Chapter 20 #3
“You, dear? No, certainly not. I beg your pardon; I’ve distracted myself.
At any rate, Assistant Vespertine connected me with Professor Petiole, who I’ve always found to be the most reasonable member of the Institute.
I had nothing to bargain with, I told her, but I wanted to know – hypothetically – what might be possible. ”
Ceru leaned forward in his chair and extended his hand at a sharp angle, modelling a new brush gesture for Florrie to mimic.
“Professor Petiole proposed that a skilled artist could strip off the enchanted glaze, allowing the Fairy to escape, but it would be an escape into oblivion. The Fairy would cease to exist upon leaving the canvas.”
“How wretched!”
“It’s a curse, Florrie, and I the cause of it. I wish I had never copied that painting.”
“Wait just a moment,” Florrie said. “Don’t you dare wish Vern out of existence, Ceru.”
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it! If I could give him any gift, however, I would wish he had been born an ordinary Fairy who thought of paintings as nothing more than elegant decor.”
Florrie grimaced – even though the colour she was currently producing with the brush happened to be a most striking shade of teal.
“But then he wouldn’t be Vern,” she insisted.
“Not entirely, I imagine. I’ve never met anyone so hopeful and bright.
If he never leaves the painting, I know he’ll find joy in his life – in his weaving, in his garden, in… Well, I just know he will.”
“That may be true,” Ceru conceded. “But it’s most inconvenient for you, my dear, isn’t it?”
Florrie froze with her brush mid-stroke.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” she asked faintly.
“I might have been out of sorts last night, Florrie, but I observed what a vision you were in that gown. A gown upon which someone had crafted a rudimentary approximation of a Fairy betrothal shawl, which is something I cannot imagine you recreating without the assistance of your painted suitor.”
Ceru attempted to place a comforting hand on Florrie’s shoulder, which Florrie escaped by leaning closer to the canvas.
“If my suspicions are correct,” the artist continued, “I am glad of it. It eases my guilt to think someone could grow to love my creation.”
“I do not love your creation.” Florrie struck the canvas, creating shimmering blotches of vermillion and umber.
“You told me yourself that the Fairies of changeling paintings continue to age and grow and change, long after the artist completes their final brushstrokes. Vern is his own self, and it is that self I love – not ‘your’ painting.”
“Don’t cry, my dear!” exclaimed Ceru, and Florrie realised she was indeed crying – because of course she was. She was shaking, too, and she could barely see the canvas or the brush, while all she could think about was her pitiful inability to control her emotions…
“It’s quite affecting,” Ceru babbled on. “A painted Fairy and a Folk woman? How unexpected.” The artist smiled up at the mosaic ceiling, no doubt imagining a new courtly ballad composed about this very topic.
“I cannot provide what you desire most,” Ceru concluded as Florrie wiped away her unpleasantly cold tears. “Still, I could help in one small way.”
Florrie settled herself on the stool, pointing and flexing her feet.
“Please,” she murmured.
“He cannot live outside the painting,” Ceru said, “but if you gain command of that brush, you could change his world. The landscape, I mean.”
Florrie stared at the artist, her mind racing. Could she really change the painting, if Vern approved? What would the painting let her add for his sake? A lake emerging at the end of the river, vast and glassy, or a distant peak behind the trees, or—
“But how?” she asked. “Would that be safe? What if the brush touched Vern while I was working, for example?”
“You still do not understand how changeling paintings work, my dear,” said the artist. “The painting itself is merely the gateway between our world and his. That world can only change through artistic magic, and only if it wishes to. Why, the painting let you damage it once before. Surely it would grant you leave to expand Vern’s horizons as far as the canvas will allow? ”
“But there isn’t any empty space on the canvas.” Florrie bit her lip. “Are you suggesting that I paint over—”
Ceru laughed. “There are dozens of dull trees in the back of that composition, Florrie. I’m sure Vern could spare a few of them.”
“Then teach me what to do,” Florrie demanded. “If you please, that is.”
Ceru wiped his eyes and nodded. “It heartens me to see you so hopeful. Once you can paint some naturalistic forms, you may consider how you would improve The Resolute Portrait.”
“Have you a few hours to spare? I’ll learn everything now.” Florrie turned to the canvas with wild abandon.
“You’ll never get there if you rush,” Ceru cautioned.
“Until we depart, I will train you as well as I can. Perhaps helping you will make me feel less horrible about this whole affair. But what is most horrible, dear Florrie, is how you are clawing at that brush. If you want any chance of improving your beloved’s life, you must change how you position your wrist.”
Considering that Florrie felt convinced she would do practically anything for Vern, adjusting her brush-hold didn’t seem especially burdensome.