Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 61

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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 61
The morning air hung damper here than in Windham. In the hazy light seeping through the window, Beatrice laid out her Painting Kit on the table and examined the Paint Tubes and paper condition.
The soft sound of water from behind the narrow inn room’s partition, and the warmth of the night spent beneath a blanket on her lap by the light of a single Gas Lamp, dispersed subtly into the room’s stillness.
The awkwardness of sharing a single guest room dissolved into the morning’s bustle, creating a delicate current of air.
Patrick secured a bundle of sour Rye Bread and heavy Meat Pies that the innkeeper had just prepared alongside his Backpack, fastened the knots of his Leather Gaiters once more, and tested his Walking Staff—his movements more deliberate than usual.
“Well then. Shall we get to work?”
Patrick shouldered his Backpack firmly and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
They had arranged to travel to the Peatland Region by hitching a ride on a local miner’s cart.
As they sat side by side on the back of the old cart pulled by the miner, a light jolting impact came with a cold mist brushing against her cheek. Each time the cart wheels crossed smooth gravel and puddles, rough vibrations from the wooden floor traveled up her spine.
On the roadside hills, sheep drenched in rain and turned ashen sat scattered about, grazing. The miner, a Wooden Pipe filled with sour tobacco smoke clenched between his teeth, offered a few curt warnings as he observed Norspen’s temperamental mists and endless marshes.
He warned them not to set foot carelessly anywhere without testing the ground with a staff, for dangerous quicksand lurked everywhere on the plain, capable of swallowing a person in an instant.
Patrick nodded to the miner’s words as though familiar with such warnings, while Beatrice gazed quietly at his reassuring profile and steadied her resolve.
Each time the cart moved irregularly between gravel and muddy paths, their shoulders touched lightly and drifted apart in rhythm. Whenever the feel of wet serge cloth and Patrick’s body heat brushed against her sleeve, Beatrice found her heart thudding unexpectedly.
Beatrice drew the hem of her newly acquired thick Duster Coat firmly around herself. She had donned sturdy Tweed Skirt and Boots capable of withstanding muddy terrain, and would navigate the wetlands without hesitation.
As she fingered the Brass Magnifying Glass gifted to her by Miss Penrose, Beatrice realized she was gaining an experience many times more precious than the journey to Berkyon.
The cart halted at the end of the road. When she faced the vast Peatland Plain spreading endlessly to the horizon, Beatrice drew in a sharp breath without thinking.
The marsh of Norspen was incomparably vast compared to that narrow Collection site in the Capital Vicinity.
The low-lying mist settled over the land in quietness, and above the endless brown plain, silver reeds and dried cattails swayed in the cold wind, rustling in unison.
The scent of sour Peat earth mingled with the smell of damp river water flowed deep into her lungs.
“Watch your step.”
Patrick, who had jumped down from the cart first, extended his hand toward Beatrice. As she carefully set her first foot down the slope, the sensation of the wet ground sucking at the sole of her Boot was vivid. With each step, cold, heavy moisture seeped through the leather with palpable clarity.
“We’ll collect the common Moss species here first, then venture deeper to find the colony of Red-heart Water Moss, our true objective.”
Patrick prodded the ground beneath his feet with his Walking Staff, clearing a path. Beatrice nodded and followed his broad back.
Patrick was extremely cautious. Before approaching the Moss hummock, he probed the surrounding marsh floor with his Walking Staff to confirm solid ground, only then kneeling down.
Thanks to the thick leather protective pads beneath his knees, his trousers stayed dry, but when Beatrice knelt on the marsh ground following Patrick’s lead, she flinched at the damp, cold sensation. Through the stiff Tweed fabric, the cool moisture of the Peatland Region seeped in drop by drop.
Patrick drew out a sharp Collection Knife and carefully carved a square outline around the Moss cluster as though cutting a cake. Then he pushed his gloved fingers into the soil, careful not to tear the stem, and gently lifted it.
The Moss clump came free with a sharp, wet sound—”Crack! Splosh!”—bringing up the black Peat layer beneath it.
Gazing at the Moss covered in damp soil and black Peat, Beatrice felt her chest swell. Unlike the specimens she had seen in the laboratory, the raw vitality here was palpable and vivid.
“We need to squeeze out the water.”
Patrick gently squeezed the Moss in his palm, draining unnecessary moisture—for excess water would cause it to decay in storage.
Reddish-brown moisture dripped between his fingers, releasing a thick earthen smell. He carefully placed the Moss into a prepared Oil Paper Envelope, then meticulously recorded the collection number, microhabitat, and date with an Ink Pen on the envelope’s surface.
The carefully prepared envelope went into the Brass Vasculum hanging from Patrick’s shoulder.
Beatrice had much to do as well. Before the dehydrated Moss lost its distinctive color and form, she rapidly sketched its vivid hue immediately after collection.
On the wet ground, she held the Brass Magnifying Glass inherited from Miss Penrose and diligently transferred the tiny green forest onto her portable Sketch Pad.
Each delicate stem bore overlapping star-shaped leaves, and the fine water droplets clinging to the leaf tips gleamed like silver jewels through the lens.
The Graphite Pencil scratched cleanly against the firm paper surface, its sound ringing clearly in the stillness.
Between the two of them throughout the morning, conversation was sparse.
In the oppressive silence emanating from the vast plain, the two remained quiet. There was no reason to raise their voices and break the stillness. As they worked intently, an extraordinarily calm and honest silence flowed between them.
When Patrick felt sufficient work had been accomplished, he suggested moving to a new location. Beatrice had just finished a sketch and was tidying her Sketch Pad to move forward.
While concentrating on removing the Brass Clip that held the paper in place, her foot caught on something with a dull thud. It was a damp, slippery Moss hump jutting up from the marsh floor.
Her step tangled on the slick surface heavy with moisture, and her body lost its balance, tilting forward.
“Oh!”
The moment she sensed the fall, squeezing her eyes shut, Patrick reached out and pulled her waist lightly toward himself.
“Careful.”
Her mind spun dizzily. In that brief moment, as they steadied themselves by grasping each other’s shoulders and sleeves, her breath came hot. Around them all was damp and cold, yet Patrick’s body, holding Beatrice in this desolate land, was far too warm.
“Thank you.”
Beatrice barely regained her balance, hanging from his arm.
His deep blue eyes were sharply etched in her gaze. Though she carefully created distance, Patrick did not release his hand until he was certain Beatrice was safe.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, truly.”
Beatrice straightened her Painting Kit as though unbothered, but even as she adjusted it, her breathing quickened as if that warmth still enveloped her.
“Well, it seems the morning Collection should be sufficient. The weather is unpredictable here, so we should move quickly.”
Patrick adjusted his Collection Vasculum and marked with his eyes the mist-laden region settling far in the distance. Wind-tossed strands of his hair scattered haphazardly, and the sky darkened, settling with moisture.
“Now let’s head deeper in and search for the true Red-heart Water Moss.”
It was time to venture into the heart of the true marsh.

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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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