Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Red color

A week passed.

The following Saturday arrived unnoticed, and with it, another class with Roger Dickens.

To be honest, I was a little nervous about it, as the incident that happened in our last class still bothered me.

Nevertheless, I tried to put those thoughts out of my mind. It would be better if I just forgot about it, right? You could say it was just an accident that didn’t really matter.

In the end, thinking this, I sighed heavily once again as I got ready for the trip to the Dickens estate.

The journey went smoothly, and soon I found myself at the familiar estate.

Roger Dickens, as before, met me at the gate.

"Welcome, Lady Weinstein."

He held out his hand to help me down from the carriage.

"How was your trip?" he asked.

"Fine, thank you," I replied calmly.

We exchanged formal greetings, but as soon as I looked at him more closely, I sensed something strange. More precisely, I couldn’t help but notice that Roger’s expression was somewhat unusual today.

As usual, he smiled slightly at me. But this smile... seemed a little different than usual.

I frowned slightly, thinking about it, until I finally decided that it was probably just my imagination. Besides, the next second Roger had already invited me into the house:

"It’s windy outside today. Let’s go inside quickly."

"Yes, of course," I nodded.

As before, we headed straight for the room where our lessons usually took place.

When we entered, Roger gently closed the door behind us. He clicked the lock — quietly but distinctly — and for some reason, the sound evoked a strange feeling in me.

I involuntarily glanced around the room, running my eyes over the familiar objects, and, wanting to bring the conversation back to its usual course, I asked:

"Sir Roger, have you finished the painting I commissioned you to do last time?"

"Ah, yes," he replied after a short pause. "I’ve already finished it."

"Really?" I perked up a little. "Then please show it to me."

He nodded, and we walked together to the easel standing by the window. It was covered with a thin cloth, through which I could vaguely make out the outline of the painting. Roger stretched, removed the cover, and the canvas appeared before me.

I expected to see a familiar image — the same white flower on a dark background, a symbol of purity and hope, which Roger had described to me in the previous lesson. But what met my eyes was something completely different.

"Um... Sir Roger..." I said uncertainly, not immediately finding the right words.

"Yes, lady?" He looked at me calmly, as if not understanding what had confused me.

I looked at the canvas again.

"Wasn’t the flower white last time?"

For a moment, silence hung in the room.

Now the flower, which had previously shone with a delicate whiteness against the backdrop of darkness, as if embodying the fragile light of hope, had turned into something else.

Its petals were a rich red — a deep, almost bloody shade that contrasted sharply with the former purity of the composition. The red, vivid, disturbing color seemed to have displaced everything else, filling the space of the painting.

I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

"It’s..." I said barely audibly, feeling the words freeze on my tongue, "it looks completely different."

"Yes, exactly," Roger said with a barely noticeable smile. "I thought red would work better here. So I decided to redo the painting."

I looked back at the canvas.

"Work better?" I asked, feeling my eyebrows furrow involuntarily.

"Yes," he nodded, looking at his creation with an almost obsessive gleam in his eyes. "Bright red on a black background... Isn’t it mesmerizing? Look how it stands out. Red is the color of blood. And blood... is life. It’s a very beautiful color, don’t you think?"

I froze, not expecting such a response. There was such confidence, even enthusiasm, in his voice that I couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of unease.

"So..." I asked quietly, "that’s why you decided to repaint the flower red?"

"Yes," the guy replied simply. "Because it’s the color of blood. I’ve always liked it."

Roger suddenly turned to me, and at that moment his gaze became piercing, almost frightening.

"And you, lady, do you like this color?"

"What...?" I was taken aback, not expecting such a question.

"Do you like the color of blood?" he repeated, his voice lowering.

I looked away, feeling a chill run down my spine.

"Um... I don’t know," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "I’ve never thought about it."

Roger paused for a moment, as if listening to his own thoughts. Then he sighed quietly and tilted his head slightly to one side.

"I see..." he said thoughtfully, then smiled again. It was a strange smile.

I didn’t say anything either, just looked at him silently.

"You know," Roger continued after a short pause, still looking at the painting, "if I had painted it with real blood instead of paint... I think it would have been much more expressive."

The guy said this with the same calmness that hardly anyone else could have mustered.

My throat went dry. I didn’t know how to respond right away.

"Real... blood?" I asked, almost in a whisper, hardly believing what I had heard.

"Yes," he simply nodded, as if it were the most natural thing to say. "After all, doesn’t art require sacrifice?"

The silence between us became too palpable.

I looked away from the painting, feeling my heart beat a little faster.

Roger stood in front of the easel, his head slightly bowed, seemingly completely immersed in his thoughts. His lips moved silently, as if he were whispering something to himself, and his gaze, fixed on the painting, was somehow... strange. Almost fanatical.

I frowned, trying to understand what was happening to him.

The way he had just talked about blood — it all sounded too... unnatural for Roger. It seemed as if the person standing in front of me was someone who had changed somehow.

I clenched my fingers uncertainly and asked cautiously:

"Um... Sir Roger, why did you suddenly start talking about this?"

He didn’t answer right away. For a second, I even thought he hadn’t heard my question — he was so deep in thought. But then his shoulders suddenly jerked, and his face contorted in pain.

"Agh..."

The sound was muffled and painful.

Roger grabbed his head sharply, as if trying to hold something inside. His fingers clenched his hair, his breathing became uneven, and his lips turned white.

"Sir Roger!" I exclaimed, taking a step toward him.

The guy didn’t answer. For a few seconds, he just stood there, swaying, as if fighting unbearable pain. Then he gradually lowered his hands, took a deep breath, and his gaze finally cleared.

Now there was no strange gleam in his eyes — only fatigue.

"I’m sorry, Lady Weinstein," Roger said quietly, and there was sincere remorse in his voice. "Lately... all kinds of strange thoughts have been entering my head. And I... can’t always control them."

I frowned, looking anxiously at his face.

"Strange thoughts...?" I asked cautiously.

Roger looked away, as if ashamed of his own words.

"Yes," he muttered, barely audibly. "Maybe it’s because my head still hurts. Sometimes..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Sometimes I can’t quite control my thoughts. They just come. Uninvited. And I don’t understand why."

He spoke softly, but there was a slight tremor in his voice. I felt a chill run down my spine.

"I’m sorry," the guy added a little louder, as if trying to regain his composure. "I’m probably just overtired. I shouldn’t have said those things in front of you."

I hesitated a little, not even knowing what to say.

The Roger I knew was standing in front of me again — calm and level-headed. But now, after what I had seen, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something disturbing might be hiding behind this outward composure.

I felt a vague uneasiness growing inside me, but I tried not to show it.

"Is your head still hurting?" I asked cautiously, trying to break the silence.

Roger nodded, touching his temple lightly with his fingers.

"Yes..." he sighed. "It started a week ago and hasn’t stopped since."

His voice sounded quietly tired.

"Have you seen a doctor about it?" I asked, involuntarily taking a step closer.

"Of course," the guy smiled briefly, "but he said there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just tired."

"Oh, I see..." I said quietly, not knowing what else to add.

There was silence between us for a moment.

Then Roger slowly touched his head again, closing his eyes as if a wave of pain had washed over him once more.

"Sir Roger..." I began softly but firmly. "If you’re still feeling unwell, I don’t think we should continue the lesson."

The boy looked up at me. For a moment, something like protest flashed in his eyes, as if he wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat.

"But..." he tried to say.

"Your condition is the most important thing right now," I interrupted, trying to speak calmly but firmly. "If you’re really tired, you should rest. The rest can wait."

Roger was silent for a moment, thinking about it. Then he nodded slightly.

"Okay... if you think so," he finally said.

I nodded in response, about to say something encouraging, but suddenly noticed his expression change again.

A slight, almost unnatural smile appeared on Roger’s lips. His eyes darkened, his gaze became strangely fixed.

"You’re right," he said quietly, still smiling. "I really should get some rest."

"Yes," I said, trying not to show my confusion. "Okay. Then I’ll come back next time."

I gathered my things, feeling a strange sensation growing inside me.

When I headed for the door, Roger didn’t move. He stood by the easel, motionless, still smiling, his gaze returning to the painting.

His gaze was fixed on the painting, as if everything else had ceased to exist for him.

I grabbed the doorknob, but before closing the door behind me, I turned around involuntarily. The gap between the doorframe and the door allowed me to see only part of the room, but that was enough.

Roger was still standing at the easel. Then he slowly raised his hand, ran his finger along the edge of the metal palette, and I saw a tiny drop of blood glisten on his skin.

It rolled down his finger and fell onto the brush Roger was holding in his other hand. But the guy didn’t stop there. He dipped the tip of the brush in the scarlet trail of his blood and ran it across the canvas, adding a new stroke to the flower.

I couldn’t see the expression on his face at that moment because he had his back to me.

In any case, my heart sank unpleasantly. I felt a chill run down my spine again.

Since I felt strange, I hurried to close the door behind me and leave as quickly as possible.