Attingo

Lena finally looked at him. She was young — thirty, maybe — with the clean, merciless posture of the new school. Laser tools. Digital mapping. Chemical stabilizers that smelled of laboratories, not linseed oil. She respected him. She also pitied him, which was worse.

Matteo stood alone with Saint Sebastian. The arrow points had flaked away centuries ago. The eyes were two dark almond shapes, patient and unknowing. attingo

“Don’t,” the restorer said. Her name was Lena. She didn’t look up from her light table. “You know the rules.” Lena finally looked at him

“The pigment is friable here,” she said, pointing to the fresco’s edge. “Saint Sebastian’s robe. If you touch it, even with a dry finger, you’ll lift the azurite. It’s been dying for seven hundred years. Let it die in peace.” Digital mapping

He smiled. He walked to the door. The sun was low now, painting the hills the color of old gold.