Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 47

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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 47
The motorcar had just left Windham and turned onto a dusty country road when it happened.
Beatrice could bear the stuffiness no longer and threw back her motoring veil.
She removed her hat as well, then pulled the pins from her hair and cast them aside; her thick, golden waves suddenly billowed and caught the wind, streaming wildly behind her.
“Beatrice! What on earth are you doing?”
Patrick, startled, gripped the steering wheel tightly and turned to look at her.
“I was stifled! Had to get some air!”
Beatrice shouted loudly, throwing both arms up.
“Take that, Etienne Morel! You can go to the devil!”
Her cry cut through the motorcar’s rumbling engine with fierce energy. Even as the wind whipped her hair about, Beatrice paid no mind and continued hurling insults.
“You wretched man! I hope you fall flat on your face!”
No time for corsets, no time for propriety, no place for the dignity of a nobleman’s daughter—Beatrice gave voice to the resentment in her chest once, twice, and again, her throat raw from shouting.
“What makes you think you’re so grand?”
“You worthless creature! May you rot!”
Psh…
Patrick kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead and his hands on the wheel, but the sight of Beatrice hurling abuse with such vehemence kept breaking him into laughter.
“Beatrice, please—don’t speak such harsh words with that expression.”
She whirled on the laughing man with an indignant pout.
“What’s wrong with my face? Are you making fun of me again for being puffy from crying?”
“No, no… it’s a lovely face.”
“Oh, stop…”
The storm of Beatrice’s tirades subsided abruptly, flustered by the compliment, and Patrick smiled and deftly turned the wheel.
The motorcar gradually slowed. As they entered a modest village lined with low brick houses, a quaint street appeared.
The glassworks, their destination, stood at the far end of the street. The moment they stepped inside, a shimmering heat rolled out from within.
“Wow… glass bottles are made like this?”
Beatrice could not tear her eyes from the fascinating sight.
A glassmaker stood before a furnace, slowly rotating an orange mass of molten glass dangling from the end of a long pipe.
He pulled and twisted the hot, dough-like glass, then put his mouth to the end of the pipe and blew—once, twice—his breath coaxing the sticky mass to billow slowly, slowly into a round, swelling form.
“Remarkable, isn’t it? It’s said to be a specialty of Caraway.”
The craftsman rolled the inflated glass against a wooden form dampened with water.
A hiss, and steam rose in clouds; the bumpy mass gradually took on the smooth, cylindrical shape of a vessel.
With metal pincers he drew out the neck, snipped it with shears, pressed the base flat—and throughout this work, Beatrice remained transfixed.
The movements were so swift, the bending and cutting and shaping so practiced, that within the span of a few blinks, the blob at the end of the pipe had become a proper bottle.
“Are the bottles we use made the same way?”
“Yes.”
Patrick offered the explanation matter-of-factly, as though the sight were familiar to him.
Glass made this way must be left beside the furnace for about a day, cooling slowly, he said.
Glass that cools too quickly cannot withstand the heat trapped inside and cracks of its own accord. So one must be patient, letting time do its work.
“It seems that nothing improves without haste—everything requires time to ripen properly if it’s to last.”
Patrick, lost in thought for a moment, added quietly:
“Just like the human heart.”
“You’re from the museum, aren’t you?”
The proprietor of the workshop greeted them warmly as they stood absorbed in observation.
“Your order was packed this morning. The Glass Cylinder and Experimental Vessel, correct?”
He brought out several wooden crates from a shelf and opened them one by one, asking them to inspect for any damage.
Patrick and Beatrice methodically checked each item against the invoice, and the proprietor carefully packed the goods and loaded them onto a delivery cart.
“Now, let’s go to the art supply shop.”
His tone was as measured as always, yet both Patrick and Beatrice were electric with anticipation—like children on an outing, or lovers on their first date.
As they made their way toward the paint shop at the end of the street, there were a few sights to see.
A pony stood with a gentle face before the blacksmith, waiting its turn for new shoes, while an elderly woman sat on a chair just outside her door, her lap full of willow branches as she concentrated on weaving a basket.
Because Beatrice stopped every few steps, the pair moved slowly. Patrick waited for her with unhurried patience, observing her face.
The sight of her weeping that morning as though the world had collapsed had long since cleared, replaced by such high spirits that he felt they had made the right choice to venture out.
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Much better.”
As she turned, a full, radiant smile bloomed across her face. Inexplicably, Patrick found himself unable to look away, and words abandoned him.
Sunlight poured down at an angle upon her.
Her thick, loosened hair caught the light like golden thread, gleaming, while her slightly upturned eyes held a clear, jade-green shine like spring leaves wet with dew.
The flushed curve of her cheeks, the soft arch of her eyes, and the lips that spoke his name.
A person who seemed to gather all the loveliness in the world into one form—and seeing Beatrice Somerset anew, Patrick felt a sudden vertigo.
* * *
The sign above the art shop gleamed with elegant lettering spelling out “Winfield and Johnson.”
Beneath the large signboard painted with a magpie holding a pigment dish, Beatrice let out a soft gasp as she glimpsed the easels and canvases that crowded the space behind the broad display window.
“Oh!”
Stepping inside, they were met with a charming sight. Paint tubes in every conceivable hue lined the display cases that stretched to the ceiling. Bottles of pigment, sealed with cork stoppers, stood in neat rows on shelves, catching the light from the windows and glinting with powdery brilliance.
An entire wall devoted to brushes. Fine brushes no thicker than a finger, broad ones as wide as a broom—badger hair and hog bristle arranged in perfect size progression. The scent of paper mingled with the smell of oil, creating an atmosphere all its own.
“…Take your time looking around.”
Patrick smiled and stepped back. There was no hurry today, no one to worry about offending. Of course, before his words had even finished, Beatrice had already disappeared between the display cases.
She lifted each pigment bottle to the light, weighed brushes in her palm to gauge their feel, ran her fingertips across paper samples to sense their texture.
Her heart could hardly help but soar. The freedom to wander between the shelves, to select items with her own hands, to compare prices—it was utterly delightful. And all the more so because Patrick had drawn close beside her.
“Patrick, look at this.”
Beatrice pulled him toward the red pigment display. Carmine, vermillion, crimson lake—bottles of red in different shades and appearances lined up in order. She selected a few, uncorked them, and dabbed a little powder on the back of her hand, rubbing the colors side by side to compare them.
“Do you think any of these match the color of red moss and lichen?”
“I’m not sure. I’m no expert. We should go together soon—you’ll see it with your own eyes on the spot.”
In the end, Beatrice gathered one bottle of every red pigment in that section. She had long wanted to see the color of the living red moss and lichen with her own eyes.
Fine brushes for sketching, a bundle of newly released watercolor paper, and a mountain of purchases accumulated at the counter.
“This is my gift to you.”
She thought the shopping was finished, but at the last moment, Patrick placed a premium fine brush on the counter. It was a slender badger-hair brush with excellent resilience.
“The quality of your detailed paintings reflects the quality of the research itself. Call it a necessary expense.”
“Thank you. I’ll put it to good use—for a very, very long time.”
Beatrice held back a laugh as she adjusted the bundle in her arms.
“What shall we do now?”
“Let’s go over there and take a walk.”
Patrick gestured toward the crowded street. A park where couples and families strolled in small groups drew the eye, as did a fountain where cheerful music drifted up from the basin.

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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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