Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 31

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 31
Patrick was just stepping out of the Director’s Office when he encountered Beatrice in front of the door.
She stood hugging an enormous wooden paint box, looking up at him with a face that had been through the wringer—the sort of exhaustion that comes from a sleepless night, her eyes reddened and puffy. That swollen gaze stirred something uncomfortable in him, a prick of guilt.
“…Hello.”
Patrick nodded first, awkwardly.
“Hello.”
Beatrice returned the greeting tersely. The sharp edge of yesterday’s expression had dulled, but wariness still clung to her.
“Um.”
Patrick hesitated for a moment, then shifted his gaze to the paint box she was carrying.
“You’re taking Illustration classes, I hear?”
“Yes. Starting now.”
“Ah.”
The conversation died there. Beyond that terse remark, there was nothing natural left to say.
Standing across from each other in the narrow doorway with an awkward distance between them, the air had frozen stiff once more. Weighed down by the uncomfortable silence, Patrick noticed Mrs. Rosy craning her neck from her desk, stealing glances in their direction.
“Well, then. Good luck with your lessons.”
Patrick hastily stepped aside with a clearing of his throat. He’d decided it was better to say nothing, but as their shoulders nearly brushed past each other, he found himself adding one more thing.
“…I’ll wait for you.”
Surprise flickered across her sea-green eyes, widened in a perfect circle—as though she hadn’t expected it at all. Beatrice seemed to turn toward him instinctively, but catching the gaze of the secretarial staff, she quickly lowered her head and adjusted the paint box in her arms instead.
“Thank you. Then… I’ll be back soon.”
Beatrice left those words behind and fled back into the Director’s Office, the door closing softly after her. The hallway fell silent once more.
Patrick lingered a moment longer, then began walking slowly down the long corridor, toward the elongated arcade where morning light poured in at sharp angles.
Toward Annex Room 101—a space permitted to no one but Beatrice Somerset and Patrick Bennett.
* * *
Her steps, clutching the paint box to her chest, were as heavy as they had been the day she was first dragged to school.
Her mind was endlessly imagining the face of the person she was about to meet, yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture who they might be.
‘Steel yourself. It won’t be an easy class.’
The image of Uncle Edward winking at her remained vivid.
What if her instructor turned out to be a finicky old gentleman who shouted about how things “must be drawn as they really are”? What if she’d find herself lectured endlessly with “this part is wrong for this reason, that part is lacking for that reason”? Already her stomach was churning with anxiety.
Beatrice wound her way through the corridors of the enormous Main Building and finally discovered a small room tucked away on the second floor.
Penrose Room
She confirmed the name plaque and drew a long breath. Once she stepped inside, she’d understand what lay in store.
“Come in.”
The moment she raised her hand to knock, the door seemed to anticipate her—a voice answering from within before she could rap her knuckles against it.
To her surprise, it was the soft, low tone of a woman’s voice, which sent Beatrice forward into the room with a confused expression.
Bright sunlight poured in from a large window similar to the one in Annex Room 101. In the heart of that light, a figure seated before a worktable slowly looked up.
“Welcome. You must be Beatrice Somerset?”
Beatrice’s Botanical Detailed Illustration instructor was a middle-aged woman dressed in a practical work dress, her sleeves rolled up past the elbows.
Her hair was neatly gathered up and shone silver, while a delicate brass magnifier hung from a thin chain at her breast, swaying gently.
“…Oh, hello. I’m Beatrice Somerset.”
“I’m Cordelia Penrose. You can call me Miss Penrose.”
Beatrice bowed hurriedly, still startled.
“Surprised I’m a woman, are you?”
It wasn’t a rebuke, but Beatrice bowed again nonetheless, feeling oddly contrite.
“It’s all right. Everyone reacts that way. Come, sit here.”
Miss Penrose gestured with a smile toward the chair across from her.
Beatrice settled awkwardly into the seat while still hugging the paint box. At the far end of the large rectangular table, she glimpsed her instructor’s work in progress.
“So, you’d like to learn how to paint botanical illustrations?”
The woman poured steaming tea into a cup.
“…Yes. I think I need to learn the concept of botanical illustration from scratch—completely from the basics.”
Beatrice murmured quietly, looking down at her cup.
“I see.”
After setting down the teapot, Miss Penrose went to a large bookcase that covered one entire wall. She returned carrying several thick art albums, then opened one upon the table.
“Here—this is a tropical plant illustration I drew several years ago.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened.
Every detail of Miss Penrose’s botanical illustration was rendered with absolute clarity, not a single area muddled or vague.
Each stem, each leaf vein, even the finest downy hairs—the plant’s form was captured with perfect accuracy. It was clearly a different kind of work from the “pieces” that hung in galleries, yet in its own way, it was stunningly beautiful.
“This is really… both precise and beautiful.”
Beatrice murmured in admiration, her gaze caught by the perfection of the illustration until, little by little, her own skill began to feel hopelessly inadequate, draining her confidence.
“Exactly. That’s the charm of botanical illustration.”
Miss Penrose smiled warmly and turned the next page.
“Now, this is a cross-sectional diagram. And look—we can see the entire life cycle of the plant.”
Pistil and stamen, each individual ovule within the ovary—all rendered as if sliced open with a knife, alive and breathing. Beside it, the plant’s various forms unfold.
A freshly sprouted seed, a flower in full bloom, the branched form of fruit-bearing. And finally, the way the plant withers and fades as it reaches the end of its life.
Beatrice turned the page as if entranced. Exotic plants from different climates and landscapes appeared in succession.
Tropical fruits hanging from deep crimson stems with iridescent sheen, delicate veins like threads spreading as intricately as capillaries, stem joints layered as densely as serpent scales. Flower buds swathed in thick down stood out with palpable dimension, as though ready to bloom at any moment.
“Um, Miss Penrose? I was wondering—”
As she studied the illustrations carefully, a question bloomed in one corner of her mind.
“Did you really seek out all these plants yourself and draw them? You couldn’t possibly have witnessed every stage—the sprouting, the growth, the withering—with your own eyes each time.”
“A keen observation. No, I haven’t witnessed every stage with my own eyes.”
“But then doesn’t imagination inevitably come into play?”
Beatrice’s voice grew taut without her realizing it, remembering the sharp criticism she’d once endured for drawing something she hadn’t seen, letting imagination run wild.
“But that isn’t imagination—it’s rigorous historical reference and reconstruction.”
Miss Penrose smiled faintly.
Historical reference and reconstruction…?
Beatrice blinked, turning the words over in her mind. It was a moment when her notion of illustration as passive documentation—mere copying—began to crumble.
“I prefer to follow researchers into the field when possible, but often I must work from specimens that have crossed the sea. When I receive a handful of dried specimens—pressed flat and faded to brown—I confess the task feels overwhelming.”
Beatrice nodded. The image of Patrick’s blank face as he’d handed her a dried specimen and demanded precision crossed her mind once more.
“In such cases, I gather every scrap of field notes the collector left behind, every account written of similar species.”
Beatrice drew a soft breath of understanding.
“One must possess tremendous knowledge, then.”
“Well, that’s the foundation. But active collaboration with one’s partner is equally important.”
Miss Penrose’s eyes sparkled with playful amusement. Beatrice felt her cheeks warm unbidden, and she blinked.
“There’s so much to do. Measuring the thickness of cell walls in dried husks to calculate backward the moisture and volume the living plant once held, cross-referencing pigment names in journals to track down the true shade of a lost red. Like a detective, really.”
“I see.”
“By fitting all these fragments together, I work to resurrect the plant’s original volume and color with the greatest possible accuracy. The artist must exercise imagination actively, yes, but with every ounce of strength bent toward approaching truth.”
Not mere passive copying, but the pursuit of hidden truth. It was a beautiful way to describe it.
With this realization came the understanding that she was stepping onto a path far more difficult than she’d imagined. And now, at last, she grasped what her uncle had meant.
As Beatrice fixed her gaze on the illustrations with unwavering attention, Miss Penrose watched her with evident satisfaction.
“Then, Lady Beatrice—are you ready for your first lesson?”
“Yes!”
Beatrice broke into a radiant smile. As she recalled her uncle Edward’s gentle words, her heart began to beat faster.
‘You’ll come to love this work, I’m certain of it.’

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