Chapter 18 #2
Before Florrie could determine which aspect of her outfit the Fairy intended to insult, her potential dance partner smiled.
The expression, Florrie thought, rather transformed the Fairy’s oak-forest fierceness to the gentleness of a floral meadow.
“We won’t dance out there. Dreadfully bright for my liking. No doubt you agree.”
Florrie expressed her agreement by extending her hand. There was a new style of social three-step that did not involve participants touching, which she hoped her new acquaintance might know. Facing each other, they briskly trotted to another shadowy edge of the gallery.
“I hope you’ve been keeping well, Florrie Hyverfell?” asked the Fairy, mid-spin.
Florrie promptly tripped over her right foot – and, alas, Vern was not there to catch her.
“Don’t recognise me?” continued the apparent stranger as Florrie worked to regain her balance.
“Blame my brother. He insisted my spectacles would seem rudely out of place at a Folk ball. Here I am, then, with a headache already brewing from that detestable lantern in the corner, and you incapable of identifying me.”
Lady Aestival Violet winked – which was, indeed, an expression Florrie never would have noticed beneath the spectacles.
“I rather think the issue is the new colour of your hair, not the spectacles,” Florrie protested. “But it suits you. Which gem-powder did you use to create that hue?”
“Nothing you could find here in Stillscape, alas. I should have packed more dyes in my valise. Ah, the sacrifices I make for Mauve!” Aesti glanced scornfully at the painting while she and Florrie exchanged bows in time to the rhythm.
“To make matters worse, I won’t be leaving any time soon. Ardant has requested my assistance.”
“Your assistance?” Florrie missed a step again, but Aesti dodged her with ease.
“Yes. And, for reasons unknown, I happen to be the sort of Fairy who can’t turn down anyone in their hour of need.
” Aesti sniffed. “It’s my least favourite aspect of my character.
Consequently, I suppose I am to be your future colleague.
Or annoyance, perhaps. It appears Prince Ardant is concerned about the security of his galleries. ”
Florrie felt her face grow warm. “Security?” she repeated. “Did he happen to – well, did he tell you why?”
Aesti laughed, loudly and eagerly, which made her seem more like Vern’s sister than Lord Mauve’s.
“Not because of you,” she chuckled. “How silly. No, Ardant’s received some rather sinister letters of late, which – well, I really oughtn’t say more – but it appears there may be eyes on the collections, Florrie, and the Commonplace Palace isn’t especially well protected.
I should know, having stolen a painting from it myself. ”
“You don’t mean—”
“But of course.” Now Aesti’s grin was almost devilish. “Did you really think Mauve swapped those paintings? Please. That man can’t even borrow one of my capes without me catching him in the act.”
While Florrie still found Lord Mauve somewhat intimidating, she had to admit he could not hold a candle to his sister.
“Speaking of Mauve,” Aesti continued, “whyever do you keep gazing so intently at his portrait? Doesn’t your heart belong to another?
I cannot dissuade you enough from pursuing my brother.
He leaves his athletic equipment lying out for weeks, for example, and is cursed with a most unappealing aversion to word-puzzles. ”
Thankfully, they’d neared the western reach of the gallery, which housed a wing-backed pew at the ready for Florrie to collapse into.
“I have no interest in pursuing your brother, Aesti,” she said between breaths.
“But you still haven’t answered—” Aesti’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she sat beside Florrie. “Wait a moment. There’s another one, isn’t there? The fellow in the painting?”
“His name is Vern, as it happens.”
“How darling. Thank goodness that diminutive never occurred to Mauve. Does he really look just like my brother? And you and he—”
“He doesn’t look just like your brother,” said Florrie. “They are entirely different individuals.”
Aesti nodded and leaned against the gentle incline of the pew.
“I should like to meet this Vern. Perhaps I’ll like him better than Mauve. Won’t that make my brother cross!”
Florrie was relieved, at least, that the tempting prospect of sibling rivalry was enough to distract Aesti from the question of the individual to whom Florrie’s heart belonged.
“I will be glad to have you as a colleague.” To emphasise this professional turn in their conversation, Florrie even forced herself to look Aesti in the eye.
“What a change that will be! I don’t think anyone has ever been glad to work with me,” Aesti mused.
“At some point, I would like to stage a mock heist to assess where and how a potential thief might exploit weaknesses in the palace’s defences, and I wouldn’t dream of doing so without approval from the conservator…
keeper? Curator? Gallery manager? Whatever it is that you are. ”
Aesti paused, and Florrie drew back from the intensity of the knight’s scrutiny.
“But I’ll blather on about all that later,” Aesti announced, giving Florrie a bow.
“I mean no offence, but you don’t look well.
Take a moment, indulge in some peace and quiet – if that’s even possible here, of course.
Would you like something diverting to occupy your mind, perhaps?
I’ve a copy of Lord Abstruse’s latest ‘Verbal Cathedral’ and I don’t mind sharing – well, I do, but only a little. ”
“That is kind, but you’ve wasted enough time at my side,” said Florrie. “Besides, I imagine you could easily find a lovelier, more eligible lady willing to take a turn about the floor with you.”
“Far too bright over there, as I said. And I regret to say that lovely, eligible ladies tend to find me irksome.” Aesti rose to her feet.
“I suppose I must huddle in some draughty corner. Or else retreat to the next gallery, with nothing but those awful sculptures for company. Good evening, Florrie.”
As Aesti departed, Florrie sank further into the pew’s cushion, slouching so low that she could see only the heads and shoulders of guests above the armrest. They whirled about like a roomful of bust portraits on transport carts while she sought stillness.
If even Lady Aestival, a near-stranger, recognised that Florrie felt unwell, surely Florrie could justify an early departure?
Departing, of course, involved crossing the room, and that very thought made her rock against the chair and tug at her dress.
In the process, Florrie’s hand brushed against the curved cover of her sketchbook, tucked away within its hidden pocket.
Perhaps, if she occupied herself with a short bout of drawing, she could wait until the crowds dispersed before escaping to her studio.
Her eyes paused upon a garland of beaded flowers, draped precariously about the inset columns in an adjacent niche.
The last flower on the garland appeared to be a speckled ghost-violet, but the wire must have snagged.
Three grey beads dangled from the centre, disrupting the aggressive naturalism of the beadwork – and creating a bizarre, birdlike shadow on the wall behind it.
Florrie’s mind raced as she remembered the fabric paint in her other pocket. The pearl-grey was nearly the same as the flower’s smoky shadow. The curious artifice of the beaded flower, in her mind, made it the perfect third subject for her portfolio.
She unfolded a fresh page from the sketchbook and began by scribbling some thick, dark lines with the flat edge of her trusty pencil.
After using the brush to retrieve the tiniest dot of grey paint, Florrie began blending it onto the pencil marks, using the slight moisture to smudge the charcoal into a vague, shadowy shape.
Then, with a lighter touch, she traced out the contours of the inner petals, making the occasional short, directional stroke to anchor the smudginess.
“Is that really how you Folk do it?”
Startled, Florrie pushed too hard with her pencil, leaving the tip to shatter into a cloud of fresh smudges in the centre of the page.
Leaning over her shoulder was Ceru, dressed in a silver-leaf smock with a matching cravat.