Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 28

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Chapter 28
Can’t use it?
Beatrice froze, staring down at her own painting. The shading that captured the stem’s volume was well-rendered, as was the deep crimson infused with moisture, yet somehow it was all wrong. She felt lost on the canvas.
“What do you…”
The words that barely escaped her lips trembled thinly.
“…What’s the problem with it?”
“First, this red.”
Patrick’s fingertip tapped the center of the painting. It was a vivid crimson that burned with wild abandon—nothing like the specimen’s dark, muted tone.
“That color doesn’t exist anywhere on this specimen. Where exactly did you get it from?”
The layers of pride that had wrapped around Beatrice began to peel away. She struggled to mount her own defense.
“It’s called Red Heartmoss for a reason. I thought that when it was alive, it must have burned far brighter than this, so I painted it that way.”
“You thought?”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed as he repeated her words. The chill in his tone made Beatrice’s heart plummet.
“You’ve never actually seen a living Red Heartmoss. So why did you paint from imagination? Did I ask for a fanciful piece?”
“No, that’s not it, but…”
“I’m the only person in the entire academic world who has seen a living specimen.”
His cold voice fell like a slap across her cheek. Beatrice’s gaze slipped downward, her words catching in her throat.
“Without even seeing what texture that red has, where the green begins to blend in—why did you paint it this way?”
“I just…”
Beatrice’s shoulders curled inward slightly. Even as Patrick watched her falter, he continued his critique without hesitation.
“The form itself is a disaster. The granule shapes meant to distinguish moss types, the fine hairs on the stems—all the critical details are completely lost. Granted, if we’re scoring it as art, it’s not terrible, but… as an illustration, it’s beyond redemption.”
Finally, her pride lay shattered beneath his heel. Beatrice set down her brush with a sharp tap. Heat flared and rippled through her chest.
“I captured the true nature of this moss exactly as it is.”
She bit her lower lip hard, glaring at him with fierce eyes. Knowing full well she was overreaching, but stung by his cutting words, a stubborn defiance burst forth from somewhere inside her.
“In my eyes, the moment it lived and breathed in red is more real than a dead, shriveled brown husk. Isn’t that the true form of this plant?”
“That’s your feeling and your delusion. What I need is not feeling—it’s fact.”
The futility of not being understood cut deep; a furrow formed between Patrick’s brows. He could not fathom the attitude that would sacrifice his entire research—poured out with all his strength—to become merely a pretty picture.
“Beatrice. An illustrator is not an artist.”
Patrick’s voice, lowered and measured, pressed heavy upon the air in the room.
“An illustrator records the subject exactly as it is. There is no place for the illustrator’s emotions or heart in that work.”
In that moment, Beatrice felt as though struck on the head—stunned into numbness. Not an artist, no place for emotion. That cold pronouncement carved into old wounds and tore them open.
The memory clawed at her: top of her class, yet mocked by some elderly professor with sticky laughter for being a woman, told to just paint flowers. And now this man, just like the suffocating marriage prospects her parents had arranged, was treating her as nothing more than a soulless shell. The fine brush in her hand had been her last lifeline, gripped tightly to breathe and live as Beatrice, by her own name alone. If she had to erase her heart from her fingertips every time she held the brush, what was the point of standing in this cramped research room and enduring this humiliation? Sorrow rose thick in her throat.
“This wasn’t what I wanted.”
Beatrice’s voice settled like wet earth, heavy and still.
“I wanted to speak to the world through my paintings. To have my own voice. But now…”
“Ha…”
Before she could finish, Patrick exhaled a long, heavy sigh.
“You’re sitting in a museum, not in some artists’ salon.”
He regarded her with the cold stare one might turn on the most pitiful of creatures.
“Do you truly not understand my point? Or are you just being stubborn and petulant because your painting was criticized?”
He had struck the heart of it. Beatrice’s mouth, clamped shut in obstinacy, began to tremble.
“I’ve said it already. This painting style only hinders things here. The forms are all muddled, the work is stained with the illustrator’s personal opinion. The foundation of botanical illustration is factual accuracy. Your work is nothing but a hobby.”
“Stop.”
Beatrice pushed her chair back and rose with a clatter.
“What is this moss to deserve such insult? I didn’t learn to paint just to draw worthless weeds! If I don’t understand something, you should teach me!”
Behind her cry came a terrible silence that blanketed the research room.
Patrick said nothing. He did not raise his voice or lose his temper. Only his eyes turned cold, sinking to their depths.
“Beatrice.”
His voice was much lower and colder than usual.
“This is not a matter to be handled emotionally. Having the skill to do your duty, whatever task you’re given, is the bare minimum. I have never belittled you as a person or your talent. I only said that this painting is useless as an illustration.”
He added quietly, suppressing the ache inside him.
“Just as your painting is everything to you, this humble moss is everything to me. I expected at least minimal respect—I was clearly mistaken.”
Patrick rose without another word. He walked to the window, gazed out at the trees for a moment, then turned back with an expressionless face.
“I don’t think you’re suited for this work.”
Beatrice stood frozen, watching his lips move. Not a trace of warmth remained in his face—only cold reason.
“As you seem to prefer, you should either transfer to a position where you can draw modest, pretty flowers, or find other employment. I’ll inform the director personally tomorrow.”
Patrick carefully arranged the specimen on the desk and placed it gently in the cabinet. Then, buttoning his jacket, he turned and left the room without a backward glance.
Bang! The door closed roughly, and Beatrice’s shoulders jerked. Left alone in the room, she stood rooted to the spot for a long time. Then, finally, tears spilled down her cheeks and fell, one drop after another, from the tip of her chin.
“This is infuriating.”
As she roughly shoved her brushes and paints into the paint box, hot tears flowed ceaselessly down her face. Wiping them away irritably as they came, Beatrice breathed in sharp, angry gasps.
She had cried out loudly at the words “hobby drawing,” but truthfully, she was far angrier at her own immaturity.
What an embarrassment—to sketch something so fundamentally flawed, then stand there with such smug confidence, waiting for praise.
And besides….
“Don’t you truly understand what I’m saying? Or are you just being stubborn because your work was criticized?”
“…no….”
No matter how hard she tried to hold back, to endure in silence, the ache only deepened. Fool. You can’t cry now. If you fall apart over something like this, what will happen to you in Berkyon?
I don’t want to be a hothouse flower, she thought desperately. I want to survive on my own strength….
Facing her own weakness was agony. Beatrice gathered her things in a blur of tears, slamming the paint box shut with a sharp bang.
From the box, not fully closed, a single sketch of Red Heartmoss spilled out and lay abandoned—and with it, the desk in Room 101 belonging to Beatrice Somerset stood empty.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————