Chapter 21 #3
Bear in mind, Ephy, that the replica painting and what I will term the painting-world within it are linked, but are not necessarily the same. If you copied a Fairy painting of a Folk painting—
(E.T.)
To make a replica of a replica? But wouldn’t that recreate both the painting and the painting-world again? Why would you want another copy of the life-forms within?
(H.M.)
You’re correct: if a Fairy artist copied a changeling painting, they would simply create an identical, parallel world, inhabited by new versions of the same Fairies.
But it is my hypothesis that the magic responsible for a changeling painting is not exclusively brush-borne.
It is also, as we would say at home, canvas-borne.
If I gave you, a Folk individual, one of my brushes to use—
(E.T.)
I’d love to see that, my dear.
(H.M.)
Is it so improbable?
(E.T.)
You and that brush are inseparable.
(H.M.)
Quite right! Hypothetically speaking, though… if you copied a changeling painting with my brush, you’d have brush-borne magic. Still, you’d be incapable of completing the natural enchantment of the canvas that any Fairy artist casts unconsciously.
(E.T.)
So, in this unlikely scenario, I’d make a new painting, not a new painting-world.
(H.M.)
Yes. The magic of the brush would simply connect into the existing magic of the original forgery – what a phrase that is, “original forgery” – to create two separate entrances into the same world.
(E.T.)
Not that any of us will ever be fortunate enough to enter such a world.
(H.M.)
One can always hope.
After reading the section several times, Florrie found herself overwhelmed by a most curious notion.
If a Folk artist could use a Fairy brush to create another entrance to the same “painting-world”, was it possible to connect different paintings to each other?
Ceru’s suggestion of merely enlivening Vern’s landscape now seemed overly simplistic.
What if Florrie painted a detail from another changeling artwork onto Vern’s canvas to join their worlds together?
She couldn’t attempt such a thing without first identifying which other Folk paintings might have Fairy replicas like Vern’s, naturally.
Predelle’s vague catalogue was her only lead on that front, and it would no doubt take ages of study for her to make sense of it.
Feeling both invigorated and exhausted, Florrie returned to the more comfortable side of the shop to purchase both books.
While passing over a few ceramic coins in change, Mim also handed her a parcel wrapped in misprinted pages.
“Whatever is this?” asked Florrie.
“I’m a prying sort, I’m afraid,” said Mim. “I hope this might help you.”
As she carefully unfolded the paper, Florrie froze.
She knew this vivid silverpoint-and-madder cover and recognised the roughness of its spine.
It was none other than A Primer for Addressing Repetitively-Focused Disorders of the Body – a book she had not seen in years.
She felt her face grow warm and her eyes become dangerously teary.
“Is this a joke?” she said, looking down at the counter. “Did Orchel say—”
“It’s not a joke, and I’m sure you know Orchel mostly says nonsense. Oh, Florrie, don’t fret. Look up for a moment, if you dare.”
When Florrie reluctantly obliged, Mim pulled away the ribbon they wore to tie back their hair. Beneath it, hidden between the lovely black tresses, was a patch of short strands that had clearly been ruthlessly plucked some time ago.
“It once looked much worse. Abandoning conservation as a profession helped a great deal,” they said, readjusting the ribbon. “There are separate sections for Folk with my situation and for those with yours, but I read the entire thing. When I saw your gloves, and how you fidget all the time…”
“The fidgeting is unrelated,” Florrie murmured.
“But I do wear my gloves because of that book. Or the first chapter, anyway, which was all I could manage to read. The author said, ‘One can never hope to fully avoid one’s excoriating compulsions without constantly wearing gloves.’ I do hope to fully avoid them, so I rarely leave my hands bare. ”
Mim smirked. “That’s a rather literal interpretation.”
“I fear I often find myself incapable of any other interpretive style.”
“Take my word for it, then. You aren’t supposed to wear them for ever,” said Mim. “That’s but the first step. There are more gradual techniques you might try – but I certainly won’t force you.”
As she stared at the ribbon hiding Mim’s own secret, Florrie felt an unexpected surge of fondness for the ex-conservator.
“I’ll give it another go,” she said. “Someday. Thank you, Mim.”
“If you detest the book, you can always return it for a refund,” said Mim, breezily. “Or join me and Orchel for luncheon, if necessary.”
Florrie could feel a smile emerging, and quickly adjusted the angle of her lips until it seemed relatively elegant. “I appreciate the invitation.”
“You must promise not to say a thing about art and conservation, though,” Mim insisted. “Compared with that, a discussion about our respective self-destructive impulses sounds perfectly cheerful.”