[paris] where do all the legends go [florence]

april 2002

Normally, Émilie Blauvelt would hurry home after her long day at work, eager to see her husband of nearly four months. But on those nights he whisked himself away to Beauxbatons, Émilie took her time wandering back to Berlin, loitering in Paris until she needed to catch a late portkey. Of course, she had also been using those extra nights alone to slowly decorate his flat -- their flat, she supposed, though Berlin still didn’t feel quite like home yet -- and things were slowly starting to come together. There were certainly more florals around the place now, more of her own paintings on the walls, she had organized his books by color, and she wasn’t sure what she needed to do next. But whatever it was, it would have to wait. Today, she needed to run some actual errands.

She was running low on paint supplies; specifically, she was nearly out of this one type of gold magical paint color that shimmered realistically, giving her paintings a little something extra. The most logical solution would be to just charm her own paint, but on the few occasions that she had attempted that, she had ended up with quite a mess and quite a destroyed canvas. It was probably for the benefit of everyone involved that she stop trying.

Émilie had been staring at this display of paints for nearly twenty minutes now. Her favorite brand was completely. sold. out. She had plans to paint that evening, to put the finishing touches on a painting, and this was the only store she knew of that sold it. She was too indecisive for this.

She finally took her eyes off the paints and glanced down the aisle, thankfully landing on an equally blonde woman a few steps away. She had streaks of paint in her hair, which was yet another good sign. They could start a club exclusively for blonde painters. It would be amazing, really; it took Émilie a few seconds to realize she had been staring at this woman for just a little too long without saying anything -- at least her back was turned.

She stretched up a hand and tapped the woman on her shoulder, launching into her questions in rapid French without any pause for breath. “Excuse me, have you tried any of these brands? They don’t have what I want and I don’t want to ruin my painting with the wrong thing, you know? I ruin enough with a bad eye. And what conditioner do you use? I love your hair.”

@Florence Malenkova

There was so much paint.

To anyone indecisive, this would have been a screaming nightmare. To the uncultured person, they'd just pick up a palette. They didn't understand that different paint had different properties. Some reacted well with water, some didn't. Some were better for landscapes as opposed to portraits. After all, the subtle shades in yellow could make or break something.

With a frown, Florence examined a watercolour set. Watercolour was her medium of choice. Her illustrations were soft and whimsical, full of gentle lines and even gentler changes of colour. As a children's illustrator, her touch was feather light. She liked forest hues and pastel tones, which was surprising if anyone knew her personality. She'd dropped and smashed her existing palette and no matter how much repairing she could do, it was ruined forever and it was with a heavy heart that she had to buy more.

Up and down the aisles she went, her pale fingers stroking the tips of the brushes longingly. Florence had always been bad with money and she could never balance the books. While some people might have party nights out or expensive belongings, her one true splurge was always going to be books, paint and sunflowers. Did she need new paintbrushes? No. Did she want new paintbrushes? More than anything.

The weather was warming up in the capital now as summer was on the horizon. When her husband slept, she tried her hardest not to wake him, instead sitting on their dinky little balcony with her easel and the lights of Paris to guide her. Sometimes, she often forgot how lucky she was; lucky to live where she did, doing what she loved with the person that she loved more than anything in the world. If Florence ever stopped to catch her breath, she'd probably pass out.

A tap on her shoulder jolted her and she almost dropped her second palette of the day.

The taller blonde squinted at the woman before she offered a smile. "Maison Blanche is normally pretty consistent?" She replied kindly with a nod to the tubes of paint. "It's pretty versatile. I painted my kitchen chairs with it and used it for some other stuff, I like it." Florence found herself nodding sympathetically; she did know how easy it was to stuff up a painting with the wrong materials.

"Oh, thank you!" She gushed, her big blue eyes sparkling as she reached out a hand and squeezed the other blonde's shoulder affectionately. "I make it myself," Florence said humbly. She neglected to say that she was wary of what went in and on her body, considering she was allergic to a few pesky ingredients. "I steal roses from my next door neighbour," she said frankly. "I just simmer the petals in some water and then stick the water in the fridge for a few hours to let it infuse and get the rose oils and then I add in some coconut oil and mix it together to make a mask," she beamed, flattered.

"Would you make your own paint if you couldn't find what you needed?" Florence asked, interestedly. "You know, salt, flour and food colouring? Or beeswax and natural dyes and egg yolk to bind?" She tilted her head. Eccentric was a nice way to describe her. "It's actually a lot of fun," she added with a dimpled grin as she blew at her paint-streaked her that was escaping her messy bun. "Farrow & Ball are also usually pretty good," she mused as she looked around for the brand in question. "It's usually fairly adaptable. I use it as a base and magic some stuff into it to make it what I need. Like glitter or shimmer or add viscosity."

“Oh.” Émilie’s face fell; she didn’t want paint for chairs, she wanted paint for painting. She glanced back at the paints she was asking about and scrunched up her face, lost in deep -- deep for Émilie, anyway -- thought for a second, nearly forgetting that she had asked a follow up question. She quickly replaced her frown with a smile, now forgetting that she was displeased with the paint selection. Her eyes were wide as the other woman touched her shoulder; she was completely in awe. “You make it?” Émilie didn’t have patience or skill enough to do that, that much was for sure.

She didn’t think her eyes could get wider or that she could be more in awe, but as she explained the process of making the face mask, it sounded like something that she actually might be able to do. Especially the ‘stealing the neighbor’s roses’ part; Frau Blücher was a horrible woman who had too many roses, quite frankly. “Can I smell it?” She asked, thought she was already reaching out for a lock of hair. Émilie took a step forward and took a sniff -- it was roses and coconut all around -- and it was positively dreamy. “It’s so lovely.” She stopped just short of asking her for some -- sniffing a stranger’s hair in an art supply shop seemed like intrusion enough for now.

“Oh, goodness no.” Émilie shook her head quickly after taking a step back. She hooked her hair behind her ears after knocking it a bit loose with her firm denial. “Fun, maybe, but so super easy to mess up.” She returned the woman’s grin, not bothering to tell her that she wasn’t a very good cook for precisely these reasons -- well that, and it was hard and not very rewarding because she wasn’t very good at it. She let those thoughts trail off as they both turned to look for the next brand of paint; Émilie tried to commit the name to memory in case she could look for it later. “Farrow & Ball, right.” But she was already forgetting it.

She finished forgetting it when it turned out to be a good base paint, for adding the magic to. That was exactly what Émilie didn’t want. It wasn’t very often these days that she met someone absolutely new, someone who didn’t already know just how incompetent Émilie was when it came to magic. It was a nice change, for once. But it wasn’t a sustainable feeling, however much she wanted it to be. “I need paint that already does the shimmering bit.” She grimaced before laughing. She leaned in like it was some grand secret: “I’ve destroyed too many paintings trying to magic the paints myself.” She laughed again and straightened up.

“Do you know any that do the shimmers already? I have a painting that’s so blah without it and I ran out of paint and they’re out of my brand and I don’t know any other shop that carries it.” She couldn’t look for it very easily in Berlin anyway. “Or,” she glanced down at the watercolor set in the woman’s hand, “Do you not really use oils very much? I just thought…” She pointed at her own mane to indicate toward the paint in the other blonde’s hair. “It looked like you’d know some things. I’m Émilie, by the way. I always forget that part.” Introducing herself, that is, not her name -- not too often, anyway.