Chapter 18 #3
“What a handsome shawl, my dear Florrie!” the artist exclaimed. His tone was more buoyant than Florrie remembered. “Whose heart did you steal to win that treasure?”
“It’s merely a painting of a shawl,” Florrie clarified, though she couldn’t wait to relay the compliment to Vern.
“But of course.” Ceru sat beside her with a resounding thud. “I am simply dying to see your work. May I examine it now?”
Florrie drew her knees to her chest, keeping her sketchbook out of view.
“Now?” she repeated. “Did we not agree I would present my portfolio one week after our initial meeting? It’s only been—”
“But I simply cannot wait.” Ceru said simply in the same pleading, passionate tone he had employed in his previous exclamation. “This Folk artistry – the riches of your world – it’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”
He sighed, shaking his head dreamily.
“Such a buffet of originality,” he concluded. “Thus, I’d like to inspect your progress now before my mind becomes oversaturated. I might be addled by the after-effects of these marvels for the next few days.”
“Now? Truly?”
Ceru extended his hand until Florrie’s trembling fingers relinquished the sketchbook. The artist flipped back a few pages to reach her first study.
“Oh, does this depict the underside of that ghastly fountain in Mauve’s guest quarters?” Ceru murmured. “Excellent choice. The composition is overexaggerated, but you’ve given the poor vine a rather sublime sense of dignity.”
“It was my intent—” Florrie began.
“Please, no,” replied Ceru with a casual wave Lord Mauve would have envied. “I ought to judge the art based on its merits, not yours.”
At the side of the pew stood a decorative urn filled with silk ferns, and Florrie ran her newly empty hands along the fronds to feel the stitched spores.
“And here’s something novel,” Ceru continued, having moved to the Wise One’s Tower. “What a charming little plant. A Folk specimen, I presume? The lack of a background enhances its peculiarity. The colours are a bit messy, but perhaps that was your intent.”
“The third study isn’t complete,” Florrie warned as Ceru quickly turned the page to scrutinise the outline of the ghost-violet. “I only began it moments ago!”
“Oh, I can tell.” Suddenly, Ceru slammed the portfolio shut. “Fortunately, that doesn’t especially matter.”
Florrie nearly tore off the top of the frond.
“Have I failed to meet your expectations?” she whispered. “But that’s not fair. You’ve only looked at two studies, plus a scribble—”
“Don’t fret!” Ceru placed a hand on Florrie’s shoulder and – quite fortunately – removed it once he noticed Florrie flinch. “In fact, it’s the third study I found most striking. It was apparent from a mere ‘scribble’ that your shading is tidy and skilful.”
He paused with a sigh. “I did, however, observe that there wasn’t the slightest bit of magic, unconscious or otherwise, in your art-making.
My professorial colleagues would be thoroughly unimpressed.
The fact that you managed to alter my forgery must have been a mere fluke in the painting’s own magic, after all.
Perhaps it felt inclined to behave erratically due to some external force.
You never know what might set off enchanted paintings – if the tides are high, or the lunate-lilies especially fecund, or… ”
“But where does that leave Vern?” Florrie asked.
Ceru shook his head. “Out of curiosity,” he said, “and guilt, I suppose, I conducted some research on my own. I can find no records whatsoever – not even a single footnote – that refer to someone leaving a changeling painting. Even if the dear professors felt charitable, I fear asking them to consult their archives on the matter will only prolong your suffering, my dear. Better to know it’s a no now, rather than later, I imagine? ”
He smiled as he returned the sketchbook.
“I am terribly sorry. Might I cheer you up with a draught, or something to eat? However do they make the floral etchings on those little blocks of ice without magic? Oh, never mind. I don’t know why I suggested a draught.
I expect both of us would rather indulge ourselves by staring at a particularly fine painting. What do you recommend?”
For the first time in her life, Florrie could not think of a single work of art.
“Well, I won’t push,” Ceru said. “I know it’s little consolation, but there’s still the matter of your honorary apprenticeship.
I promised you my paintbrush, after all, and I was impressed by your skills – mundane and Folk-ish as they may be.
Shall I present it to you tomorrow? Let’s meet, say, a little after dawn.
Give me some time to recover. I expect it shall be a night to remember. ”
Ceru dashed to a nearby seascape and began praising its qualities to anybody who would listen. Florrie, meanwhile, leaned back onto the pew, her mind racing.
The genuine Resolute Portrait loomed before her, and Lord Mauve’s expression looked indignantly dignified as he presided over the ballroom. Florrie knew that angry, haughty face wasn’t Vern’s, but she felt the condemnation of the chastising sneer all the same.