Chapter 20
Florrie’s second awakening in The Resolute Portrait was a marked improvement upon the first. To start, she recognised her surroundings instantly, relishing in the familiarity of the hand-stitched quilt, the wobbly bedframe and the stippling of perpetual moonlight upon the windowsill.
As she stirred and stretched, memories of the previous evening (the moss-softness of his lithe fingers, the awestruck fluttering of his eyelashes when he finally, finally let Florrie repay him in kind for his generous treatment of her, and other such trivialities) reasserted themselves.
Perhaps it was fortunate that Vern was no longer in bed beside her, as she found herself feeling rather shy.
Vern was, in fact, at his loom, but the astonishing overabundance of fabric upon the floor nearly obscured him from view.
Swatches and swathes of every colour surrounded him, with pieces no bigger than pocket-handkerchiefs scattered alongside strips that could pass for floor-runners.
Dispersed among this bounty was evidence of its production: strands of thread, scraps of mitred trim and a surfeit of tangled gold yarn.
“Florrie! Did I wake you?” With a clank and a rattle, Vern tugged the shuttle one final time and bowed from his chair.
“You didn’t,” she said, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed – and swinging them back before the memory of what took place in such a position last night made her blush. “What woke you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep.” Vern rose, delicately circumnavigating the labyrinth of fabric. “I lay with you for a while – which was awfully divine – but I felt too wonderfully restless. I decided to do some weaving – and, well, I suppose I felt inclined to productivity.”
Florrie, on the other hand, suddenly felt inclined to hide her face under the quilt. Perhaps she could convince him that the textile required a conservator’s evaluation. “A single night with me made you that industrious?”
“Under the circumstances, I’m surprised I only wove this much!” Vern glanced across the cottage, surveying his handiwork. “Though it might be a little too much. Whatever will I do with all this cloth, Florrie?”
Florrie smiled; she couldn’t help it. There was no need to feel nervous. Despite everything, he was still simply Vern.
“Well, you could start by bringing some of the larger pieces over here, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I feel quite a chill alone in this bed.”
He carried over six textiles – all woven from thread that glistened like the nacreous shells responsible for producing purple pigments in the eighth century.
Vern stood before the bed and solemnly held out each weaving for Florrie’s judgement before he dared to place it atop of her.
Only one of the six proved too scratchy for her tastes and ended up folded neatly on the nearest chair.
With his stack of cloth exhausted, Vern extended his hand.
“Do you intend to help me out of bed?” Florrie asked. “After you’ve only just made me so comfortable?”
He grinned. “I wanted to present myself for an evaluation.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Am I pleasant enough to touch? May I join you, or will you leave me on the chair, too?”
In answer, she rolled over and Vern lay beside her – in precisely the same place he’d been when they fell asleep.
Like Florrie’s ill-formed protective lie, any physical uncertainty between them was long dispelled.
Vern’s arms were about her in an instant, and she closed her eyes blissfully as they settled into a most comfortable embrace.
“I’m still astonished you’re here,” Vern said, after a few moments. Florrie could feel the words vibrating through him as he spoke. She shifted to her side, trying to regain the presence of mind required for conversation.
“It saddens me to think of all the days and nights you spent alone.”
“Just nights, really!” Vern replied. “Still, I’m fond of my house, the plants, the ruins and the stars. I feel… connected to them, in a peculiar way. The painting does a wonderful job of keeping me company.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Florrie, sitting up as a thought struck her.
“When we were at Lord Mauve’s, Ceru suggested the painting possessed something of a consciousness.
Now that he knows I’m thoroughly without magic, Ceru believes I was only able to damage the canvas because it allowed me to. Do you think that’s true?”
“I hope not! That would be frightfully embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” Florrie repeated. “Why?”
He sighed. “Because if the painting let you alter it, it must have wanted us to meet. That suggests the painting knew how much I liked you, even before we’d spoken.”
“I’m lying here, in your very own bed, and you are embarrassed to admit you liked me from the beginning?”
“But the painting knew before I did! How could it guess my unconscious thoughts when I hadn’t acknowledged them myself?
” He stroked her cheek. “I told myself that I only wanted to befriend you. To learn something about the history of my own painting. Then you came in here and dispelled that protective lie of yours, and I was a lost cause.”
“You weren’t the only one.” Florrie took a deep breath. “The day after I met you, I strongly implied to my cousin that I was courting a mysterious man of your description.”
“The day after we met? Why, we’d only had one conversation, Florrie!”
“I didn’t believe we were courting,” she protested. “I needed to distract Chary and I couldn’t invent a lover on the spot; I’m quite awful at lying, Vern.”
“And I’m glad you are,” said Vern. “That helps me know, for example, that you’re not pretending to be pleased to see me.
Last night, I couldn’t stop worrying about how you might feel this morning.
If you were swept away in the moment and then realised you didn’t truly care for me, or something like that – as happens in the more tragic ballads – I’d understand. ”
Florrie assessed his face – the fold in his forehead, the slight crease to his cheeks and the trembling of his lower lip. She curled against his shoulder.
“I promise I’ve no intention of pretending nothing happened,” said Florrie. “I fear that would reduce the odds of it happening again.”
She could feel him grinning against her hair.
“Oh, Florrie,” he whispered. “Won’t you please reassure me again that you’re not merely a dream?”
“Have you dreamed of me before?” All of a sudden, Florrie recalled how he reacted when she woke him on the grass.
“Only once,” Vern said firmly. “Afterwards, I told myself it wasn’t right to think of you in such a way without your permission. So I stopped dreaming for a while.”
“Stopped dreaming?” She raised her head to examine his expression, looking for any suggestion of humour. “Can you do that?”
“Couldn’t be easier. Perhaps it’s a Fairy trait?”
“Perhaps. But what was so scandalous that you had no choice but to cease dreaming?”
“If you must know…” Vern’s voice faded into a nervous giggle. “I dreamed Lord Mauve and I swapped places. You know, I was out there and he was in here. Then I took you to stroll about a vast garden with me, and that baffling sun was awfully warm, and you were awfully happy.”
Florrie pressed a kiss against his shoulder. If Ceru was correct – if the professors could not help them, and no one else could, either – Vern might never experience the warmth of the sun. Nor walk about anywhere, unless she carried the painting.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is the weave on this shirt too rough for you? I always thought it wasn’t my best work.”
Florrie shook her head. “Thank you for recounting your dream,” she said. “It was lovely. And significantly less scandalous than I expected.”
“That’s my fault. I forgot to mention the part when you let me lean you against a convenient column and kiss you for ages.” He coughed. “It was a complete fantasy. I assume most gardens lack convenient columns like mine.”
“Ah,” said Florrie, suddenly feeling exceptionally awake. “And you resisted the urge to experience such a dream again?”
“I do possess the slightest bit of willpower. Sometimes, at least.”
They held each other’s gaze for such a long time – a duration the Conservatory would no doubt identify as scrupulous observation – that Florrie felt light-headed.
“But I shouldn’t get carried away.” Vern applied a terribly chaste kiss to her temple. “We should discuss the issue at hand, shouldn’t we?”
Reluctantly, Florrie let him help her out of bed, then pulled on her gloves as she surveyed the cottage. Her ballgown and its various accessories had been hung with care on the decorative grille above the mantelpiece.
“Perhaps there isn’t much to discuss,” she said as she rustled into her petticoat. “I will find a way to help you, Vern, and to ensure no painting comes between us. I promise.”
“That’s very lovely.” Vern took Florrie’s hand for balance as she pulled the gown over her head. “And suspicious. I know Ceru told you something disappointing yesterday, and I don’t want you to bear it alone for my sake.”
“Let me simply say that the artist did not provide satisfactory information about your ability to leave this place.”
“So it’s true. I’ll be here for ever.” Vern’s voice sounded so small and far away that she might have been speaking with him from outside the painting.
“Not necessarily,” Florrie insisted. “That is… well, it remains to be seen. I’ve a meeting with Ceru this morning, and I will investigate more thoroughly at that time.”
Despite her reassurances, Vern looked like he was about to collapse. She held out her arms, fully prepared to lift him back onto the bed if necessary.
“Are you proud of me?” he said quietly. “I believe I’m doing a fine job of expressing my sorrow. Because of what you said last night, I already assumed the worst – and yet this still feels like a most awful surprise.”
“It’s surprising, but not awful! I merely require time to determine a plan of action.”