Don't try. Nothing came of trying. She could try to slather linseed oil all over her exposed feet, and it wouldn't bring back what had been there before. He could try to make her as friendly as he wanted to, but it wouldn't be real. It wouldn't be the mottled and rotting canvas beneath the skillfully crafted art that she had so painstakingly created to show the world. She would still be what she was, in and out, no matter what he did. "False friendliness isn't valuable," she told him. "I was valuable until you came along."
She slumped against the tree trunk, and she allowed herself to sit on the grass, even though she felt the paint at her knees crack. The thinner was gone, and she could only dip her fingers in the bit of wet that still coated the grass and smooth it along the cracks that lined her mouth. Just a touch here, and just a touch there, and the cracks smoothed away. She held her mouth that way, the illusion of artistic perfection.
"You aren't a servant," she muttered. Couldn't crack the paint again.
She began scooping up more thinner, and she pushed up the seafoam of her dress and smoothed out the cracks, bridging them with the drips of thinner until her kneecap was a perfect opaque coating once more.