Chapter 23 #2
Florrie shifted her leg up, chasing his touch, and felt the rough striations of the column press against her once again.
The columnar architects of the fifteenth century had not given any thought to intimacy.
She realised rather belatedly that Vern had probably kept his remaining hand behind her head for the purpose of cushioning her.
“Wait,” she said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I don’t care,” Vern whispered in a low, passionate voice as his fingers traced back up her thigh. Then, in response to her chiding glance, he gently removed his other arm and noticed the angry crimson imprints that had already taken shape on his knuckles.
“Very well. I should care,” he conceded. “I suppose my column fantasy is much more practical in the context of dreams.”
Florrie peered over her shoulder, examining their column and the others behind it.
“If these were eighth-century geometric columns, the pedestals would be broader and they wouldn’t have those wretched striations,” she explained.
“Perhaps if I brought in some marble filler to cover them up—but no, what am I saying? The Conservators’ Code categorically forbids the making of architectural alterations for recreational purposes. ”
“Alternatively, we could relocate to that perfectly flat wall over there.” Vern gestured to the half-fallen folly.
Florrie was about to take him up on this incredibly reasonable suggestion when she heard voices. Automatically, she sprang up, nearly scraping her neck on the column.
“Don’t worry,” Vern said, as his deft hands took on the far less thrilling duty of pulling her skirts back into a semblance of respectability. “I’ve made sure they can’t see us. Besides, I think they might still be outside the door, anyway.”
“That is most reassuring. Nevertheless, I wonder if Prince Ardant would allow me to acquire a bolt for the door of my studio,” she grumbled, as the speakers outside the painting approached.
“I imagine she’s just in here.” Prince Ardant’s booming voice sounded only slightly muffled through the closed door. “But you’ll need to explain what all the fuss is about.”
“It’s very urgent!” exclaimed a frantic voice Florrie barely recognised as Ceru’s.
“So urgent that it requires everyone present? Including Lady Aestival?”
“Oh, I just happened to run into Ceru and thought I’d tag along,” replied Aesti. “I’m woefully bored this morning. The childish riddles you Folk call ‘puzzles’ hardly hold my attention. Is it too terribly inconvenient to import Lord Abstruse’s fortnightly conundrum?”
Florrie startled into action. “How do I look?”
“Let me.” Vern smoothed her hair behind her ears. “The flowers should vanish when you leave the painting. They’ll never suspect a thing.”
In reply, she kissed him solemnly on the forehead and dashed towards the tree line.
The precise moment when she emerged into the studio, however, happened to coincide with the precise moment when Prince Ardant opened the door.
Prince Ardant, Aesti and Lord Mauve stared at her with what Florrie interpreted as expressions of surprise, bemusement and scepticism, respectively. Ceru, the shortest of the party, peered from behind Lord Mauve’s shoulder, his mood unreadable.
“Why, good morning!” Florrie stretched an arm up and lowered it back down, as though she’d been repairing the frame. “Is something the matter, Prince Ardant?”
“Florrie Hyverfell,” Prince Ardant said, slowly, “do my eyes deceive me, or did you just step out of a canvas? What in the world were you doing in that painting?”
“That’s between her and the painting, I’m afraid!” said Vern, as he appeared before them.
Florrie tugged at the lace around the neck of her dress, feeling her heart race.
She hadn’t expected Vern to join them, but she was certainly glad that she wouldn’t have to face the visitors alone.
As she stepped aside to provide a better view of the painting, the small version of Vern waved at the assembled crowd.
“Why, that’s him, isn’t it?” Prince Ardant strode closer. It was, notably, the first time Florrie had ever seen him wearing spectacles. “I apologise for failing to introduce myself before now. You look nothing like Mauve!”
“I don’t know which of us he means to compliment with that statement,” commented Lord Mauve. “I hope you are well, Vern.”
“Oh, I imagine he is exceedingly well,” said Aesti. “As well, no doubt, as Florrie, who astonishes me as always with her love of the arts. What manner of conservation led you to acquire the perfect imprint of column striations on the back of your waistcoat, Miss Hyverfell?”
“I commend you, Prince Ardant, for entrusting the safety of your galleries to someone with such expert knowledge of architectural history,” Florrie replied, not daring to look at Aesti. How she wished she hadn’t worn velvet.
Prince Ardant, meanwhile, was glancing at Florrie, and then the painting, and then Florrie again, and then the painting once more – and, finally, at Mauve, who sighed.
“Florrie, I know this is none of my business, and you are under no obligation to answer, but are you and…” Prince Ardant’s voice trailed off, as though he daren’t finish the sentence.
“You must admit,” said Lord Mauve gravely, “that the young lady is in possession of exquisite taste.” To Florrie’s surprise, the stern Fairy lord almost appeared to give the painting a self-satisfied smile.
The lighting was not exceptional in the darker corners of the studio, however, so perhaps it was only a passing shadow eclipsing his expression.
“I hate to interrupt, but I must,” Ceru announced. “Florrie, I’ve been desperate to find you. And I am glad that… that you’re here, Vern. Canvas-borne magic is the key!”
“Yes, you’ve been repeating that phrase for the past quarter-hour,” said Aesti. “Whatever does it mean?”
“To these two, it means the world,” said Ceru. “If I am correct in my suppositions, I suspect it may be possible for a Fairy to escape from a changeling painting after all.”
Florrie immediately turned to Vern. His lips were drawn, his tiny eyes unblinking.
“Would you like to hear more, or would you like me to investigate first?” she asked in a whisper.
“Is she whispering fondly to the canvas? How marvellous!” exclaimed Prince Ardant.
“Don’t worry, Florrie,” said Vern. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s such a simple matter,” babbled Ceru, who clearly had no intention of waiting for permission. “So very simple – oh, wouldn’t I like to paint the shock on Professor Petiole’s face when she hears of it! The trick is to cut the figure out of the painting.”
“Through some kind of enchantment?” said Florrie.
“No! With ordinary shears, or a knife, or— Isn’t it wonderful?
We can’t strip the magic away without ending his life, but if he stands on a patch of canvas and we cut him out, that will sever his attachment to the painting for ever.
It’s the only way to ensure he retains a tangible form.
A flattened, fragile form, but a form nonetheless. ”
“But isn’t that a rather cruel way to treat a painting?” said Lord Mauve, shuddering with apparent sympathy for his smaller self.
“I agree,” Florrie said. “And do you know for certain that this wouldn’t hurt Vern?”
“Nothing is certain in the world of art, Florrie – surely you know that. Still, I did take the liberty of engaging in some experimentation.” He produced a new portfolio-bag – with the maker’s tag of a famed Stillscape textile artist still dangling from the strap – and pulled from it a small canvas.
Upon the canvas was a most exquisite still-life, featuring an ornate climber’s sword, a vase of stalwart thistles and a single dew-quail’s egg.
“Why, that’s one of my paintings!” Ardant exclaimed.
“No,” Florrie said, examining the brushstrokes. “These pigments have only just set. A few hours ago, perhaps.”
“A fresh forgery,” said Ceru. “Copied from a Folk original by a Fairy artist – but without the pesky business of sentience, since it’s a still-life. And look, Florrie, I even managed to capture the gloriously round wisdom of an egg! I’m quite satisfied.”
Ceru then proceeded to express this satisfaction by cutting into the canvas with a pair of amethyst-tipped shears.
Florrie flinched. She couldn’t help it. No conservational intervention ever required such desecration of a canvas. Never mind that the painting was only a copy: the sight of the shears slowly gnawing through the warp and weft threads left her shaking.
It didn’t help, either, that the shears weren’t exactly designed for durable cloth. After a few agonising moments of watching Ceru struggle, Aesti sighed, pulled a knife from her pocket and assisted with the process until the image of the egg had been cut out.
“There you go,” she said, tossing the rounded scrap of canvas to Ceru.
But Ceru did not catch it. He simply held up his hands as the scrap floated to the floor – and the egg cracked.
“My goodness,” breathed Prince Ardant, stooping to survey the shattered shell on the piece of canvas.
“Astonishing, isn’t it?” said Ceru.
Florrie continued to watch, shaky and solemn, as the others moved and spoke around her.
Lord Mauve made some dry comment about the demonstration providing little reassurance as to the procedure’s safety.
Aesti wiped her knife with a handkerchief, removing every stray thread and speck of paint.
Prince Ardant placed a hand on the easel, no doubt murmuring something comforting and cheerful to Vern.
Florrie’s focus remained fixed upon the ravaged painting.
Ceru’s copy of the still-life sagged onto the table beneath it, with a great, jagged hole where the egg had been.
Though Florrie’s Folk senses could not perceive what became of the magic that had once enchanted the painting, she suddenly felt herself overwhelmed with the most unsettling conviction: the egg may have been “freed”, but the painting was dead.