The Whore, the Mortician and the Corpse

[Myron Fernsby]

Myron waved his man forward. "Darren will accompany your porter to visit Ms Jolayna's room. He'll take the proper measurements and then we will remove her until her funeral. Now then, we shall discuss what further arrangements you desire for her remains. Do you desire to have her buried, perhaps? Burned so one or more of you might keep her ashes? Do you desire her to have a marked grave, or quietly interred without leaving a marker? Please do note that all of these options come at different prices, and if money plays to a concern we might operate under a stated budget and come to a compromise about services rendered.

"I will note that there is a fee of 3 bishani per night the corpse is stored within my morgue, so it is to your benefit to set a date for interment or disposal of the body before we proceed."

[Breda Dreaughan]

The porter and the mortician's man disappeared upstairs. Breda sat with her hands crossed in her lap as the mortician spoke. "I think we've previously had cremations, but it is of course the choice of the sponsor." She had expected the customer to come with a plan ready, but this youngling did not look like he had much in the way of ideas.

She turned back to Gennison. "I'm not sure what you mean by 'shedding light'. There doesn't seem to be anything particularly unclear. She had been a bit ill for a few days, and then it took a turn for the worse. Since neither yourself or anyone of us has gotten sick, it's unlikely it was infectious."

[Myron Fernsby]

"Oftentimes death will throw those around the deceased into a state of grief. It's possible the young gentleman here has never been part of funeral arrangements. I'm sure this must have come as a shock to him. Sometimes having a plan of action can help during such times."

It was all so routine. Low class, dirty, boring: the words had been delivered countless times before, and certainly in better surroundings. The only saving grace was that soon there would be a new body to dissect and learn from. Myron longed for the day when he could finally be free from prying, misunderstanding eyes and give in to his scholar's heart. He tried not to listen to what his nose was telling him, meanwhile, about all the sex and bodies that had walked through. It was inappropriate, and sacriligious to give in to that side of him.

Besides which, the ripe smell of sex made uncomfortable stirrings down below. Now was definitely not the time for that. It was disgusting to even consider a whorehouse as arousing, and beneath his breeding besides.

He tried to focus on what he was saying. "If I may, young man, I will suggest that for now we plan as if the body will be cremated."

Focusing on Gennison helped. It also raised some other concerns. Financial concerns. Myron had assumed that the patron in question would know enough to have a grasp of the duties required, but now there might be some. . .problems. Problems that should be figured out away from the influence of the benefactors. "Let me schedule a meeting with you tomorrow morning, hm? A man should not conduct business while under such strain. Go home for today, sir, and I will see you for morning tea tomorrow."

The social niceties dragged out as the rather confused young man, from what Myron could see, was escorted back out. Myron tapped his lips as he stared after the boy for a few seconds, and then retook his seat. He could almost fully block out the smells, now. He was a true Puradyne, no matter his body's betrayals.

"I feel it a. . .relevant point to ask, madam, and I hope to assure you I am not asking out of rudeness or curiosity -- is that young man a regular customer?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda shook her head gently as the boy walked out. She had not been expecting someone like him, and he had not been half as helpful as she had hoped. Now the responsibilities were on her again.

She watched the mortician sit down. She had the vague impression he was no more impressed by Gennison than she was. And yes, of course the man would love to know about the boy's relationship with the establishment. Her eyebrow raised. "Unfortunately, I'm not able to answer that question. All our customer information is strictly confidential."

She leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. "How much 'business' is there, really," she asked quietly. "She's dead, and needs to be cremated. Isn't that it? No need to make a fuss, we're not exactly First Settlers here." No matter what some of the girls might tell you in the bedroom.

[Myron Fernsby]

Myron inclined his upper body in concession to her shielding the boy with confidentiality. An understandable thing, if a trifle annoying; Myron himself kept his clients' business confidential from any prying others might do. He knew the need, and he would not press the woman further. It just meant he would have to ask the delicate questions of the boy himself -- if he understood what it meant to cover the costs of a funeral. If he truly desired to bear that burden. If he was financially able. Details that kept him financially successful, not matter how much he might lament them.

He stuck to the very basics, unsure if there would later be a budget, or if this would turn into a fiasco due to monetary insolvency. "Ah, yes: what day and time would you like to hold her funeral? Do you wish to acquire a permit for burial in Marn or Shim, or do you desire to keep the remains?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

Breda shrugged again. "As soon as possible, I guess. Maybe in the morning? Or is that an inappropriate time for a funeral?" She didn't know who would come. It's not that they didn't like Jolayna, some of them just didn't want that life to creep outside the walls of the Kitten. And some of them didn't care about much anything anymore, not enough to leave the shelter and comfort of their rooms.

"As for the ashes, I don't really know. If the patron wants them, they're his. Otherwise we're probably going to scatter them in the river. Do you need a permission for that?" It had been done before, but back then Breda had not been the responsible one. Perhaps this mortician was more law-abiding than his colleagues. Not that anything about him particularly suggested so.

A slight, dry smile crossed her face. "I thought the patron might want something fancy, but he didn't quite seem like that, did he? We've usually gone with the low-budget plan. In here, money is spent on the living."

[Myron Fernsby]

"Apologies, madam: we require one day's time for processing purposes." He had become to accustomed to the more posh funerals, he supposed. Most of the poor did not bother with something so fancy as a funeral parlor. Most of the well off liked time to show off their dead corpse and make a big to-do over the decomposing remains before they put them to final rest.

It would appear this would be one of his more. . .slapdash jobs. So long as it did not ruin his reputation, he was willing to work quickly and commit his staff to the longer hours that would be required. "Would the morning of the day after tomorrow suffice?" He did not wait for her to reply before responding with a reassuring smile to her second question. "So long as you scatter the ashes at the appropriately marked section, south of the bridge, you are free to do so."

The law had been meant to keep the river from turning into a bloated mess of sewage and waste. As far as Myron knew, it was one that was scarcely enforced. Besides, only poor people went to the river for their drinking water, and thank Theogios that Myron was not among them. It was a disgusting habit, besides. One never knew what filth might have entered the river so close to a city.

"As you say. We shall proceed in an appropriately frugal manner until the matter of your patron has been settled. For now, however, I believe all that can be discussed with the question of budget not yet settled has been. Shall I call upon you again once the body has been cremated?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

"Sure, sure. I didn't mean it has to be tomorrow morning, just generally in terms of the time of the day. Whatever best fits your schedule."

Maybe they weren't so similar after all. For someone who had spent almost her entire life surviving, it was hard to see the interest of a dead body. Even if it was the body of a friend. You fought for the living, and afterwards you let go. Anything else was waste of resources.

At the man's final question, she stood up. "Certainly, and you can contact us if you have further questions. If the patron disagrees with anything I have said, feel free to go with his ideas. As long as they are not overly exotic. I'm sure you know what's appropriate."

[Myron Fernsby]

They made nice. Myron supposed the one nice thing about being a director of a funeral parlour and the official 'mortician' meant that he did not have to deal with the messiness of death. No one asked him why. In most cases, his customers did not act rude, and if they did there was typically another family member or friend to restrain them. He was solicitous and polite, and his customers returned him the favor. Still. He was relieved to make it back to his business and Lira, though he knew in the next two days he would have to return to the Fernsby outlet to catch up with his deplorable cousins.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he entered the parlour, sweeping it for any sign of guest. He sighed dramatically upon finding it empty but for Lira, who shook her head at him. She was too polite to accuse him of grandstanding, and he was too polite to accuse her of having the thought. But they both knew, edging around each other in familiar routines. He asked after business that had occurred while he was out, she purposefully dragged it out just that little extra bit to watch him squirm. They both knew the new body was being brought in the back way, just as they both knew he couldn't wait to open up the corpse.

"Ah. . .one more thing," Lira chirped.

Myron hated it when people chirped. Such vocal warbling was best suited to birds and cats that were soon to be dead.

He stared at her with a vague smile that did not quite say you-are-testing-my-patience.

Her return smile assured him that she knew exactly where the line was and how to extract maximum angst from him in her toeing it. "A new client will be coming in tonight. I've already arranged for the retrieval of the body. Another cremation, Mister Fernsby."

At last, he was free to return to his bodies and their secrets. Hours melted away as preparation and painstaking notes were taken on his cadavers. He was particularly interested in the circulatory system, particularly the heart, of the whore. Which, really, was quite a familiar state – almost as if that had been the cause of death. Almost like one of the other women in his cold storage. He flipped through his notes, and corrected himself: had been in his cold storage. But no, that had not been the one he'd been thinking of. He flipped back further, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. On the tails of that was some small consternation. Understanding dawned when he looked back to the woman currently open on his table. He moved back, and opened up the heart. Intrigue, rather than horror, fluttered through his stomach, though it was soon followed by a curious sort of dismay as he realized what he'd found.

He had to be sure. Very, very sure. He went back through his notes, and paid special, painstaking attention to his new body. His notes, usually very thorough, took a double burden as he ensured every excruciating detail was written down.

It didn't help that he was interrupted partway through by his client meeting. Certainly, he could tell the elderly woman was put off by his distracted manner, but all he could think of was the whores. His other bodies were buried or burned. That left this one. It left the only person he could reliably talk to who was used to being circumspect and who was his only point of contact for the dead woman.

Papers in hand, he grabbed coat and hat and strode out into the late evening, buoyed by the grim humor that at least his client would be awake. And, if she couldn't meet him for legitimate business concerns, then he could be safe in assuming he could pay for her time as she and her patron had been prepared to pay for his.

He wound up paying.

[Breda Dreaughan]

On some nights, you had one customer who wanted to pay for the whole night. Some people wanted the whole deal, the talking, the action, and then falling peacefully asleep next to you. More often, however, you got the ones who wanted an hour or half an hour, and often they had trouble filling even that. 'The three-minute boys' they were called, between the girls. Easy on the body, but then you had to fill the rest of the time with talk. Which was fine, but got difficult if the same person showed up often, because then you needed to come up with new stories.

She had already had two half an hour sessions. One an old regular who was not too unpleasant, another a newcomer with more self-confidence than capability. When the porter knocked on the door for the third time, Breda turned away from the window she had been looking out of, and sat casually on the side of the bed, spreading the skirt of her short and generous dirndl dress. While the human and elf girls of the Kitten were usually presented as sinful seductresses, Breda's role was that of a buxom barmaid, with promises of earthly warmth and easy-going love.

She had seen all sorts of figures come in through the door, so she did not exactly slip out of that role when she saw the face of Myron Fernsby, but her eyebrows did rise. "Mister Fernsby. Are you here in your business or mine? Or both?"

[Myron Fernsby]

Myron entered the room with the air of a man determined to hold his composure but unable to completely hide how uncomfortable he was. He did not look down on Breda, not entirely, but he was nonetheless stiff-necked as any high-class family man might be who considered brothels to be a distasteful stain upon humanity's dignity. Still, Breda was a woman, if a disreputable one, so as he edged in through the door he managed a courteous nod. It took him clearing his throat two times before he deemed himself ready to speak.

"I apologize for interrupting you during your. . ." he glanced around the room as if looking for somewhere safe to land, "business hours, but I felt I have new information about my. . .your . . . the woman I have in my cold room. I -- " Myron's mouth twisted, a faint hint of red coloring his cheeks as his eyes finally landed upon Breda. Once they hit her eyes, they stayed there as if her face was the only way he was going to make it out of the room alive.

"I need to know that what I say in this room will remain between us until I can. . . uh, rather, what we decide what to do about it."

[Breda Dreaughan]

Myron's attitude was nothing new. Sometimes it could be amusing to see them squirm, then slowly relax. In fact, most of them relaxed quite significantly before their time was over. The mortician's words, however, suggested that this was not a time for such an experiment. Slightly confused, Breda sat up.

"There's a chair in the corner you can sit on, nobody has been naked on it." She motioned with her hand towards the piece of furniture in question. "As a rule, everything that is said in this room, stays in this room. Part of the business conduct."

She yanked her neckline upwards, for the man's sake rather than her own. As this was obviously about his business, it would be easier for both of them if he felt a bit more at ease. "So there is something wrong with… the body?"

[Myron Fernsby]

Breda's words caused Myron to tense slightly, and for one moment he knew she knew how he felt. The moment passed. It was a silly thought; he had acted as nothing but a complete gentleman, and there was no way she could ascertain how his trip into the brothel had cost him. That was what he told himself, anyways. Myron always had been slightly petulant when it came to his personal business, and he'd never a reason for subterfuge. Beyond the polite mask of polite behavior, he'd never had much practice in the art of covering his tells. Not like his mother and elder sister had.

He went to the chair and sat on it, his posture excruciatingly exact. He folded his hands on his lap, though his long fingers tightened and loosened around themselves. Once he started to speak he pressed them into themselves, effectively stopping the fidgeting.

"Your colleague. Did she have any habit that you know of concerning recreational drug use?"

[Breda Dreaughan]

She frowned. "I don't think so. Some of the girls do that, but I think Jolayna was clean." The man seemed to calm down now that he was getting into business, but now Breda herself was starting to feel nervous.

"Why? Does it matter what she did when she was alive? You said nothing about there being conditions."

Possibilities were running through her head. Was this about Copiax? Did the mortician have an obligation to report to the guard? How much in personal trouble would she be, if that was the case?

[Myron Fernsby]

Myron took a deep breath. She didn't do recreational drugs? That was good. That was very good. It wasn't nervousness that gave him need to steady himself, nor any other kind of fear. He was excited. Others, especially clients, didn't understand that sort of emotion in the face of death. He knew -- he knew very well -- that if he could not contain himself he would like as not drive this woman off, and then whatever chances he had would be stripped away from him.

Myron, no matter what his detractors might have said about him in the past, or would say about him in the future, was not a man with a deficit in morals. He would not take the corpse of his client away from her, just as he would not lie. He relied on his manners and breeding. His mother always had hated that aspect of honesty. One couldn't be a good salesman and be entirely truthful, after all.

(Though, if one were to lay out the balance of exactly what he did as a supposed 'mortician', one might find him guilty of weighting the scales on both sides, since no one ever asked and he never told what he did with the bodies before preparing them for burial)

"I believe your friend may have been the victim of some kind of murder. I am here to ask you to allow me to postpone your . . .coworker's cremation so that I might gather enough evidence to bring to the Guard."

And then. . .and then he would prove his worth to them, and give up on the farce of playing at the beautification of corpses. Yes, he could give up the lie and become a medical examiner - a true pioneer in a field that was just beginning to take its first breath. He wanted this. He needed this.

It all rested in the hands of the woman before him.