The Artemis infirmary lights had been dimmed.
Not for comfort. For stability.
The conservation lamps now glowed at a muted amber, carefully calibrated to avoid overheating the fragile body resting in the hospital bed. Machines hummed quietly in the background, their displays tracking fluctuations that none of the staff quite understood.
Tansy looked small under the pale conservation blankets.
Smaller than Galathea Brooks remembered from the chaos of the workshop.
Alive, though.
That still felt like the most impossible part.
When they came back the next day, Galathea sat in a chair beside the bed, elbows resting on her knees. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was until the adrenaline faded.
Her office blazer rested on the backrest of the chair. She's pretty sure her officemates are all gossiping about her now.
