The restoration wing carried a different kind of quiet from the rest of Artemis. It wasn't silence, but a steady, controlled rhythm-- soft brushes against stone, the low hum of adjustable lamps, the occasional shift of metal tools against glass trays.
Long worktables stretched across the room, each one lit from above, each one holding something mid-process. A marble torso stood under one light, its surface half-cleaned. Another table held fragments laid out in careful order, each piece tagged, cataloged, waiting.
Galathea Brooks stepped onto the floor without announcing herself.
Heads lifted anyway.
"Ma'am," one of the technicians said, straightening slightly.
She acknowledged it with a brief nod and kept moving. Jill stayed a pace behind her, tablet in hand, scanning something as she walked but never losing awareness of where Galathea was.
