The conservation medical room looked nothing like a hospital.
Galathea Brooks noticed that immediately.
Instead of white walls and stainless-steel trays, the space resembled a hybrid between a laboratory and an art restoration studio. Adjustable conservation lamps cast warm, precise light over worktables designed for fragile masterpieces. Glass cabinets held brushes thinner than needles, pigment jars sealed with wax, and rows of solvents labeled with handwritten tags.
Except tonight, the masterpiece on the table was breathing.
The girl that fell out of the painting lay beneath the overhead lamps, wrapped loosely in a pale conservation sheet. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven rhythms.
Still alive and still impossible... yet, there she was.
Galathea stood near the wall, arms folded tightly against her ribs, watching as two Artemis conservators worked carefully around the table.
