cameras.
“What should I make?”
“Anything you like. I’m sure it will be wonderful. Doubly so, if I haven’t had to make it. Honestly, darling, you could give me a jam sandwich and I’d be happy.”
“I think I can do better than that.” David lifted an apron from the peg and made a show of putting it on. “They didn’t call me master chef in college for nothing, you know.”
“Ooh! Does this mean cheese on toast?” Eden laughed as he threw a pair of oven gloves at her. They fell short by several feet.
“Scoff if you will, but I shall be the great provider.” He picked up a knife in one hand and a steak mallet in the other. “Point me toward the forest, would you? We’ll have venison and wild boar.”
“I’ll scoff when I get back.” Eden opened the door, paused and came back for her mobile. “I’ve got my phone if you need me.”
“Onward. To the freezer!” David waved goodbye as she closed the closed the door. She was still smiling as she clattered down the stairs. At the bottom she turned left into the cryotorium rather than directly out through the front door. It had been one of David’s conditions when she mooted the idea of living above the shop that they have a separate entrance. He hadn’t wanted to come home from work every night and have to wade through dead bodies to get to the upstairs flat. The front door was served by a second driveway, though it had taken the local funeral parlors several weeks to stop blindly following the satellite navigation systems to the house instead of using the other gate to the cryotorium.
She checked on Edward Burbridge. The cryo-machine had already finished the vibration cycle and switched to freeze-drying the remains, sending the resultant dust into the collection hopper. There would be bones to grind in the morning but the only metal she could see was the remains of the coffin furniture. There was usually some in the skull, too. He’d had good teeth and good teeth generally meant pins and crowns.
She left the machine and went to the garage where the hearse and tractor were kept. She should consider building a second garage for the backhoe if it was in danger of being stolen again. If she ever got it back. She fished her keys out of her pocket and opened the cupboard. Inside were her tools of the trade. Wireless webcams, time-lapse cameras, brushes, pulleys, blocks and tackles, shovels, crowbars and a small hydraulic jack. She selected some tools and dropped them into a shoulder bag.
Outside, she pulled her coat closer against the cold and headed out to Artist’s Corner, a small section of the cemetery marked by a slowly rusting abstract structure. It had been a source of contention during the summer. The sculptor, Elizabeth Trader, assured her the polymer coating on the steel had been weatherproof. It hadn’t been and the color began to flake off before a year passed. Now it was covered in rust and although Eden didn’t mind it personally, since her whole life was built around the concept of decay, her patrons were often less than pleased to be reminded of their impermanence.
Around the statue were several unremarkable graves, most of them showing nothing more than a small brass plaque over a body-length slab of granite. Of the five, three were clients and two were her personal projects, bodies left unclaimed at the municipal morgue and sent to Eden for disposal. She treated them as well as she could and revered them in the best way she knew how.
Working by feel, she found the indentation in the slab that fitted the edge of her crowbar and levered it up far enough to insert the edge of her hydraulic jack. The smell of corruption wafted out. There was no embalming on these bodies, nor coffins to encase their decay. She took a few breaths to get used to the smell before levering the slab to a forty-five degree angle, sufficient to view the body beneath. Flies speckled the surface, lethargic in the November chill but the warmth of the body was
“What should I make?”
“Anything you like. I’m sure it will be wonderful. Doubly so, if I haven’t had to make it. Honestly, darling, you could give me a jam sandwich and I’d be happy.”
“I think I can do better than that.” David lifted an apron from the peg and made a show of putting it on. “They didn’t call me master chef in college for nothing, you know.”
“Ooh! Does this mean cheese on toast?” Eden laughed as he threw a pair of oven gloves at her. They fell short by several feet.
“Scoff if you will, but I shall be the great provider.” He picked up a knife in one hand and a steak mallet in the other. “Point me toward the forest, would you? We’ll have venison and wild boar.”
“I’ll scoff when I get back.” Eden opened the door, paused and came back for her mobile. “I’ve got my phone if you need me.”
“Onward. To the freezer!” David waved goodbye as she closed the closed the door. She was still smiling as she clattered down the stairs. At the bottom she turned left into the cryotorium rather than directly out through the front door. It had been one of David’s conditions when she mooted the idea of living above the shop that they have a separate entrance. He hadn’t wanted to come home from work every night and have to wade through dead bodies to get to the upstairs flat. The front door was served by a second driveway, though it had taken the local funeral parlors several weeks to stop blindly following the satellite navigation systems to the house instead of using the other gate to the cryotorium.
She checked on Edward Burbridge. The cryo-machine had already finished the vibration cycle and switched to freeze-drying the remains, sending the resultant dust into the collection hopper. There would be bones to grind in the morning but the only metal she could see was the remains of the coffin furniture. There was usually some in the skull, too. He’d had good teeth and good teeth generally meant pins and crowns.
She left the machine and went to the garage where the hearse and tractor were kept. She should consider building a second garage for the backhoe if it was in danger of being stolen again. If she ever got it back. She fished her keys out of her pocket and opened the cupboard. Inside were her tools of the trade. Wireless webcams, time-lapse cameras, brushes, pulleys, blocks and tackles, shovels, crowbars and a small hydraulic jack. She selected some tools and dropped them into a shoulder bag.
Outside, she pulled her coat closer against the cold and headed out to Artist’s Corner, a small section of the cemetery marked by a slowly rusting abstract structure. It had been a source of contention during the summer. The sculptor, Elizabeth Trader, assured her the polymer coating on the steel had been weatherproof. It hadn’t been and the color began to flake off before a year passed. Now it was covered in rust and although Eden didn’t mind it personally, since her whole life was built around the concept of decay, her patrons were often less than pleased to be reminded of their impermanence.
Around the statue were several unremarkable graves, most of them showing nothing more than a small brass plaque over a body-length slab of granite. Of the five, three were clients and two were her personal projects, bodies left unclaimed at the municipal morgue and sent to Eden for disposal. She treated them as well as she could and revered them in the best way she knew how.
Working by feel, she found the indentation in the slab that fitted the edge of her crowbar and levered it up far enough to insert the edge of her hydraulic jack. The smell of corruption wafted out. There was no embalming on these bodies, nor coffins to encase their decay. She took a few breaths to get used to the smell before levering the slab to a forty-five degree angle, sufficient to view the body beneath. Flies speckled the surface, lethargic in the November chill but the warmth of the body was
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