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“Comforting.”

“Try again.”

I do. Slower this time. I feather the wax into the surrounding surface, smooth the line with the flat of the tool, then use the tiniest amount of color Mercy gives me.

“Not pink,” she says when I reach toward one jar. “Look at the base.”

I do. There’s blue underneath the fake skin, faint but there.

I choose a warmer neutral instead, mixing in a touch of yellow before tapping it across the wax.

Mercy goes quiet, and that makes me nervous.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That sounded like something.”

She leans closer, studies the repair, then hands me a sponge. “Blend the edge.”

I do.

When I finish, the gouge isn’t gone, not if you know where to look, but it no longer screams first.

Mercy nods once. “Good.”

The word lands harder than it should. “Good?”

“Don’t get needy. I said it once.”

Petal smiles from the next table.

Mercy takes the palette knife from my fingers, wipes it with disinfectant, then hands it back. “Keep this one. Put your initials on it eventually, assuming you ever tell anybody what they are.”

I slide it carefully into the narrow side pocket of my apron. “You trust me with a knife already?”

“No. I trust you with wax. Anything else is between you and Jesus.”

Lark raises one hand. “What if Jesus is busy?”

“Then aim low.”

I laugh so hard I have to brace a hand on the workstation.

Mercy’s mouth twitches. “Now clean your station.”

“Yes, Mercy.”

By late afternoon, the School of the Dead has turned into festival headquarters with better sanitation. Women move in and out carrying signs, makeup cases, extension cords, folding chairs, garment bags, baskets of fake bones, and one suspicious jar labeled EYES that I choose not to ask about.

A tiny old woman in a black lace dress and combat boots bursts through the side door carrying a rooster under one arm. Behind her comes an identical old woman wearing a purple shawl, three necklaces made of keys, and sunglasses shaped like bats. They both have white hair teased high enough to interfere with ceiling fans.

Miss Mercy does not even look surprised.

That worries me.

“Mercy Duvall,” the woman with the rooster announces. “Your dead folks are blocking the good parking.”