Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do Chapter 43: Chapter 42: A Vision in Winterlight / Instructor Valentina Amos

Read chapter 43 of Transmigrated into a Fantasy World with No Clue What To Do by PrincessArylin on NovelPedia.

Chapter 42: A Vision in Winterlight / Instructor Valentina Amos The day after my visit to the Royal Conservatory of Art and Antiquities is, for the most part, uneventful. With Izzy and Mari at St. Astra’s, Angus occupied elsewhere, and little interest in burying myself in assigned reading sent over from the academy, the afternoon leaves me with far too much idle time. So here I am, rather bored and not really in a mood to even read one of my novels. After the date with Angus yesterday, I have found it hard to focus. My mind keeps circling back to that painting. According to Angus, the artist, Élise Beauchamp, was known for her works depicting grief. According to her, the scenes come to her when she sleeps and, upon waking, she has to rush to get a preliminary sketch done, else she’ll forget. That is the reason the focus of her paintings is so strong, while everything else fades into either the foreground or background. After Angus’s explanation, I became even more convinced she had somehow seen me and my mother on that day. To pass the time, since I don’t feel like studying or reading, I am working on one of the original Beira’s needlepoint projects that she’ll never get to finish. I am rapidly finding out that, while I have the memory of what to do and the pattern she was attempting to make, the task may be a bit too advanced for me. Mother, who is sitting close by, her own needlepoint in hand, is watching me as she has been doing these last couple of days and has had to thread my needle for me. Right now, it feels as if she is scrutinizing me for the monstrosity I am turning this project into or just trying to figure me out by extended stares. That’s not to say that she has been rude or any stricter than usual, in fact after our visit to the school she has lightened up a little. A part of me understands that she is concerned that I might do something uncharacteristic around others, which will lead to questions and possibly hurting my image, so she is watching out for clues regarding that, but I wish she would go back to being the mother that she was in Braemar Keep and on the road to Aberling. She was still a bit cold and standoffish then too, but that was equally balanced with warmth. Now, those occasions of warmth seem few and far between, to the point I even overheard my dad talking to her about it. She had assured him that it was primarily because she was nervous about my return to high society, and promised him that she would try to hide her nerves from me better. What do I say to that? It’s not like I can call her out on her behavior now. Still, it did seem like she was making an effort. The attempts to help with this needlepoint project, for instance. I just wish I didn’t feel so much like I am under the microscope. “Ouch!” I exclaim, having pricked my finger for the fourth time. “Sweetie, you are supposed to pierce the canvas, not your flesh.” She says again, for the third time. I sigh and set the project to the side, as I pinch my fingertip to stop the bleeding. I don’t want to get blood on my hard, if incomprehensible, work. There is a knock on the door and a moment later it opens. An older man, whose name I have learned is Bartholomew, steps into the room and clears his throat. “Duchess Braemar. Lady Beira,” he says formally. “The Royal Tailor, Sterling St. Clair, is here to see you.” “We shall receive him in Beira’s dressing room. Call Mary and Hilda to meet us there,” my mother commands. The older man bows deeply. “As you wish, Duchess Braemar.” He says before performing a sharp about face and leaving the room. My mother stands quickly, a twinkle in her eye, and holds out a hand to me. “Come, let us hurry so that we don’t arrive last,” she says. I nod and take her offered hand, standing. By the time my mother and I reach my dressing room, Sterling St. Clair is already there, standing in the center of the room as if he belongs nowhere else. To the side are the two assistants that were with him before. He turns th