Chapter 21 #2
“I presume you’ve come in search of something frustratingly particular,” Mim grumbled.
By this point in her life, Florrie was well acquainted with people finding her frustratingly particular – and certainly didn’t mind the excuse to get straight to the point, either.
“Have you any books on the history of Fairy art? Oh, and how are you, Mim?” she added, for good measure.
“Very well, thank you. I’ve been selling books instead of fiddling with centuries-old lacquer, so I can’t complain.
” Now Mim’s smile returned, and they gestured across the counter like a prince in a proclamation portrait.
“Moments ago, I recommended an anthology of my favourite tales to a young lady, and she said I was the loveliest individual in the city. Can you imagine? No art collector would say something so touching. I would be quite concerned if they did.”
“Understandably so,” said Florrie, glancing around the shop. Everyone present appeared so thoroughly engrossed in the reading materials of their choice that they probably wouldn’t have noticed if Florrie had arrived with her arm around Vern’s painting.
Not that she ever fantasised about such things, of course.
“When last we met,” Florrie whispered, “you mentioned some sources you consulted about the swapped painting?”
Mim sighed. “I think the phrase I used was ‘disreputable sources’, Florrie, and I meant that. Over the centuries, a few scholars have tried and failed to convince the broader collecting community about this epidemic of Fairy forgeries. The few publications that exist are neither particularly descriptive nor useful. For example, no one writing on the subject ever specifies which paintings the Fairies have duplicated, because who would dare assert that some collector’s prized painting is a fake? ”
“Nevertheless, I’d still like to read whatever you have.”
“Well, I certainly can’t stop you.” Mim turned on their heel and beckoned Florrie toward the door behind them. It was clearly inspired by a tenth-century overelaborate portal, but the tracery lining the tympanum was slightly more eleventh-century, in Florrie’s opinion.
“Follow me,” said Mim. “The section for speculative art history is behind here.”
“Speculative art history?” Florrie repeated as she trailed Mim behind the counter.
“That’s the polite term. Most other bookshops refer to it as spurious.”
They passed from the warmth of the shop into a cavernous storage space lit only by a few scattered candles. Piles of books stretched upwards like stalagmites. The rows of stone shelves held artists’ treasure-books, all printed upon pearlescent paper and finished with tooled gemstone bindings.
Mim guided Florrie down a winding passage, occasionally stopping to straighten a spine on a shelf or realign a treasure-book in its stand.
As they walked, Florrie heard footsteps from the other side of the central shelves.
They were heavy, horrible footsteps – the sort one only made when wearing uncomfortable, steel-lined dress boots.
The footsteps quickened and, moments later, Orchel Patian rounded the corner and stood gasping in the passage.
“Oh… Florrie?” he said, rubbing his eyes in the candlelight. “What brings you here?”
Once again, Orchel was unusually well dressed. Today, he wore an elegant emerald coat with thread-painted tails, as well as the clamorous boots in question.
“Why, I’m looking for a book!” Florrie exclaimed. “Whatever brings you here? In your finery, too?”
To Florrie’s surprise, Orchel didn’t look at her, but behind her.
“May I tell her?” Orchel asked, his voice coaxing and gentle.
“That depends,” muttered Mim. “Is she the gossipmonger?”
“That’s Chary,” Orchel and Florrie said, and their accidental unison made Orchel chuckle. Florrie couldn’t remember the last time she saw Orchel smile so widely.
“I have taken up voluntary employment here,” Orchel explained to her.
“On your free days, yes,” said Florrie. “I remember. But why? Have you a sudden desire to become a bookseller?”
He cleared his throat. “I have a not-so-sudden desire to court a bookseller.”
“And this is the only way I could possibly consider his suit,” said Mim. “I haven’t the time to spare for traditional wooing, so we’ve continued our acquaintance during my working hours. It helps that Orchel excels at shelving.”
“It’s precisely like organising a spice rack!” Orchel exclaimed.
“Or like shelving the Museum of the Mediocre’s book collection,” said Florrie, “as a far more fitting example.”
“I apologise for the secrecy, Florrie.” Orchel’s shoulders drooped. “When you visited, I didn’t want someone overhearing—”
“You needn’t apologise.” Florrie thought she ought to say a little more, but she found herself completely at a loss.
The collision of these two different worlds was lovely, yet confusing.
Should she congratulate Mim and Orchel on their courtship?
Was she expected to explain to Mim the history of her family’s connection with Orchel, or explain to Orchel the circumstances under which she met Mim?
Were those examples of good conversation?
Florrie had forgotten she was also in the presence of someone else who did not care for unnecessary pleasantries.
“Florrie wants the speculative section,” Mim announced.
“I suppose you really are here for a book!” Orchel grinned. “You know, Flor, why don’t you join me for luncheon sometime? Away from prying ears, in a quiet place with comfortable chairs that serves a fine stew…”
Florrie couldn’t help but nod. It felt most unusual to meet Orchel somewhere, outside the museum, like they were friends. It wasn’t as though they weren’t friendly, of course. He had always just been there, at home, like her. Still, she also found the idea unexpectedly pleasant.
They bid farewell to Orchel and proceeded down another three passages. As they walked, Florrie noticed the nearest shelves were practically stuffed with books – with a few covers bent by the lack of space.
“New spurious scholarship is published every day,” Mim explained, “and we now have but three shelves to spare.”
Mim pointed to the final shelf, which strained beneath tomes with the stately embroidered covers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
“Try those,” they suggested, indicating the two books closest to the wall.
“The first is a few hundred years old – the seminal volume on Fairy replicas – and the second was written by an author who sought to take a critical perspective of the first. ‘Taking a critical perspective’, by the way, means ‘I may well believe this nonsense, but I would also like to preserve my respectability.’” Mim passed Florrie a candle and gave her a curtsey of farewell. “Enjoy, I suppose.”
Because there was no chair – and because the texture of the well-worn carpet looked terribly unappealing – Florrie leaned against the shelf as she began her investigation into Billow Predelle’s Whatever Shall We Do About Fairy Replicas?
A Reasoned Plea and its academic successor, Ephy Traceley’s Whatever Shall We Do About Fairy Replicas Now? A Critical Perspective.
Frustratingly, the former proved unhelpful.
There was no denying the beauty of its lovely cobalt-coloured cover, embroidered with a variety of Fairy flora, but it was written in the self-assuredly dense style of most thirteenth-century art-historical treatises.
After years of study, it seemed Billow Predelle only managed to glean what Florrie knew already: that Fairies had, in centuries past, painted replicas of paintings and left them in Folk museums. To be fair, Predelle did include a proposed catalogue of existing paintings that might have been replicated by Fairies – and yet, just as Mim had warned, he’d eschewed specific titles in favour of descriptions so vague they might as well be riddles.
As she paged through A Critical Perspective, however, Florrie allowed herself to grow more hopeful.
The primary author, Lady Ephy Traceley, prefaced each section of the book with a transcribed dialogue between herself and an individual she described as “my charming, mysterious friend, Hyacinthine Mire” – a distinctively Fairy name that Florrie happened to recognise.
Surely Lady Traceley referred to Lord Mauve’s favourite scholar, formerly (and famously) of Stillscape.
If that were so – if this book truly contained both Folk and Fairy insight into changeling paintings…
Florrie skimmed each dialogue until page 617 stunned her to a halt.
(H.M.)