Chapter 19
Florrie spent ages wandering about the grand gallery like a ghost, hoping to inform Prince Ardant of her plan to retire for the evening.
At last, she spied Ardant and Mauve dancing near the entrance to the sculpture court, hidden behind a thirteenth-century commemorative armoire.
Their hands rested comfortably upon each other’s shoulders – not with the frantic passion of reunited lovers, but rather a curious, friendly hopefulness.
It was a heartwarming sight and, under the circumstances, only made Florrie feel more forlorn.
Instead of interrupting them, she stumbled to her studio without noting any textures she touched on the way.
How unfair it was that she must disappoint Vern while Ceru danced off to enjoy his evening!
As she walked, Florrie reconsidered the peculiar nature of her conversation with the artist. Even she could tell his tone had been most unusual.
During Florrie and Ceru’s first encounter, the artist carried so much guilt about his inadvertent creation that the very sight of Vern sent Ceru into a panic.
Florrie found it surprising that the same Fairy could proclaim there was no hope without a hint of regret.
None of that muttered now, of course. She entered the painting, intent upon her task of finding Vern – and nearly tripped over him.
She took a few deep breaths and let her eyes seek solace in the landscape before looking at the figure before her.
He lay atop a pile of quilts on the grass, asleep, with a slight smile on his face.
The wind teased his hair about in a most pleasing manner and his freckled cheek was sweetly pressed against his shoulder, but Florrie convinced herself to turn away.
She could not bear to wake him, and it seemed impolite to stare.
She had just resolved to abandon the painting entirely when Vern stirred.
He opened an eye and sighed. “I thought last time was the last time,” he murmured, shutting his eye once more.
Florrie drew back.
“Are you… awake, Vern?”
Employing the same acrobatic skill he demonstrated in the treetops, Vern pressed himself upwards and settled into a cross-legged position.
“Florrie!” he exclaimed as he smoothed his tousled hair. “I thought I was dreaming. I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Look, I wove an entire blanket after you left!”
He gestured at the cloth beneath him, which was striped with waves of plum and crimson. “You’ll like the feel of this fabric, I promise.”
Vern’s face was so keen and hopeful, and the blanket did indeed look soft. Florrie suddenly realised how late it was, and how tired she felt. She resolved to join him for a moment and gather her courage.
The blanket was only just wide enough. Vern’s arm brushed against hers as he folded the lower half of the fabric over her legs.
Now that she was seated, Florrie found she could barely hold herself upright.
Such was the natural consequence, no doubt, of spending the evening in an endless state of tension.
“You must be exhausted.” Vern smoothed the remainder of the blanket behind them, brushing a few stray petals back into the grass. “Why don’t you lie down?”
“I’d like to. I’m afraid, however, that any attempt at doing so would result in me collapsing backwards in a most unbecoming fashion. And I wouldn’t want to tear my dress.”
“May I help?”
When Florrie dared to nod, Vern placed his hands on her shoulders and carefully lowered her onto the blanket. For one brief, breathtaking moment, he was above her – his hair brushing against her forehead, his arms holding her gently against the ground—
Then Vern pulled away and settled nearby, resting his head on his hands.
“Won’t you tell me about the ball?” he asked, his voice altogether ordinary. “If only the painting had been on view – I could have witnessed your grand entrance!”
“It wasn’t especially grand.” Florrie tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat proved persistent. “Why were you sleeping outside?”
“I only wanted to hear the music.” Vern flipped onto his front, kicking his legs out behind him. “It’s loudest at the edge of the painting. I must have dozed off. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve spent the night here.”
Florrie shuddered. “Don’t you worry about insects?”
“Insects? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.”
“There aren’t any crawling little creatures in the painting whatsoever?”
“You know I’m all alone in here, Florrie.”
“Not any more,” she whispered.
She expected Vern to smile, or draw nearer than the blanket’s limited space necessitated. Instead, to her surprise, he leaned away, pressing his face against his sleeve.
“Have I said something wrong?” Florrie asked.
“No, no! Quite the opposite!” His shoulders tensed, then relaxed. “I simply— I can’t believe you’re here, Florrie. I can’t believe that I met you, or that you can visit the painting, or that you and I—”
Florrie was, for the most part, not the sort of Folk inclined toward spontaneous embraces. Had anyone else teared up, she would have sat awkwardly aside while determining the most appropriate way of addressing the situation.
Instead, she reached for him. The now-familiar texture of his embroidered shirt (the motif on the sleeve was, indeed, a cirriform cloud) immediately conjured memories of the early evening, and Florrie felt relieved that the dark surroundings would render her blushes invisible.
Vern turned to face her again, his hand settling comfortably against the nape of her neck – another familiarly thrilling sensation.
“I didn’t expect to see you again tonight,” he whispered. “After you left, I found myself wishing I’d asked you to come back. I assumed we ought to discuss what occurred earlier, or else…”
“Or else?” Florrie prompted.
She felt his hand slide lower, down her neck and onto the lacy back of the bodice.
“Or else simply continue it,” was Vern’s reply, as far as Florrie could tell. He’d murmured it so very close to her cheek, however, that it was challenging to focus upon the exact phrasing.
Vern tightened his grip on her back and pressed, pulling her closer until she was entirely in his arms.
“Oh, I am glad I managed that in the end!” he cried. “I don’t think of myself as being exceptionally strong. Aren’t you impressed?”
“I certainly am, but—” Florrie sighed. “There is a matter we must discuss.”
As Vern pulled his hands away, Florrie sat demurely beside him.
“Whatever it is, Florrie, you can tell me. I promise—”
“The artist found me at the ball and demanded to see my studies.” She glared at the blades of grass adjacent to the blanket. The thousands of brushstrokes that formed the greenery only reinforced the inescapable artifice of Vern’s world.
“Ahead of schedule? Oh, Florrie…”
“Yes.” Florrie twisted a strand of hair around her finger until she could twist no further. “Fortunately, I’d just begun the third study right there, at the ball, and—.”
“And? What did Ceru say?”
Florrie blushed. “He said my shading was tidy and skilful. I was surprised beyond measure.”
“I’m not!”
Then Vern actually applauded. The action made no sense, in Florrie’s opinion, since only theatrical arts were acknowledged in such a way – but the sweet nonsense of it all made her smile, briefly, before she returned to the task at hand.
“But that was not the extent of our conversation,” she continued.
“Ah. I imagine you discussed something other than the quality of your artwork.” Vern started twisting the blanket’s hem. He must have left the hand-spindle indoors. Did he already know what was coming? Would that make it any easier?
“He shared some rather unsettling information,” Florrie began.
To delay the inevitable, she decided to pause for a rather unreasonable amount of time. Consequently, it was not an interruption – nor Vern’s fault – when he cut in, moments later.
“You’re under no obligation to marry me!” he proclaimed, backing to the edge of the blanket.
At this point, Florrie supposed she might as well accept that her face would be permanently flushed. “Where… why… in what way is the question of marriage relevant to this discussion?”
“Didn’t the artist speak with you about the lace and what it signifies?” Vern examined the hem more thoroughly. “Oh, I didn’t hide that join well – I’ll have to fix… What I mean is that I only heard about the custom from a ballad, so I imagine Ceru knows more about it than I do.”
Too startled to speak, Florrie studied the painted lace around the collar of her dress. Ceru had indeed commented on the “shawl”, but Florrie had dismissed the fleeting observation entirely. Whose heart did you steal to win that treasure?
It was also reassuring to learn that her new colleague Lady Aestival had not, perhaps, insulted Florrie’s choice of dress.
“I should have explained earlier,” Vern continued. “I didn’t consider what might happen if another Fairy saw it.”
“I’d much rather hear your explanation than Ceru’s,” she said, which was unquestionably true. The painted shawl seemed to hum against her skin through the gown.
“Traditionally speaking, it’s a betrothal shawl.” Vern took a deep breath after struggling through such a tongue-twisting phrase. “In ballads, Fairies make them to express a formal interest. But I only wanted to weave you something. It can mean whatever you’d like.”
“What I’d like,” Florrie whispered, “is to know precisely what you wanted it to mean.”
“Oh, just that— Ha! I hardly know what I’m saying.
Well… In case you haven’t noticed, Florrie,” Vern said, his voice higher and faster than she’d ever heard it, “I’ve fallen in love with you.
I think you’re astonishing. You’re so keen and clever, and you notice every little detail, and when you’re here you make this place – this place I know better than anything – feel entirely new. ”