Chapter 24 #2
“But it might not always feel that way.” Vern sighed as he leaned against the spire.
“Nothing here ever changes. That’s why I wanted to leave, for you.
In here, I’ll never have anything new or exciting to share.
I essentially follow the same routine every single day, and— Florrie, why are you laughing? ”
Florrie composed herself with a snort. “I despise novelty, Vern. I contend with uncertainty enough in my trade. Why, at a moment’s notice, someone might shamelessly shake hands with a sculpture, the prince might run to me with another curatorial crisis or, I don’t know, Lady Aestival might appear to stage some mock larceny, apparently. ”
She was talking far too much, and Florrie wished he would kiss her already, for the sake of brevity. Yet Vern persisted in smiling and shaking his head most wonderingly. As he did, more flowers bloomed about him, covering the ruin with a veritable city of Wise One’s Towers.
“Besides,” Florrie said, “it seems the painting can change now. Incidentally, however are you managing that?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Perhaps it’s because, at last, I… understand myself. And who – and where – I ought to be.”
“How splendid,” murmured Florrie, and she meant it.
What a privilege to understand – and love – Vern in all that he was.
His blossoming, both figuratively and literally, left her feeling humbled and hopeful.
It might be more difficult, Florrie suspected, to embrace every aspect of herself with such courage and grace.
Yet, for the first time in her life, she believed it might be possible to try.
“But, really, Florrie, the plants and the weather changing according to my whims isn’t especially impressive,” Vern continued, his eyes now bashfully downcast. “It’s not as though I can make a mountain for us to explore, or dream up a neighbouring town…”
Florrie took a deep breath. Of all the things he might say! She reached into her pocket, not to take out her sketchbook – not yet – but to touch its rough-bound cover for reassurance.
“That’s rather funny,” she said, “because, as it happens, Ceru gave me a rather intriguing suggestion as to how I might help you. With everything you’ve just discovered, I wasn’t sure if I ought to mention it, but – would you like to hear more?”
The nearest flowers suddenly snapped their petals shut. Vern extended his fingers and the flowers tentatively opened again, curling towards him once more.
“It doesn’t involve cutting anything, does it?” he said, cautiously.
“It’s more creative than destructive.” She removed her sketchbook and clutched it to her chest. “Ceru said I could change certain elements of your painting using my new brush. At first, I thought that sounded delightful: adding some new ruins, additional garden beds and so forth – all with your permission, naturally! But then I thought of something better.”
“Better than additional garden beds?” Vern gazed fondly in the direction of the neat rows below them.
“Did you know there are other changeling paintings, like yours?” Florrie felt her heart pulse through her velvet waistcoat. “I might be able to connect your painting to theirs, if I can paint skilfully enough. If we’re successful, you’d have new places to explore and people to meet.”
“And you and I could also visit them together?”
“Why, of course!” Florrie imagined it: their hands clasped as they stepped from the luminous night of The Resolute Portrait to a wispy city of watercolours, or a stark charcoal riverside…
She shook these lovely visions from her head. “But it’s entirely your decision,” she insisted.
Vern pressed her hand to his cheek and breathed deeply. Somehow, the rain hadn’t touched his face. He was warm and soft, as always – and Florrie realised, somewhat belatedly, that she had not replaced her gloves after touching the Wise One’s Tower.
“Why don’t you show me?” Vern asked.
She passed him the sketchbook, her finger marking the correct page, and squeezed her eyes shut.
It wasn’t as though she needed to look. She knew what Vern would see as he examined her study of the multi-landscape.
A strange palace library with its beckoning banners and the pearlescent serpent that slumbered by the door.
A village of tall steeples and cosy thoroughfares, filled with scores of tiny figures.
A peculiar square tower on the snowy hillside, surrounded by dots that might be sheep or domesticated clouds – you could never tell with a multi-landscape.
“Florrie,” Vern murmured. “This is astonishing.”
“It’s merely a study,” she said, opening her eyes. “I failed to capture the details of the figures. Still, I suspect that painting’s world is bustling. Just look at that village, for example! There might be some weavers, like you.”
Vern said nothing, his eyes fixed to the page.
“What do you think?” Florrie pressed. “Considering that you are the painting, perhaps this is too much. But it’s not as though I would be transforming your home – you – at all.
As far as I understand it, connecting the paintings would be rather like…
well, your world and their world reaching out to shake hands.
I suspect you can always let go if you’d prefer to be alone. ”
Vern slipped the sketchbook back into her pocket, his fingers brushing against the outline of her hip, and took her hands once more.
“So long as I needn’t let go of you,” he whispered, “it sounds wonderful.”
“It is not my intention to rush you, as Ceru did. I’ll conduct more research, and you can consider the matter more thoroughly. There’s no need to make up your mind now.”
Vern furrowed his brow. “Oh? Then whatever shall we do now? Hmm, perhaps…”
He leaped off the gutter, landing on his feet in the very centre of the spiral mosaic.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “there’s one improvement to the painting that I can make straightaway.”
“Whatever do you have in mind?”
Though the climb down the facade was slightly precarious, Florrie didn’t take her eyes off Vern. As she approached him, she could see nothing but that smile – that unexpected, anomalous, miraculous smile – slanting sweetly and playfully in a way Florrie expected would always make her heart race.
When she completed her descent, Vern ran to the edge of the ruin and stopped.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t. I suspect this plan of mine might break several rules in your Code.” He shrugged. “Ah, well. I hope you’ll forgive me, Florrie.”
At Vern’s command, moss began to paint itself over one particular floreated column. Every false branch and carved blossom vanished beneath a verdant tapestry that, in Florrie’s opinion, looked softer than the velvet she’d so ill-advisedly worn.
“The Conservators’ Code does address the issue of intentionally cultivating plant matter upon historic architecture,” Florrie said. “Such an act is described, in three separate appendices, as an unforgiveable desecration of antique integrity.”
Gently, Vern took her arm and led her to the column. He brushed her hand experimentally across the moss.
“Is that texture to your liking?” he enquired.
“Very much so. The appendices were created in the eighth century,” she continued, “after an unfortunate incident wherein a moss-mender…”
Florrie trailed off. Vern was tracing his fingers everywhere – across her cheek, down her neck, over the bodice of her dress and—
“I suppose I should stop talking about art,” she said weakly.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his tone firm and fond. “Never stop talking, Florrie. I absolutely adore it. I’m dying to know more about this unfortunate moss-mending incident, which seems quite topical.” Vern pressed himself closer. “Provided you’re not too distracted, that is.”
“It’s funny you should say that. As it happens, the Conservators’ Code also established four different categories of deleterious distraction—”
Then Florrie decided, conclusively, that there was no need to list them. The sort of distraction she felt at present – as she kissed him, with all the gentle textures of the painted moss against her hair and her skin – was, no doubt, entirely unprecedented in the history of art conservation.