Why, you’ve energised me for the rest of the evening. I imagine I could weave half a blanket tonight!”
“I have no doubt you will.” Florrie rearranged her hair, wishing she felt energised, too.
Vern clasped her hands and kneeled before her in a most dramatic manner.
“You’ll manage this. I know you will,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t attend the ball with you. I wouldn’t mind conversing with Lord Mauve or eavesdropping on all the gossip from inside the painting.”
“You’d enjoy it far more than I would.”
“Perhaps!” His hands tightened around hers. “But if you’re very brave and endure those grim duties, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeated. She tentatively touched the drying paint on her dress. Only the slightest hint of silver came away on her fingertips.
She did want to see him tomorrow. And every day after that, for good measure. Still, a part of Florrie secretly hoped she might return to the painting even sooner. That was utter nonsense, of course. She would be horribly weary after the ball, and in no fit state to be around anyone.
But Vern, evidently, wasn’t just anyone, and she’d come to think of his painting as a refuge. A reliably comforting place, inhabited by a reliably comforting Fairy who would lift her spirits regardless of her emotional state.
There was also the fact that his breathless confession about desiring her would not stop repeating in her mind.
“What is it, Florrie?” Vern asked. “You’re not obligated to return soon. Or ever! If you’d rather pretend that—”
Florrie determined that the most effective way of dispelling such concerns was to kiss him once more.