Chapter 21
In her own art, Florrie primarily concerned herself with blending the right colours on her palette and layering them in novel ways.
A brush capable of producing any shade at a moment’s notice rendered that approach useless.
Instead of blending or layering, she needed to envision the precise shade she desired, then commune with the brush to apply that pigment with the desired texture.
According to Ceru, nonverbal communication was key.
The tiniest incline in her shoulder or angling of her pointer finger could signify the difference between a thick smear of paint and a light wash.
Florrie had managed to make an ocean of blue-and-purple strokes by the time she parted ways with Ceru to join Prince Ardant in the grand gallery. Evidently, the prince had decided not to de-install The Resolute Portrait after all.
“Shall we keep it on view until Lord Mauve leaves?” he asked. “Surely that’s only polite.”
Florrie simply agreed – because that was only polite – rather than sharing her prediction that Mauve and Ardant’s apparent reunion would keep The Resolute Portrait on permanent display for the foreseeable future.
As she assisted the prince with other operations (namely, determining where to place all the artworks The Resolute Portrait had displaced), Florrie wondered what would become of Vern’s painting.
Even under these unusual circumstances, Prince Ardant would be mocked in the curatorial circulars for decades if he committed the faux pas of displaying a forgery alongside its original.
Fortunately, Florrie soon had the opportunity to ask Vern for his thoughts on the matter.
“Oh, I don’t mind where I end up,” was Vern’s predictable answer later that evening. Florrie and Vern sat before a cauldron of stew from the palace’s kitchen, which she had somehow managed to transport into the painting without spilling.
“Do you mean that, or are you being polite?” Florrie persisted. “Won’t you get lonely if the painting isn’t on view?”
“In the end, I think a quieter life suits me best,” said Vern.
“While it was always diverting – and occasionally enlightening – to observe the funny things Folk do and say in the galleries, it was also exhausting. It’s not as though I could stop hearing the sounds outside the painting.
A peaceful day by myself followed by an evening with you is far more enjoyable.
Even if those days are still a little lonely. ”
Florrie only nodded. She was tempted to recount Ceru’s suggestion for how Florrie might lessen Vern’s loneliness. Since he did not ask about her discussion with Ceru, however, she was determined to respect his request and keep quiet until she knew more details.
Her determination was tested when he shyly asked, “Whatever should we do now?”
“Discuss your opinions on a potentially life-altering change of scenery” was what she wanted to suggest – or, alternatively, something more salacious. But she reminded herself that Vern was still adjusting to her presence, just as she was navigating this change to her routine.
“How would you spend the evening if I weren’t here?” she asked.
“Besides feeling somewhat sorry for myself?” He gestured at the colourfully cluttered corner behind him. “I’d make something, like I always do. At present, I intend to weave the largest blanket I’ve ever created, and I need to spin a great deal of yarn.”
“I would be delighted to see you at work,” said Florrie.
Vern dropped his spoon, which clanged finely upon the metallic table.
“Would you?” he asked, glancing at the abandoned spoon with a sweetly flustered smile. “Are you sure that wouldn’t be dull?”
“Quite the opposite, really.”
Vern could not understand, Florrie knew, how lovely he looked as he settled at the wheel.
Because she’d only ever seen spinners in paintings – their hands suspended dramatically (and unrealistically) over the bobbin, their wheels stilled on the canvas – the exquisite motion of Vern’s craft took her by surprise.
The simple press of his boot upon the treadle required him to sway forward, nimbly and neatly, before relaxing back on the chair with a dear little sigh.
At the same time, his dexterous hands plied jewel-bright fibres from a hook on the ceiling and twisted them together for the wheel to perfect.
As he surveyed his progress, Vern would bite his lip, or nod to himself, or grow too fixated to blink for an extended period, demonstrating the intense focus that she had recently witnessed in an altogether different context.
At the very least, Florrie was at no risk of boredom.
Like the hand-spindle, Vern’s spinning wheel bore only a vague resemblance to those she had encountered in private collections. Instead of a vast drive-wheel, the machine featured several interconnected half-circles that rattled and gyrated in hypnotic patterns with his every step.
“Whatever is the function of those extraneous wheels?” Florrie enquired.
“I couldn’t say. I’ve only just learned they’re extraneous.” He didn’t look up, but his voice was warm. “Watch carefully. You’ll like this part.”
Again, Vern drew the fibres closer, rolling them into a rough line of thread before the wheels finished the job for him. “I must check the fibres with my fingers to make sure there aren’t any matted bits. There are ever so many interesting textures.”
“However did you learn all this?” She could not believe how quickly and efficiently he worked. “Surely the ballads were of no use, for once.”
“Well, the wheel and the loom were here when I came to life. I spent ages playing about with them until I understood the process.”
“That must have taken a great deal of time.”
“Anything to keep me busy,” he said lightly, but Florrie remained impressed.
Vern must have spent ages experimenting with the spinning wheel.
In addition, he surely taught himself to harvest fibres from plants in the garden, discovered how to create dye pigments and gained his skill with the loom afterwards.
“Vern, I believe you are the cleverest individual I have ever met,” she proclaimed.
His foot paused on the treadle, causing the device to creak in protest as the first semi-circular “wheel” slowed. Though Vern subsequently glanced down to ensure the yarn hadn’t tangled, Florrie was delighted to see he was all smiles.
The sound of the wheels clicking together, along with Vern’s inevitable humming, sent her into a perplexing state of contentment.
Whenever her thoughts wandered to the problem of the painting and Vern’s entrapment therein, Florrie let these sounds bring her back to herself.
She could not think of any other place – even her childhood home – where she felt as peaceful as she did in this cottage within a painting, with the man she loved.
The significance of this thought caught on the extraneous wheels of her mind.
It wasn’t simply that she tolerated or accepted the prospect of furthering a courtship with someone who could not leave a painting.
On the contrary, Florrie found the regularity and consistency of life in Vern’s world to be something worth celebrating.
“Are you all right, Florrie? I knew this would be dull to watch!”
Florrie blinked. She hadn’t expected Vern to speak, but his statement didn’t startle her. Even his exclamations were gentle.
“It isn’t dull in the least,” she assured him. “I’m very much enjoying myself. Whyever do you require such an oversized blanket, by the way?”
As if in response, a great gleam of moonlight flashed through the window.
“We need one large enough to cover us both when we’re in bed,” Vern said dreamily.
Florrie allowed that perhaps now was the appropriate time to say something salacious.
The next morning, Florrie left the painting in far better spirits.
The challenges of the tasks at hand seemed less imposing with Vern – and the painting – awaiting her return in the evening.
The progress she made with the brush after but a few more days with Ceru further increased Florrie’s optimism.
Once she graduated from strokes to more complex forms, Florrie realised that the brush’s defining feature was a most contrary nature.
Though she needed to envision the precise colours she wished to paint in order for the brush to function, creating a particular shape required her to block that shape from her mind entirely.
It was a most puzzling sort of magic, but Florrie’s desire to help Vern made her unusually determined.
After concluding her final lesson of the day with Ceru, Florrie responded to a gallery emergency (a heavy stone-pigment painting moments away from tearing its subpar bracket off the wall) before deciding to spend her lunchtime pursuing another possible solution for Vern.
There was, to her knowledge, only one other person in Stillscape with any knowledge of changeling paintings, and it was high time Florrie paid them a second visit.
Florrie had patronised many bookshops in the literary-arts quarter, but A Tender, Tattered Page was new to her.
The deceptively storm-bedraggled sign swinging from the awning at the entrance had been hand-weathered to give an illusion of age.
The doorframe, too, was glazed in a seemingly rain-worn pink that was, upon closer inspection, none other than the recent “Hue of the Year” by Stillscape’s premier paint-crafting guild.
Still, the shop’s belaboured attempt at false historicity was clearly no issue for the countless customers crowding the shelves when Florrie entered.
“Welcome, and happy reading!” called a familiar – and unexpectedly cheerful – voice from the counter.
Standing behind it was Prince Ardant’s former conservator Mim Glossmith, dressed in a mauve morning gown to complement the doorframe and smiling as they stacked a precarious tower of art-heist novels.
They recognised Florrie, frowned, and set the tower trembling.