Chapter 19 #2
Florrie made several automatic observations about this speech. His tone was unusually formal. His frantic blanket-twisting had grown more dramatic. And, most surprisingly, he was still inching away from her, which she imagined was a rather curious way of behaving after confessing one’s love.
“You probably wonder if I know what it means,” Vern continued.
“To love someone, that is. After spending the first conscious period of my life hearing nothing but courtly ballads, I believed I understood it well enough. Then I met you, and I merely thought – that I liked you, that I enjoyed your company, that you were handsome and kind and wonderfully unusual, but I wasn’t feeling an unexpected urge to sing to you like a balladeer, so it couldn’t possibly be… ”
“I very much regret that you did not attempt to sing to me.”
“Not as much as you would have regretted it if I had.”
Florrie reached her hand across the blanket. When he took it, Vern ran his thumb up the seam of her glove – in a perfect replication, she realised, of the very first time they touched.
“But I could not feel surer now,” Vern said. “Of how much I care about you. How I yearn for you when you’re elsewhere. How wonderfully peculiar I feel whenever you’re obliging enough to touch me. Provided it’s acceptable to you, Florrie, I suppose I’m completely and utterly yours.”
It was far better than acceptable. Still, Florrie could only nod. Chary had never trained her for a scenario such as this. Was she supposed to thank him? Or was it her turn to applaud?
“I’m also yours – that is to say… Oh, I haven’t got a speech for you!” she exclaimed after a few hapless moments.
“You mean you haven’t planned a soliloquy for this precise scenario?”
Then Vern was laughing, and she was laughing, and he lifted her until they both stood at the edge of the clearing.
Starlight flashed through the clouds, more vibrantly than ever, and a few timorous flowers lifted their faces to the moon.
Florrie could not help but wonder if even the most celebrated portraitist could capture her present joy.
“I don’t expect anything from you, Florrie,” Vern said. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d be grateful if you didn’t leave tonight. I find I have no desire to let you go.”
Florrie felt her heart thud against her chest. She always rather wished it wouldn’t do that, as the sensory experience was most unpleasant.
“I have no desire to be anyplace else,” she whispered.
“Oh, excellent! Wonderful! What shall we do, then? Shall we go climbing again? Or perhaps I can explain to you in detail how a loom—”
“Vern!” Florrie exclaimed, trying her best to discern whether he was joking or not.
Then he kissed her, which made the matter quite moot.
Somehow – Florrie neglected to note the precise mechanics involved – they wound up falling to the blanket together.
Vern was on top of her, properly, and he felt so warm and present and real.
There was a delicious eagerness in his helpless half-gasps and the reverent trembling of his hands.
Given her natural sensibilities, Florrie often suspected she came across as a rather solemn lover, so it was a relief that Vern demonstrated enough outwardly expressed enthusiasm for the both of them.
He was, after all, endlessly energetic, as well as stronger than he gave himself credit for.
Florrie pressed her hips up against him; he pushed her shoulders against the blanket while his hands toyed with the clasps and buttons on her dress.
When the gown’s infamous button came unfastened again – as was only fair, under the circumstances – Vern gave her a mischievous grin before cautiously kissing the side of her neck.
As she tilted back to improve his access, Florrie inadvertently shifted off the edge of the blanket.
A few blades of grass scraped against her bared neck, and she suddenly felt deeply discomposed.
She knew she ought to ignore it – for the sake of passion!
– but that proved no small feat. When she felt the prickle of the grass again, she flinched, hoping Vern wouldn’t notice.
Being Vern, of course, he instantly loosened his grip on her shoulders and leaned away, his chest heaving.
“Something’s wrong,” he whispered. “Oh, look where you’ve ended up. It’s the grass bothering you, isn’t it?”
Florrie wasn’t quite sure whether the warm feeling overcoming her was due to his immediate grasp of the situation or the events of the prior moments – or both.
“At present, it’s but an annoyance,” she admitted, “but I imagine it will be quite unbearable if I remove all my clothes. Would you mind if we retreated indoors?”
Vern stared at her, blinking idly.
“Vern? Is something wrong for you, now?”
“What?” He shook his head. “Sorry, I couldn’t focus after you said… That is, yes, let’s go.”
As Vern practically dashed towards the cottage. Florrie followed more slowly, trying to organise her thoughts.
“I hate to ask,” she said tentatively as they approached the threshold, “but have you any, well, questions about what might possibly occur next?”
“So many! I’m operating on instincts alone. As it turns out, even I have those. Isn’t that wonderful?” He opened the door, ushering her in with a comic formality. “It’s not just instincts, I suppose. I drew some inspiration from what you said earlier about wanting me to—”
“They’re good instincts,” Florrie said hurriedly. “But we can always pause if you’re curious or anxious about anything.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you need to worry too much. I’m vaguely knowledgeable about the essentials, I suppose.”
“Dare I ask how?”
He gave her an embarrassed shrug.
“Don’t tell me.” Florrie sighed in disbelief. “There is no way—”
“Almost all courtly ballads are about love, Florrie! What did you expect?”
“Not that!” she protested.
“Have you ever listened to a Fairy ballad in its entirety? Many are very descriptive – uh, startlingly so,” Vern said, glancing away.
“Still, everything is described in archaic, poetic language, and peculiarities abound. For example, most ballad characters want nothing more than to lay with their lovers on the evening of a solar eclipse. What in the world is a solar eclipse? Between you and me, I’m not even entirely sure what the sun is. ”
“Thankfully, that’s not crucial knowledge.”
“Just promise you won’t laugh. If we go past the limits of my understanding, I will likely require your assistance. If you don’t mind.”
She traced orthogonal lines across his freckles, and felt him sigh against her thumb.
“Nothing would suit me better.”
Florrie leaned against the bed as Vern shut the door and lit the lamps.
As he struggled with the flint – it took him about seven tries to strike it correctly, under the circumstances – she could not help but marvel at him.
Now Florrie knew how unbelievably soft his hair was, and how she could feel his dimples against her cheeks when they kissed, as though he couldn’t hold back his smiles even then…
With the final lamp ablaze, Vern dropped the flint onto the table, knocked over a basket of yarn, and ignored both messes in favour of running back to her side.
“Well, here we are,” he said, lifting her neatly onto the bed and placing her atop the quilt before Florrie even had time to gasp.
“Why do you persist in denying your own strength?” she asked as Vern leaned over her once more. She shivered at the sensation of her tulle sleeve sliding down her arm as he kissed an invisible pattern across her shoulder.
“Because I haven’t any,” he protested. “Hoisting you up required a great deal of effort. Now I’m exhausted, and I’m afraid I must lie down for a long while.”
“You are uncommonly ridiculous,” Florrie breathed.
“And you,” replied Vern, “are still wearing your gloves. Would you let me remove them? Trust me, if you tear that sort of lace, there’s no way of repairing it.”
“Oh, if you like,” she said, though the thought made her heart race in a less delightful manner.
Florrie didn’t trust herself without gloves.
Removing them would make her feel more naked than if he’d asked to take off her dress.
But she didn’t want to deprive Vern of her touch, and she did wonder what the true textures of his skin would feel like.
“I can sort them out,” Florrie continued. “The clasps are a little complex and fiddly.”
“Florrie, I excel at all things complex and fiddly. Please, won’t you let me?”
Florrie shouldn’t have doubted a weaver’s ability to manage the most delicate fabrics. Vern unhooked the opalescent clasps on her right glove with grace, and slid his hand onto hers once the glove was safely tucked away on his bedside table.
“Your hands are handsome, though I am sorry they cause you such trouble.” In a matter of moments, he removed her second glove and began stroking her left palm like it was the plush petal of an agate aster. “May I show you how gently you deserve to be touched?”
Florrie didn’t agree that she deserved it. The softness of his fingertips trailing down her palm, over her wrist, up the underside of her arm to the bodice of her dress, and onward – it was a masterpiece of sensations that seemed far too fine for her. Or for anyone, really.
“Remember,” Florrie murmured, “if it’s too much, or you need to stop—”
“Stop?” Vern’s roving hand paused over the curve of her waist. “How could I? I want you in ways I can’t even begin to describe. What are you doing to me, Florrie?”
“Is your question practical or rhetorical? Because I’ve hardly done anything yet. Wouldn’t you like me to touch you, too?”
“Aren’t you touching me already?”
The hushed gasp Vern released when she reached out to clarify her intended meaning rendered Florrie breathless.