The night strikes down sooner than anyone expects. It walks like a cloaked figure prying into people's windows, knocking on their doors and sinking its claws into their necks when they answer the door.

When I came out of Mathilda's room to get her a glass of water, I took a detour to the Trevors upstairs upon her request.
After hearing the news, Mrs Trevor shooed Oliver to fetch someone from the morgue. A boy of only twelve sent to a death house. A boy who should not have any business going there.
Even though I wanted to stop him, I found myself walking back to the apartment. No stares or questions asked by the Trevors as to why I’m here at such an hour.
Still something claws within me, a few words silently hissing inside.

Nothing… you did absolutely nothing… nothing...

Gritting my teeth, I go back to her bedroom.
Mathilda doesn't even notice the glass of water till it’s put beside her.
She keeps looking down at the red crescents scaring her skin. They're cold to the bone, despite the weather.
After pulling my coat off my shoulders and onto hers.
Then I walk out of her room again, leaving her to grieve in solitude.

Should you really leave her?

I’m still here; I’ll only be giving her some privacy.
Still, I’ll leave the door slightly ajar.

Absolutely nothing...

Though as I stand in the miniscule corridor, a part of my being seems to be left inside the room.
But then the door knocks-- five steady beats-- and my head flicks to the clock in the living room, ignoring the person still on her rocking chair.

“They yearn for what they dread…”

Taking a breath, my arms fold across my chest. Never looking at the left.

A man stands on the doorway when the door slides open. Dark bags hang beneath his bored eyes, his suit slightly wrinkled.
“Davidson. I'm the undertaker.” He points at the carriage behind me, the name of the morgue branded upon it. Two more men linger by its side, both clad in dark uniforms.

“K… Knightley. Please, do come in.” I try ceasing the tremor in my voice.

Someone inches towards the entrance. Someone whom I haven't seen for a few months.

“I though’ doctors always brought back folks from the dead. I was wrong.”

Oliver Trevor stands with his head bent down, while he keeps looking over his shoulder at the attendants behind him.
I lower myself to his height, before whispering,
“Thank you for… bringing them.” I pat his shoulder. “You can go home now if you want.”

Wordlessly, I stand and take a few steps back. I want to say something else, to say something better.
But all phrases seem useless right now.
Heavy footsteps against an iron staircase echo from the outside.

Inside, Davidson stands next to… Mrs Penrose on the rocking chair. I take a deep breath, before he says,
“What are you to the deceased?” He looks at me, up and down.

My hands fold behind my back, glancing back at Mathilda's room.
“I…” What am I to her?
“I’m Mrs Penrose’s doctor.” I weakly nod.

The undertaker rubs his chin, as he inspects Mrs Penrose.
“If you're her doctor, then you’ll be able to give me a better account of her death circumstances for the autopsy.”

But then the ajar door creaks open, making the both of us jolt.
Davidson narrows his eyes, while my lips part.
“Mathilda…”

Her arms are folded-- a strand clouding the side of her face-- standing straight.
Davidson tilts his head, but does not see the life gone from her eyes. How her hands shake slightly. How her paling skin hides the red crescents underneath her palms.
“Penrose. I’m her daughter.”
Still she doesn't look at me.

“Even messiahs…”
My head shakes.

Davidson nods at her, before frowning,
“I suppose you have none male family members. I would have brought a female attendant with me, but none of them agree to night shifts.”

I’m about to open my mouth at the inappropriateness, but Mathilda presses her lips into a straight line.
“Thank you for the consideration, but that will be entirely unnecessary.”

Davidson's brows furrow, forming a retort, when I interject.
“You were about to discuss the medical circumstances of Mrs Penrose’s passing, Mr Davidson.” My eyes shut tightly, but only for a moment.

Davidson does not notice, but Mathilda does when she glances at me for the first time.
No expression crosses her features, as she moves her attention back to the attendant.

While discussing Mrs Penrose’s medical condition, I leave out her history. Only say that her… going away is because of years of malnourishment and anaemia.
All the while guising the rashes as regular fungal infections.

Davidson nods, his brows relaxing, at least as compared to before I mentioned the reasons for the infections.

An undertaker's job is only to measure and make an appropriate… casket.
I will have to deal with the details later.

Funereal arrangements would be far more difficult if they find out the true history…

He nods grimly and says,
“Thank you for the details,  doctor.”

He then turns to Mathilda.
“Would you like to discuss the finances now or in the morn?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, when Mathilda's voice turns out shredded at the edges.
“The sooner finances are dealt with, the better.”

Davidson plucks the book fallen on the floor, studies its cover before placing it back on the shelf.
He does not notice when Mathilda cringes, a smooth crack in her armour, but recovers by holding onto to the rest of her self.

I don’t know when it happens, but my person then stands by her side.
My hand then travels from my side to the small of her waist, as Davidson looks for a place to put Mathilda's book back into the bookshelf.

I only give a slight caress, pulling my hand away, while Davidson turns.
Mathilda looks at me, and I don't attempt smiling. Only attempt to stay at her side.

Davidson looks in between us, but makes no comment.
He then launches into a talk about finances with Mathilda. Her expression remains solid frozen as her lips speak.

Meanwhile, the two men outside enter.  
Davidson points a thumb at Mrs Penrose.
“A moment, please.” Davidson holds up a hand to the two men and they stop in their tracks. He turns to Mathilda.
“Would you like to say something to her?”

It takes a few moments for her to respond, but Mathilda nods.
Heartbeat back, I also walk the few steps with her.

Mathilda puts a hand on her mother's cheek, saying nothing; a droplet descends down her cheek.
Shaking her head, she steps to the side. A metallic taste scourns my mouth by biting too harshly into the cheek.

Mathilda sucks in a breath, and nods a small one.
I nod at the two men waiting for further orders.

Even after all the frenzy of moving and the carriage running away, I can’t find it in myself to walk out of the apartment at two in the morning.
Especially when Mathilda puts her head on my chest and mine rests on hers, the two of us sitting in her room.
We stay there like that for the rest of the night, two sleepless wanderers in each other's arms.

With the night growing darker and colder, my absent reply to Mrs Penrose keeps replaying, an unpaid debt in my mind

I’ll always care for you, Tilda.

Boi was the first passage just so goth influenced. I couldn't help it all right :3

Initially I was going to delete this chapter because it seemed like more filler, but the next chapter is going to be pretty emotional like the previous one. I felt we needed a catharsis in the middle.
So there's the reason why a lot of telling is done here.

One thing regarding historical accuracy:
The rich usually had a specific room, where they would temporarily place their deceased household member in. This was so that their loved ones didn't have to face unnecessary agony while looking at them again and again.
An undertaker was contacted to make the coffin after being given the measurements. The word "mortician" wasn't used till like the twentieth century.
There weren't any proper funeral homes till like the mid nineteenth century (this is 1884).

However, I wasn't able to find concrete resources of what the poor did in the late nineteenth century.
So that's why I took a bit of creative liberty here.
If you know something about this or have resources, then awesome. Please do tell xD

And yeah, I purposely made my characters go through the less "romanticised" part of a death: funeral arrangements.

Anyway, have a great week!
Love,
MS Zame