Late morning settled over Artemis with a precision that felt practiced.
Not natural but fully practiced.
The restoration wing existed in two versions of itself, layered so seamlessly that most never noticed the distinction. The visible floor-- bright, methodical, ordinary-- held the rhythm of a functioning institution. Tables lined with tools. Climate-controlled glass. Conservators in neutral tones moving with quiet efficiency.
Routine, predictable, and safe.
Galathea Brooks stood just inside it, gloved hands resting lightly at her sides, eyes scanning the space like she was looking for something that refused to appear.
Everything looked normal.
Which was exactly the problem.
A conservator at the far table adjusted a varnish lamp, angling the light over a Renaissance fragment. Another logged surface readings into a tablet, posture relaxed, movements practiced.
"…why is this still wet-- "
"It's fine. Don't log it."
A pause.
"But-- "
"Just move it."
