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She heard her mother’s knitting needles clink. ‘That’s my point, dear. Can you imagine Fleur and a babbling toddler, or a noisy infant who grows into a highly active, perhaps cheeky boy?’ They both chuckled at the thought. ‘She’s got an old head on her shoulders, my love, and we should be grateful for that. She will do you proud and become a great boon for your business. I don’t want her being pushed aside simply because she’s a woman. Fleur has so much to give. Let’s be thankful she’s ours and so clever and grown up at eight. Imagine what she’s going to be like when she comes of age.’

‘Intimidating,’ her father quipped but Fleur heard only tender affection in his voice, so she imagined it had to be a compliment. ‘What a modern thinker you are, dearest. There are many who would not consider the needs of a daughter.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not like all those others who only seem to see a future in their sons. She’s our only child and I’ll consider her every need, especially her future. And that should not rest on whom she marries. I want our girl to marry for love, Henry . . . not security or status. I want her to experience what I have in my marriage. Promise me, won’t you?’

‘What’s that, my love?’

‘That you’ll never corner Fleur into marrying someone for anything other than love.’

Fleur heard her father’s chair creak again and saw him lean forward to plant a soft kiss on her mother’s forehead. ‘I promise you.’ As he sat back, he cast another affectionate smile towards her mother. ‘You know she talks to the dead?’

Her mother must have put down her knitting, because the regular click of needles stopped abruptly. ‘I do. Some may find it strange, but given it’s what she’s been raised around, I’m not surprised she finds solace with people who don’t answer back. I think she’s marvellous with them. I admit, I can’t be as comfy around the corpses as Fleur is. I don’t even like walking near your mortuary.’

Fleur was pulled out of her recollection as she heard the Oaten family members begin to disperse and her father’s footfall coming in her direction. She tiptoed up to the still, silent woman with a soft, encouraging smile and said, ‘We’re going to take good care of you, Mary.’

Back at the funeral parlour, Mary Oaten was laid out on Henry’s table. While he knew most would baulk at the sight of an eight-year-old participating in the process that was about to unfold, Henry also knew that his young assistant could maintain clear focus for hours, and was certainly as able as anyone more than twice her age.

He glanced up as his child entered what they privately called the sanctuary. It was quiet, as clean as they could achieve, with plenty of ventilation. Toxic fumes from the chemicals they sometimes used during the embalming process could overwhelm at any time and had the potential to kill, so unlike other undertakers, Henry had avoided locating his mortuary in the cellar. The glazed windows overlooked a walled garden, which ensured the room remained private and gave Henry something pleasant to glance towards during the work that went on in this room.

‘Mum says there’s an urgent telephone call,’ Fleur told him. ‘I told her you wouldn’t want to be disturbed right now.’

He was once again impressed that his daughter was ahead of him in her thoughts; she knew how inconvenient the request was. ‘And?’

‘She’s insisting you telephone the family immediately.’ Fleur paused. ‘It’s not like her to insist on anything,’ she added, echoing his private thought. ‘You go, Dad. I’ll stay with Mrs Oaten.’

He gave a sound of soft frustration. ‘All right. You can take off her boots and stockings, start unbuttoning her overall. You can also unpin her hair and comb it out but—’

‘I know. Gently, to protect the scalp’s skin.’

She was such a smart little button. He cut her a soft smile, meeting her eyes. They seemed capable of changing colour based on mood, the light, and even what she was wearing. Henry had read a bit about eye colour through his embalming studies and according to some experts, the hazel eye colour that Fleur possessed was potentially the most alluring and mysterious because of that capricious nature it seemed to possess. Fleur had on her funeral smock that was a deep olive green, and her eyes, which had seemed brown in Mrs Oaten’s bedroom earlier, now appeared the colour of a faded gumleaf sprinkled with gold. Whatever their colour, these were eyes that read the world deeply.

‘I’ll be back shortly.’ As he left the room, he glanced back and saw that Fleur, without being asked, was testing the rigor remaining in Mary Oaten, gently easing a limb to loosen it. She’d listened carefully to the family, who believed that Mary had died just after four this morning. It had been approximately seven hours since she’d passed, so the stiffness of death would be making itself evident, and Fleur was taking care to ease the onset of rigor mortis so they could clean and prepare Mary’s body swiftly. In another day, the corpse would have relaxed again, and Mary would be ready to dress in her burial outfit and for the family to farewell her at a proper wake. He nodded to himself. His young child had learned all of this with intense concentration. Mae was right, he thought. Who needs a son and heir, when I have Fleur?

Arriving into the family parlour, Mae didn’t waste time explaining who had called. ‘It’s the Darnells.’

Henry frowned. ‘The wool people?’

She nodded. ‘One and the same.’

‘Has someone died?’ Silly question, he berated himself. A posh family like the Darnells would hardly be calling for any other reason . . . but why him, when they had undertakers much closer to their city address?

‘It’s a woman,’ Mae confirmed.

His frown turned to dismay. ‘Is Elizabeth Darnell—’

‘No, Henry. There’s another. An estranged sister, apparently.’

He blinked in consternation.

‘I don’t know the details, and nor would I be so bold as to ask. What I do know is that Elizabeth Darnell is just short of demanding your presence at their home.’

‘But I—’

‘She was rather forceful, my love. I think she knows her family name is too important and influential for you to ignore her request . . . more of an order, actually.’ Mae pulled a face of concern.

‘They’re in the city,’ he thought aloud.

‘Then you’d better get going. Hugh will be in shortly. He can attend to Mrs Oaten and since it’s a weekend, Fleur can—’