The conservation medical room looked nothing like a hospital.
Galathea Brooks noticed that immediately.
Warm conservation lamps hung from adjustable metal arms above a central examination table. Glass-front cabinets lined the walls, filled with pigment samples, restoration brushes, solvent jars, and archival tools arranged with obsessive precision. A climate-control unit hummed quietly near the ceiling, regulating temperature and humidity with the same care usually reserved for priceless artwork.
Tonight, the artwork was breathing.
Tansy lay beneath a pale conservation sheet stretched across the examination table. Her damp hair spread against the pillow. A monitor tracked her pulse in steady green flashes while another displayed imaging scans that made Galathea increasingly uncomfortable.
Across the room, two Artemis conservators worked with practiced calm.
Dr. Ibarra adjusted a lamp angle while his assistant reviewed readings on a tablet. Neither looked particularly alarmed.
