Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 44

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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 44
Annex Room 101 of the Natural History Museum had gradually filled to bursting with Patrick’s and Beatrice’s belongings.
Glass Sample Bottles and a Microscope, Brass Tweezers and Absorbent Paper, Flasks holding solutions and various documents arranged in neat angles occupied Patrick’s desk, while Paint Tubes in a dozen hues, a Brush Holder, and a Palette with its oils half-dried lay scattered across Beatrice’s side.
Into their daily routine had seeped, unnoticed, a host of small, quiet rituals. Whoever arrived first in the morning would set the Kettle to boil, then tidy the shared space beyond their own desks.
Of course, out of consideration for the noble-born Beatrice—who had never wielded a broom in her life—it was usually the quietly punctual Patrick who reached for one.
Before beginning their work in earnest, they always shared a cup of tea. Some days they exchanged conversation across the rising steam from their Tea Cups; other times each sat in silence, collecting their thoughts or leafing through the Plant Handbook and the morning Newspaper.
It mattered little what they did. What mattered was that this brief span of time, facing each other across warm cups, had become a sacred ritual that opened each day.
Once the tea was finished, their separate research naturally resumed. Patrick was lately investigating the preservative properties of Red Moss, so the air inside carried a persistent sour smell from the solutions—which was the only real drawback.
But then again, Beatrice’s pungent Rapeseed Paint and Pentane Oil fumes were hardly subtle either, so the two of them gradually acclimated to breathing in each other’s air.
Yet their days were not always peaceful.
Patrick’s fastidiousness—his need to place everything in its proper spot—and Beatrice’s casual habit of setting down whatever she held whenever and wherever she pleased created friction that squeaked and crackled throughout the day.
Whenever Patrick discovered one of Beatrice’s objects creeping into his carefully ordered territory, a thin line would form between his brows. When he exhaled in deep frustration and let displeasure show on his face, Beatrice’s heart would clench with embarrassment.
“Beatrice. Why is this on my desk?”
“Oh? I must have left it there yesterday. I forgot.”
“And why is a Palette with Paint on it sitting on top of my Classification Chart?”
“I was drying it for a moment. Honestly, why make such a fuss over that?”
“It’s rather grating when you take that brazenly unapologetic tone while you’re supposed to be apologizing.”
Yet if one looked only at this exchange, it seemed Patrick bore all the grievance—when in truth, the Moss Research Laboratory in Annex Room 101 had been rescued from disaster more than once by Beatrice’s bright, warm manner of speaking.
Patrick, being sharp-tongued and intolerant of compromise, frequently quarreled with other researchers over access to the museum’s few precious instruments, and his pointed words earned him their enmity more often than not.
He clashed with the administrative department repeatedly over procedures for removing specimens and rare materials; his defensive stance and refusal to show kindness meant he often wore a scowl that blocked progress entirely.
In such moments, it was often Beatrice, observing quietly from the side, who would step forward.
With her characteristic bright smile, she would tactfully retreat a half-step and ask for understanding—yet somehow achieve an outcome most favorable to Annex Room 101. A kind of magic Patrick could never fathom.
He could not grasp how it worked, but he knew beyond doubt that he had navigated countless difficult situations smoothly because of her.
Naturally complementing each other’s shortcomings, the trust between them deepened with each passing day. Now, though they might bicker over small habits, they no longer harbored resentment or engage in serious quarrels.
Though the work they undertook together was grueling, their synchronized efforts allowed the research to progress smoothly, and they were able to chart the overall direction of the Manuscript’s Draft far sooner than originally anticipated.
“Beatrice. Shall we take this Weekend to rest?”
“The Weekend?”
“We ought to have Weekends too. Everyone else rests on Weekends. I think it would be good for us to rest properly at home and meet again on Monday.”
Until now, the two had scarcely had any days off. Even on Closed Days, it was simply quieter and more relaxed than usual. In fact, the Closed Days made it easier to devote themselves entirely to work.
To be honest, Beatrice was not particularly keen on it. Did they really need Weekends? She felt fine. Every morning when she opened her eyes, nothing in the world felt more eagerly awaited than going to Annex Room 101.
Could it be that Patrick wanted to rest at home?
As that thought took hold, a small hollow opened in her chest—but Beatrice quickly shook it away.
Her body had been crying out for rest long before now anyway. Between painting without pause and immersing herself in studying materials, her neck, wrists, lower back, and every joint ached relentlessly.
When the museum closed its doors, they made their way home like any other office worker eagerly awaiting the Weekend, passing through the familiar Corridor, through the familiar Stone Entrance, and exchanging an ordinary goodbye.
The only difference was the absence of the “See you tomorrow” that had become their habit.
Both Beatrice and Patrick felt a strange awkwardness as they parted.
“See you Monday.”
“Yes. Take care.”
It was merely a two-day gap, yet the beginning of the Weekend felt oddly, mysteriously vast.
* * *
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, tickling her cheek. Beatrice, wandering in that hazy border between dream and waking, suddenly startled and bolted upright.
She was late!
The small Clock on her nightstand showed well past nine o’clock. Her mind racing through the sequence—wash, dress, Carriage—she kicked off her bedclothes and abruptly remembered Patrick’s words from the day before.
‘Rest properly at home and meet on Monday.’
“…The Weekend. He said it was the Weekend.”
She mumbled hollowly and flopped backward onto the soft mattress.
‘Weekend’—a concept quite foreign to the nobility. For rest to be a reward, one must first be someone who works every day, and the nobility were not such people.
Beatrice was no exception. Now she truly understood what ‘resting’ on the Weekend meant.
The past month had been a relentless cycle: rising at dawn to go to work, gripping a brush all day while nursing aches in her lower back and elbows, then collapsing into sleep at night.
So this is why everyone talks about Weekends.
Wiggling her toes beneath the covers, she grasped the meaning for the first time. She realized now that a morning without obligations was remarkably, deliciously sweet.
By midday, Beatrice rose and took her breakfast in the Dining Room.
A golden Meat Pie, Stew steaming in its bowl, Pudding crowned with soft cream—a feast far too elaborate for breakfast, yet the servants insisted that on Weekends one must rest thoroughly and eat abundantly.
“I’m truly fine. Everyone else is working so hard, and I just paint in the laboratory. It’s not that difficult.”
“Oh, Miss, please don’t say such things. Why, you’ve grown thin!”
It seemed the servants regarded Beatrice Somerset as a pitiful sacrifice, laboring under duress.
These very people rose in the darkness while she slept, kindling fires and cleaning before dawn.
Just this morning, while she lay in bed discovering the sweetness of the Weekend, they had drawn water, baked bread, and polished the Silver Tray to begin their day.
Beatrice cut a slice of Meat Pie and brought it briskly to her mouth. By the speed at which her plate emptied, it was clear her body—whatever her mind might say—had been welcoming the Weekend all along.
“So then, what do people do on their rest days? What should I do with my Weekend?”
The attendants could not stifle their laughter. It seemed Beatrice’s manner struck them as rather amusing.
“There’s a trick to resting days, you know. Don’t think about anything—sleep soundly, eat delicious food, and spend time doing whatever brings you the most joy. That’s how you gather strength for Monday.”
“Whatever brings me the most joy.”
“Spending time with friends, too. Everyone’s so busy with work during the week.”
The most joyful thing. Recalling her days lately, there was only one moment that truly mattered—only one that made her genuinely happy.
Peering into the green world beyond the lens in Annex Room 101, painting, and those hours spent with Patrick.
The value of a day off? Nonsense. If she was being honest, right now she’d gladly summon a carriage and race to the museum without hesitation.
“The thing I enjoy most these days… is my research at the museum.”
“What about painting? You haven’t touched it at home in ages.”
The maid had spoken carelessly enough, but Beatrice felt a jolt of alarm. Now that she thought of it, she really hadn’t painted. When did she stop?

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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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