“Patience.”
Nik’s heartbeat quickened. For once, it wasn’t the threat of humiliation that made sweat break along his hairline.
“Come now,” Chambon jeered, knowing very well the trap he’d set. “I know you’ve seen a case or two of it in your youth. A rash upon the arms, legs, and trunk. Swollen, red tongue. Lines around—”
“Scarlet fever,” Nik blurted.
The room was quiet now.
“Good. And to begin the embalming process, where would we start?”
Basset’s hand shot up again. Nik remained silent.
“Dupont.”
“Basset has her hand up.”
“But I am asking you.”
He kept his gaze locked on Chambon. This wasn’t a simple review. This was a game, and Nik refused to lose. Souverain Lafontaine had taught him a thing or two about manipulation, and the key to beating someone at their own game was to reveal nothing. He forced his gaze to soften, his shoulders to release.
“We assess the corpse for discoloration and water content,” Nik answered.
“What then, Dupont?”
“There are other Aspirants, Professionnelle. I’d hate to see you waste all your good education on me.”
Chambon’s glasses flashed as he pushed them back up. “A waste it would be. But I’m a patient teacher. What. Next?”
“Wash the corpse.”
“Very good.” Chambon stepped aside, motioning to the hygienic cabinet. “If you would.”
This was where he expected Nik to break. Beyond the complicated terms and chemical equations, this was the hardest part about being an Aspirant in a mortuary. Unlike his peers, Nik had seen his fair share of dead bodies. He’d clung to one longer than any boy ever should, and when they’d tried to pry him off, he’d fought like a feral cat, scratching and biting until a stern voice and a strong hand pulled him away.
He remembered every cold, rigid muscle pressed against his too-warm skin.
That was the problem. No matter how much he focused on the present and the future, the past was a scar not even the Souverain of Arts Humains could remove.
And Chambon knew it.
“Well?”
The Aspirants parted, leaving him a pathway he marched with his head held high. He collected sponges, disinfectant spray, and gloves. Without a pause, he turned back to the body he was now forced to acknowledge. He started with the hands because it was easier to think of the body as parts of a machine: hands, arms, feet, legs. All covered in the dark discoloration scarlet fever left behind. All long and spindly, eaten away by dehydration and hunger that likely started long before the sickness took hold of the man.
Boy.
By the time he reached the face, Nik had no choice but to acknowledge that the corpse was nothing more than a young man maybe a few years older than him. Once he’d looked, it was impossible to stop studying the pustules around his tightened mouth, the sunken hollows of his cheeks, the dingy locks of blond hair.
Water sluiced down the boy’s skin from overhead, washing grime down the drains.
Chambon paced, analyzing the boy’s armpits, neck, and fingers.
“Disappointing at best, but it will suffice,” he said. “Now, what shall we use to renew some life and hydration to the poor parched soul?”
Basset’s hand was up once more, waving above the crowd, but Chambon’s trap had been set. Not only had he forced Nik to do the one thing he despised above all else, but he’d placed him in a position to be ridiculed. To show how little he truly knew.
“I don’t know,” Nik muttered.
