The sixth-floor executive lounge sat a floor above the Reading Hall behind a private elevator and a pair of walnut doors that looked more expensive than most people's cars.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the marble floors gold. Leather sofas surrounded low tables carved from dark stone. Shelves filled with rare art books lined one wall beside a private bar stocked with crystal decanters and bottles that probably cost more than Galathea Brooks' monthly rent.
The city stretched beyond the glass and outside, traffic crawled through intersections as pedestrians crossed sidewalks.
Normal life continued.
Galathea stood near the windows holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
She still hasn't figured out how many floors exactly but beneath the public floors of Artemis, a girl made partly of paint was sleeping in a conservation medical room.
