Chapter 23
Before returning to the palace, Florrie granted herself the pleasure of a morning walk to the woods and back (and to the woods again and back once more, due to the shortness of the route) in Vern’s company.
The persistent night-time sky stood in peculiar contrast to the glittering citrine face on Florrie’s clockwork pendant, which had taken on its daybreak aspect to indicate the sun rising in her world.
They meandered through the ferns, hand in hand, admiring nearby flowers and occasionally letting go to observe an intriguing blossom more thoroughly.
Florrie was pleased to recognise a few, upon closer inspection – the purple-and-white Lover’s Woe that resembled an alarmingly anatomical broken heart, the Forlorns with their tear-stained blue petals, and the far less tragic Stellar Divines that formed constellations in the grass.
“I’ve only ever seen these pink ones in other paintings,” she said, gesturing to a fluffy flower that rather resembled a storm cloud.
“In The River Maid Evades Slumber, for example, the figure reclines in a meadow like this one, surrounded by such flowers. Her long hair curves behind her until it joins with the river in the distance. A few stray petals have fallen onto her dress, and she wears blossoms strung through her curls.”
“Hmm,” Vern said, catching a petal that was about to fall onto Florrie’s own dress. “I can’t quite picture it.”
“What a shame! Let me see if I can describe it better.” Florrie shut her eyes and summoned forth a convincing replica of the painting.
“To begin with, the painting features a tripartite composition, which was all the rage in the 1300s. At the place where her hair joins with the river, the artist took a broader brush and used it to trail gold leaf over the ripples. Has that helped you envision it?”
“I’m afraid not.” Vern sighed. “I think you simply must recreate it for me.”
“Oh, I could never! For one thing, I would need a specific enamel paint to match what was available to the artist in the thirteenth century. I’d need to burnish the canvas to make the scent authentic. Then…”
Then Vern reached out to stroke her hair, and Florrie had a suspicion she’d made their conversation more art-historical than was necessary.
“I’ve never seen it down,” he whispered, gesturing to her perpetually upswept plaits.
“It’s not especially impressive, as hair goes.
Nothing like what you’d see in an eighth-century hirsute portrait.
” Yet her treacherous hands had already climbed up to start unplaiting.
Fortunately, she had a paintbrush-minder in one of her pockets that could keep the pins in order until she returned home.
Vern watched with keen focus as she sat down and released her hair, one section at a time. To Florrie’s dismay, the sections look far more tangled than the river maid’s.
“Let me help,” he said. “I’ve got a comb.”
“Do you always carry one with you?” she asked, trying to distract herself from the extremely pleasant sensation of Vern untangling the ends of her hair.
“I don’t have one of your fancy looking-glasses. If I decide to tidy my hair in front of the stream, I must have something at hand.”
“I assumed someone who lived alone wouldn’t care about such vanities.”
“I have started to care recently. Lean against me, Florrie, so you don’t strain your neck.”
She did as he instructed – how could she resist? The comb was sanded to softness and felt pleasant every time it stroked against her scalp. She also didn’t mind the feeling of Vern’s hand gently steadying her head.
“Where did you find the comb?” she asked. “Was it provided by the painting?”
“I carved it from a fallen branch.”
“You taught yourself woodcarving, too?” Florrie shook her head in disbelief.
“Oh, it’s easy enough. Carving is just like sewing, but with a knife.”
“It most certainly isn’t! One involves removing material, while the other joins it together—” She stopped herself. “My apologies. Surely you don’t wish to hear another lecture at present.”
“I only wish for you to relax, Florrie. If that involves lecturing, lecture away.”
At the moment, however, Florrie wasn’t entirely sure if she should.
She was perfectly content to close her eyes and focus on the brush of Vern’s shirt against her arm and the subtle trembling of his shoulders as he held her up.
Once again, she felt herself struck by the vaguely unfamiliar feeling that might be, Florrie suspected, categorised as comfort, or even contentment.
“What’s your opinion on the texture of the ground, by the way?” Vern asked. “Turn your head a little to the left, please. Why, it’s quite easy to weave with flowers and hair. I don’t even need a shuttle!”
“I’d not noticed the ground!” That, in and of itself, demonstrated the immensity of her comfort or contentment – or both.
She glanced beneath her legs and realised they were seated atop a bed of moss.
The moss was delightfully soft, refreshingly cool and no more troublesome than a particularly plush carpet.
“Glad to hear it! I scoured the meadow yesterday, trying to find something you might prefer to grass. The moment I saw this moss, more of it grew before my eyes. I suppose the painting wants you to be comfortable, too!” He wrapped the stem of an unrecognisable aquamarine bloom around his finger.
“How fortunate,” she murmured, “that the painting is as thoughtful as you are.”
Florrie closed her eyes again, concentrating on the strange fizziness she felt as Vern wove in the flowers.
Without even seeing him, she could imagine what he must look like – how intently he’d scrutinise the ideal placement for each flower, how he’d tilt a blossom just slightly until it balanced perfectly and how wonderfully he’d smile when everything finally suited his vision.
“Florrie,” Vern murmured. “What I’m about to say might sound terribly ridiculous.”
“Only if you’re about to say bronzework is like sewing, but with molten metal.”
“My goodness! Do you think I could learn bronzework, too? I was installed next to a bronze sculpture at one point. Sometimes, when I garden, I come upon rather curious ores…” Vern paused, presumably fumbling with a blossom that refused to stay in place.
“But that’s beside the point. I simply wanted to tell you how happy I am. ”
“What’s ridiculous about that?” she asked.
“No, well, I mean… I feel, quite sincerely, that I couldn’t be happier; that, lovely as your world must be, I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else at present.”
Florrie felt the same, and the intensity of her agreement made her repeat it in her mind. I agree, I agree, I agree! But how could she begin to structure her response? What words and phrases and tone would lend the necessary sincerity to her confession?
Before she could decide, she felt Vern adjusting a final flower right above her forehead.
“There you go! I wish you could see yourself. Would you like to walk to the stream? Or… I wonder if you could glimpse your reflection by looking closely enough at my eyes?”
“Now, don’t you think that’s the more ridiculous statement?” Florrie asked.
“Oh, is it? And why’s that?” Vern’s voice was all innocence – or so she would have thought, had Florrie not recently become so skilled in the categorisation of his flirtatious tones.
“From anyone other than you,” she said, trying to give her own voice a teasing edge, “I believe such a statement would be a rather transparent ploy to get me near enough for you to kiss.”
“I don’t think I need to use a ploy.” Suddenly, Vern leaned his head over her shoulder, turning his face to hers. “Do I?”
Florrie could, in fact, glimpse her reflection in his eyes. Even so, she would rather look at Vern himself. The clouds had shifted again, and the moonlight shimmered across his face, the shadows shading his chin, and he was smiling, as always, with his lips just gently parted…
“On a related note,” she said lightly, “I find I’m rather eager for you to give me an introduction to that conveniently placed column in the ruins.”
The motif of a ruined floreated column was wildly popular in fifteenth-century portraiture – and it was no wonder why.
From the carefully carved roots forming the base to the elegant stone blooms emerging from the capital, a well-crafted floreated column was a celebration of intricate details and textures.
Florrie hardly noticed any of them. Only vaguely did she observe the perfect symmetry of the pedestal and how the fluting was burnished to resemble tree’s bark.
She was far more focused on how Vern had fastened his hands around the back of her head, fixing it firmly in place, while his hips anchored her to the base of the column.
After all the work she’d done lately, it felt immensely pleasant to let go and allow Vern to hold her so securely.
Between his efforts and the stone’s assistance, she found she needn’t worry about supporting herself.
Instead, Florrie leaned luxuriantly against the convex curve about halfway up the column – a stunning example of elaborate entasis in the fifteenth-century style, not that she cared especially at present – and let him kiss her again and again.
Vern’s comfortable confidence thrilled her.
“You seem rather pleased with this arrangement,” she observed when they took the slightest moment to breathe.
“How did you guess?”
Florrie sighed as one of his hands slipped beneath the hem of her skirt to rest on her thigh.
“I thought the fabric of the ruffle there might tempt you,” she murmured.
“Oh, I hardly noticed it! My mistake.” Vern slid his hand back to the edge of her skirt with agonising slowness.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “A fine ruffle indeed. Perhaps I should just keep my hand here?”