“We havequitethe lesson and opportunity before us today,” Chambon said. He pushed his golden frames up. “Several other wings fought to get at this one, but I managed to steal it just in time.”
Whispers floated all around.Plouffe, they all said.Lisette Plouffe.
Nik would gladly go kiss the old woman’s corpse if someone like Chambon managed to get his fumbling fingers on the Souverain of Arts Culinaires. Sure, this funeral home operated out of one of the wealthier quarters, but no one handled a Souverain’s body except the Souverain of Arts Humains himself.
That didn’t stop Nik’s peers from nudging one another with greedy eyes trained on the sheet.
Their joy died the moment Chambon ripped it away to reveal not the porcelain skin of a Souverain but the emaciated body of a boy. Raw pustules surrounded his mouth, his hair had thinned even before death, and the discoloration around his neck, face, and hands was enough to churn the strongest stomach.
Nik leaned in closer. This wasn’t their usual clientele. Pompes Funèbres de Belleplace didn’t cater to the exceptionally rich, but it also didn’t cater to the exceptionally poor. It served the more middle-class neighborhoods north of the Joyaux. And the boy stretched before them was a Reste.
If the sunken cheeks didn’t give him away, the bleached, hand-me-down clothing did.
“Fantastic, no?” When no one agreed, Chambon clicked his tongue. “Come now. We haven’t had the opportunity to discuss adequate preparations for a body in such poor condition.”
“You can’t mean we’ll be working with cases like…” Basset waved her manicured hand as if the body on the cart was a broken chair or lamp.
“Those who have expired due to dehydration caused by sickness? While it is rare here, it does happen.”
“I’m not talking about the cause of death,” Basset replied.
Chambon perked a brow. “Then what?”
“He was a Reste.”
Nik didn’t realize the words were out of him until every head whipped in his direction. He stiffened beneath the heat of attention, choosing to keep his focus on the corpse’s face as he worked the remaining bit of saliva around his mouth.
“Basset is concerned about having to work in the Restes,” he continued.
“Ah.” Chambon waved his hands. “A common fear among Aspirants. Only those who fail to reach our academic standards are sent there.” When he said it, his eyes were on Nik. “Nothing you should worry about, Basset.”
A few years ago, Nik would have shown Chambon how a Reste handled threats. He would have jumped across the gurney, body and all,to beat that hypocritical smile off his smug face. Thankfully for him, Souverain Lafontaine had taught Nik to behave with a bit more civility.
“Now.” Chambon clapped. “Review time. What are the components of our arterial chemicals?”
Hands shot up in the air.
“Formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, and phenol.”
“Good. And what percentage of that is then diluted?”
“Nineteen percent.”
The questions continued with facts flying until Nik was dizzy with all the information his brain could not hold. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Most nights he fell asleep with the embalming textbook on his chest, and he’d worn down the wood floor in his study pacing, trying to recite the names and purposes of various chemicals, but none of it connected.
Slow. Thick. Stupid. He’d been called it all, but the one thing he rallied against was lazy. People like Chambon and Basset could call him whatever they liked, but he wasn’t behind due to his lack of effort.
“Dupont?”
He blinked. “Yes?”
“Care to answer the question?” Chambon huffed.
“Repeat it.”
Chambon rounded to the head of the gurney, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “I wished to know if you could enlighten us as to the cause of death for this individual.”
Basset wriggled her hand in the air. “Professionnelle, he won’t know.”
