Chapter 18
Florrie took a few moments to adjust her ensemble – and recover her own senses – before joining the prince outside the studio.
She shaded the shapes Vern had painted on the dress with a few strokes of pearl-grey to make the illusion of lace more convincing, tucked the jar into her pocket for any necessary touch-ups, then sought Prince Ardant in the corridor.
He dismissed her frantic apologies with a puzzled smile.
“Has it been that long? I hadn’t noticed.
Far too busy fretting.” Prince Ardant put his head in his hands.
Even he had worn gloves today, as the finishing touch to a striking outfit that must have involved a great many afternoons at the tailor’s.
A stunning seascape, showing the night sky reflected in crashing breakers, trailed across the body of his coat.
Rogue waves extended down his breeches, and his gloves were adorned with renderings of sand and shells, which shimmered as he lifted his head again.
“I didn’t expect to see you looking so cheerful about the ball, Florrie,” he continued. “While here I am, so down and doleful. Perhaps I’m the one in need of some company to allay my worries, in the end.”
As they walked, Florrie was so intent upon pondering potential outcomes for her next painting visit – and what exactly Vern intended to imply when he said he’d “make it up to” her – that she hardly noticed Prince Ardant addressing her.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“I was only apologising! About all the fuss and nonsense. I spent years trying to forget Mauve. Now I am moments away from meeting him again, and that terrifies me.”
“Because you fear everything between you may have changed?”
“Because I fear everything has not!” The prince sighed. “I do imagine we have both matured, but there could be nothing worse than succumbing to our old attractions only to find we remain ill-matched.”
Before Florrie could consider what questionable advice she might offer in response, Prince Ardant shook his head.
“There I go again. Allow me to apologise once more, Florrie,” he said as they climbed the last few steps to the gallery.
“I could not have managed this without you. But I don’t expect you to put up with my continued nonsense at this ball.
Before you retreat to your studio, I hope you can sneak off to some quiet corner and enjoy the sights. ”
Florrie shook her head politely. “I’d rather keep an eye on The Resolute Portrait, thank you.”
“Your devotion to the collections never ceases to impress.” Prince Ardant cleared his throat. “On that note, I ought to ask: how is, er, the other Lord Mauve? Hale in mind and body, I hope?”
“What would I know of his—” Florrie paused and composed herself. “He is well enough.”
“Good, good,” said Prince Ardant vaguely. “I would like to meet him, in time. I’m afraid, however, that I must make amends with Mauve himself before I can manage speaking with his painted double.”
“No doubt he’ll understand.”
The prince nodded without stepping forward. They had now been standing on the top step for a rather unreasonable amount of time. Perhaps Prince Ardant, too, wished to delay their inevitable arrival.
Suddenly, a rustle of wings sounded from above. Prince Ardant started, then held out his hand with a chuckle as Heliotrope descended from a bee-shaped sconce near the gallery ceiling.
“There you are, my friend! The guest of honour!”
“Is it prudent to let him fly freely in the galleries?” Florrie murmured. “Even the slightest touch of a butterfly’s wing could—”
The butterfly swivelled on Prince Ardant’s hand and waved his antennae ferociously.
“Apparently, Heliotrope would like you to know that he, for one, has never touched a work of art,” said Prince Ardant. “I’m not quite sure what he means. A joke about your profession, perhaps?”
“Why don’t we make our grand entrance?” said Florrie.
The grand entrance, in particular, was what Florrie dreaded most. Laughing exclamations, rattling cutlery, trilling flutes – she could hear it all through the stained-glass doors, and it was far too much.
Occasionally, the clang of a chisel (wielded by the sculptor commissioned to create a commemorative relief for the evening) made her jump.
Worse still, Florrie knew all in attendance would take notice when she and Ardant entered.
At the very least, she hoped their curiosity would cause a hush to fall over the ballroom.
As it happened, there were no witnesses to their entrance – nor, unfortunately, any hush to speak of.
“Why, I suppose everyone’s busy enjoying the artwork!” Prince Ardant exclaimed as he ushered Florrie onto the landing.
Indeed, not a head turned. Florrie found that quite understandable.
The gallery did, after all, feature more than one hundred works of art, all of which looked their best after the care she’d lavished upon them.
Every wall was invisible behind the crowds of onlookers, who clustered about the curtained frames and pushed against each other to glimpse the paintings hung closer to the ceiling.
Many Folk in attendance wore finery much like Florrie’s, though their various gowns and suits were painted with landscapes, not reproductions of lace shawls.
As Florrie followed Prince Ardant through the crowd, she settled herself by studying one particular Folk lady’s cape, which was embellished with a startling scene of a clocktower troubled by a tempest.
Amid Stillscape’s most sociable stood a party of Fairies, grouped around the sculpted fountain (inoperable, but historically significant) displayed near the centre of the gallery. Lord Mauve’s party consisted of Fairies in simple shirts and trousers, paired with matching false wings.
“Perhaps I ought to have taken Lord Mauve’s newfound informality into account.”
Prince Ardant’s statement made Florrie jump.
“I did not realise it would extend to their eveningwear as well,” she said. “Though I’d still argue that those perfectly tailored trousers aren’t exactly informal…”
“But they look so very comfortable!” Prince Ardant replied. “Makes me wish I hadn’t bothered with this velvet nightmare.”
In order to make himself audible, Prince Ardant was practically shouting. His voice echoed through the gallery – and caught the attention of Lord Mauve’s retinue.
The Fairy gallerists swivelled towards the prince and stepped away from the fountain in almost frightening synchronicity. (“How eerie!” one Fairy exclaimed. “I can’t believe we managed that!”)
Standing at the edge of the fountain was – not Vern, despite all appearances to the contrary.
It was, of course, Lord Mauve, dressed in an exceptional black linen blouse with a cape that cascaded over his shoulders.
Whether by coincidence or design, he happened to stand parallel to the wall where The Resolute Portrait was installed, creating the bizarre effect of two Lord Mauves (and still, alas, no Vern) gazing at Florrie and the prince.
“Is that you, Ardant?” Lord Mauve said, languorously.
“Why, who else would I be?” The prince grinned. “Unlike some, I am not in possession of a twin who lives in a painting.”
“She has told you everything, then,” remarked Lord Mauve. He gave Florrie a nod. “Good evening, Miss Florrie. I assumed you kept your word, but his invitation was so brief, and I wondered—”
“Brief?” exclaimed Prince Ardant. “If you are as informal as you claim, surely you would not turn up your nose at a short and straightforward missive.”
“You misunderstand the nature of my complaint.” Now Lord Mauve directed his steely gaze at the prince and no one else. “Perhaps I found it disappointing that the experience of reading your words ended so quickly.”
All guests – Fairies and Folk alike – fell silent.
Prince Ardant cleared his throat. “You are dressed very finely this evening,” he said. “I suppose you’re now about to ask for a dance in your most unpretentious tone?”
“No.” Lord Mauve swept forward, cape billowing, and took the prince’s hand. “I intend to ask if you’d like to abandon all formality and walk over to that charmingly shadowy riverscape. So we might become reacquainted.” He frowned at the assembled crowd. “Without such a sizeable audience.”
Once Prince Ardant nodded in reply, the two wandered towards the painting, Lord Mauve occasionally glaring over his shoulder to dissuade any eavesdroppers. With their entertainment complete, Lord Mauve’s companions dispersed about the gallery in pairs and trios.
Florrie, meanwhile, wanted nothing more than to vanish completely.
She crept to a nearby niche, where Prince Ardant had once asked her to install an eighth-century orrery.
It was a wonder – a working model of the world and its moons set in a pale pink dome, with star-shaped recesses creating a convincing celestial illusion upon the floor.
The dome, for its part, already looked slightly ash-tinged from the nearby candles. Florrie was reviewing potential conservation treatments in her head when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
Fortunately, it was not the touch of a hand, but rather the head of a lily, which lay gently upon the collar of her dress. Florrie spun about to find herself in the company of an exceptionally lovely Fairy.
Even Miss Nettersel’s finery could not compete with the Fairy’s ensemble.
The dress seemed to feature every shade of yellow at once, with autumnal vines curled about the wearer’s waist and hips.
Matching leaves intertwined with the Fairy’s fern-green hair.
Her cheeks sparkled with glittering setting-powder, and golden brow-paste lined a pair of mischievous grey eyes.
“May I have this dance?” asked the Fairy in a low voice, tucking the lily behind her ear.
Florrie sighed, glancing at the crowded floor behind them.
“You may,” she relented, with a curtsey, “depending on your intentions. I must warn you that I am—”
“Yes, your heart belongs to another, obviously. Do you think I’d express an interest to someone wearing that?”