Clive started with a test patch on the statue's extended hand. The mixture had to be exact. Too pink and it would look feverish, too pale and it would appear bloodless. He dabbed the paint on the stone surface, but nothing happened.

  He studied the portrait again. Golden morning light streamed through the painted garden behind Lady Thornwald, casting everything in amber warmth. The artist had rendered her complexion with warm cream tones and hints of rose in her cheeks. Beautiful work, but Clive recognized the deliberate choices. Every portrait painter knew to position their subject in the most flattering light possible

  "What's wrong?" Lord Thornwald asked.

  "The lighting. The portrait shows her in morning light," Clive said. "But people's skin changes throughout the day. What looked right to the artist at dawn might not match what she looked like at noon, or evening." He stopped, seeing Lord Thornwald's expression.

  The blood had drained from his face. “What does that mean? Will it work or not?”

  “Let me figure it out.”

  Clive pulled out his sketchbook and began making quick color notes. The portrait's flesh tones, broken down into their component hues. Then he started sketching what those same tones might look like under cooler conditions.

  He tried again, adjusting the mixture to be slightly cooler. Less warmth, more gray undertone. Still, nothing happened.

  Lord Thornwald let out a sigh. “I knew it… This was a waste of time.” He walked away, shaking his head.

  Clive didn’t respond, deep in thought. He studied the statue again, comparing it to the portrait. The bone structure was identical. The proportions were perfect. The artist had done a phenomenal job of capturing Lady Thornwald. He just needed to account for the artistic interpretations.

  That was when he noticed it. The stone’s surface wasn’t uniform. He'd assumed it was solid gray throughout, but there were variations. Subtle, but present.

  The creases of her palm showed darker stone. The knuckles, where skin would have stretched taut, were lighter. Even the veins on the back of her hand showed as faint gray-blue traces beneath the surface.

  The petrification hadn't erased everything. It had translated it.

  Clive grabbed his chin in thought. If the darkest gray marked where her skin had been most deeply pigmented and the lightest gray showed where blood flow had been closest to the surface...

  He could reverse-engineer the original coloration. Not from the portrait's idealized morning light, but from the actual tonal relationships preserved in the stone itself.

  Using the cooler base tone, he created five more variations. Darker for the creases. Lighter for the stretched areas. A hint of blue-red where the veins showed through.

  He started with her extended hand, matching each tone to its corresponding gray. The colors that emerged weren't what the portrait showed. Cooler overall, with olive undertones where the artist had painted cream. A small scar on her thumb the artist had omitted. Age spots on the back of her hand, painted over in the portrait. The real Lady Thornwald emerged stroke by stroke, different from her painted image yet still just as beautiful.

  [Mix: Restoration]

  The paint held. Gray softened to flesh, granite warming to skin. The transformation spread from her fingertips up through her hand, her wrist, her forearm. The stone released its hold inch by inch, following the path of Clive's brushwork.

  Lucia dropped to her knees beside the transforming statue. "Mother… Her hand… look at her hand.” She looked toward the door where her father had disappeared. "Someone get Father. Find him now."

  A servant ran for the door.

  The stone dress became green silk that rustled as the transformation continued. Her hair transformed from solid gray to auburn with early silver threads the portrait had omitted.

  And last was her face. The rigid expression softened. Lines appeared where the portrait had shown smooth skin. Her eyes lit up from blank stone to warm brown.

  Lady Thornwald's chest moved. A shallow breath, then her knees gave out.

  Lucia caught her, barely managing to lower her to the marble floor.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Mother?" Lucia cradled her head. "Can you hear me?"

  Lady Thornwald's eyes moved, trying to focus.

  Running footsteps echoed through the hall. Lord Thornwald appeared in the doorway, the servant behind him. He stopped, staring at his wife on the floor.

  He crossed the distance in a blink and dropped beside them, taking his wife's hand. "Lydia?"

  Her fingers twitched in his grip. Her breathing came in irregular gasps, like someone pulled from deep water.

  "Get water," Lucia said to the servants. "And blankets. She's in shock."

  Lord Thornwald smoothed his wife's hair back from her forehead. “Lydia, can you hear me? You’re ok now. Everything's ok.”

  Her gaze found his face. Her mouth moved, trying to form words, but only a croak emerged. Lucia was already there with a vial of recovery tonic, helping her mother sip the red liquid.

  "Lucius..." Her voice came out raw, barely there. "Lucia."

  "We’re here." Lord Thornwald pulled her against him. "We’re here for you."

  Lady Thornwald tried to sit up, then stopped, staring at her hands as though they felt unfamiliar. She flexed her fingers slowly, watching tendons move beneath skin. "How long?"

  "Three months," Lucia said.

  Her mother absorbed this, then looked up at the portrait above them. "I remember... remembering. Like being a painting myself, aware but unable to move, unable to speak, unable to..." Her hand gripped Lord Thornwald's. "I could hear you…barely…but I could. Every day in the garden. Talking to me.”

  "Every morning," Lord Thornwald said. "I told you about the shipping contracts. The new warehouse in Eastport. Boring things."

  "Not boring. It helped." Lady Thornwald turned to Lucia. "And you—you were there too. Telling me about your potions and finding a cure. You did it, didn’t you."

  “You have no idea, mother. We had to fight through an undead army to get the midnight blossoms.”

  "An undead—" Lady Thornwald blinked. "You'll have to tell me everything."

  She tried to push herself up but her arms gave out. Lord Thornwald caught her before she hit the floor again.

  "Everything hurts," she said.

  "Your muscles atrophied," Lucia said. "I have tonics that will help, but recovery will take time."

  Lord Thornwald helped his wife sit properly, keeping one arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, her weight settling against his chest.

  "The roses," Lady Thornwald said. "My coral roses—"

  "They died." Lord Thornwald's voice went quiet.

  "No matter, we'll plant new ones," she said. "I still have seeds in the greenhouse. Unless—" She looked at Lucia.

  "The greenhouse is locked. No one's touched it."

  "Good." Lady Thornwald flexed her fingers again, still staring at them like foreign objects. "Three months. The Eastport contracts—did you secure them?"

  "They can wait," Lord Thornwald said.

  "They can't, and you know it. The Gallantine family will swoop in if we show weakness."

  Clive stepped back toward the door, giving them privacy. The family had closed into their own small circle—Lord Thornwald on one side, Lucia on the other, Lady Thornwald between them.

  [Quest Complete: The Art That Heals]

  [Reward: 1 Certainty Point]

  Lord Thornwald noticed Clive leaving and called him back. "Artist, wait. Name your price. Anything you want. Gold, property, a ship from my fleet. Anything."

  "I can't accept payment," Clive said. "Seeing your family reunited is enough."

  "Then at least accept my gratitude." Lord Thornwald stood, helping his wife to her feet. She leaned heavily on him, her legs still unsteady. "Stay for dinner. Let me at least feed you."

  "Father never takes no for an answer," Lucia said. "You might as well agree now."

  "The servants will prepare a room," Lord Thornwald said. “I will hear no more on this.”

  Clive glanced at Lucia, who gave a small shrug. Her mother was already calling for servants, issuing instructions about dinner preparations despite barely being able to stand.

  "One night," Clive said.

  The servants led Clive through the manor's west wing to a separate building connected by a covered walkway. The guest house had its own entrance hall with polished oak floors and windows overlooking the garden. They showed him to a large room complete with a king-sized bed, a writing desk by the window, and a washbasin with pitchers of steaming water.

  Clive set his equipment on the desk and sat on the bed's edge. The mattress gave under his weight, softer than anything he'd slept on since arriving in this world. He leaned back, collapsing onto the soft silk.

  So this was luxury. The mattress molded to his body, silk smooth against his palms. A bed like this would have cost more than his old monthly salary.

  A knock interrupted his thoughts.

  A man in chef's whites stood at the door, holding a straw basket. The smell hit Clive immediately. Brine and ocean, products of the sea. The chef set the basket on the side table and began lifting items for display.

  "Lobster just off the coast of Marblehaven, caught this morning." He held up a blue-shelled creature. "Abalone from the Cerluean Seas. Bluefin from the deep waters past Eastport. Lord Thornwald insists on offering you our finest."

  The chef continued unpacking his treasure chest of ocean delights. There was a silver-scaled fish, something that looked like an oversized prawn, and dark purple kelp that smelled of iodine.

  "Is there anything you don't eat, sir? Any preferences I should know?"

  Clive shook his head. In his previous life, he'd lived on instant ramen and convenience store sandwiches. Being picky about food had never been an option.

  "I eat anything."

  "Raw preparations as well? The bluefin is particularly good served that way."

  Clive straightened. He hadn't had proper sushi since a client dinner years ago, back when he still worked at the pharmaceutical company. "Raw is perfect."

  "Excellent. We'll also prepare the lobster three ways—grilled tail, claw meat in butter, and a bisque from the shells. The abalone will be steamed with wine from Lady Thornwald's own cellar." The chef began repacking the basket. "Dinner will be served in two hours, sir, at the main dining hall."

  "I'll be there."

  The chef bowed and left with his basket. Clive could hear him in the hallway, already calling instructions to unseen assistants about preparation times and sauce reductions.

  The artist's greatest power is not in creating beauty, but in revealing the truth that was always there, hidden beneath layers of interpretation, waiting to be seen with honest eyes.

  —The legendary Moonlight Artist