As usual, Glocara uncovered the shroud and took a look.
"How did he die?" she asked.
"Looks like he fell while repairing his own roof," said the undertaker who brought the body inside.
"Falling face-first wouldn't cause injuries like these..."
"Oh, nobody noticed when he first fell, and there happened to be two stray dogs nearby..."
"I think we should just cremate him. Who knows how many germs are in those wounds."
"No, his family still wants an open casket viewing. Why else would I bring him here?"
"I can't fix this face."
The undertaker leaned in to examine the body, then quickly recoiled. "Right. But you gotta figure something out."
"Alright... let's bandage up everything below the nose and stuff some filler inside."
"I don't care how you do it, sister. If the clients aren't satisfied, don't blame me. I'm out."
After the undertaker left, Glocara began to work on the half-faced corpse. To facilitate bandaging and filling, she had to cut away some obstructing flesh. Leaning against the nearby table, she took half a minute to contemplate, smoking a cigarette while deciding where to start. Then, holding the cigarette holder in her mouth, she picked up the surgical knife. After a few cuts, she felt the light was too dim, so she walked to the window, pinching the dusty white curtain with her left hand and pulling it aside. Visible dust motes floated down in the air, causing her to sneeze a few times. Outside the window, there was a pot of pale purple flowers, and beneath the foliage, a small beetle flapped its wings. She noticed it and made a mock gesture of flicking it away with her thumb and forefinger. Then, she resumed her work beside the corpse.
Glocara had been working at this funeral parlor for three months, doing her usual job: embalming bodies for public viewing, making them presentable on display. She no longer had to harvest usable parts from the bodies, although at the manager's request, she had knocked out a gold tooth or two in the past. After deducting living expenses, she could save around thirty silver coins per month. When she first returned to Stormwind, Jorgen arranged a job for her at the hospital, but she declined. It wasn't because she preferred handling corpses over nursing patients; she simply didn't want to depend on him again. She never asked where the five hundred gold coins from back then had gone. If she could retrieve them, she would have a much better life than now, but for some reason, just the thought of returning to the rainforests of Stranglethorn made her feel uneasy, so she quickly dismissed the idea. Anyway, this was the most she had ever earned in her life—aside from three years in Theramore where she had food and shelter despite having little to do.
After cutting away excess flesh and cleaning the wounds, she put down her cigarette holder and took out a roll of bandages, figuring out the appropriate way to wrap them. The eyes of the corpse weren't completely closed, revealing a hint of white in the sunken sockets. A fly buzzed around and she waved it away. The scene reminded her of a dream she had recently: she sat in the center of a vast wilderness, while hundreds of people approached her from afar, each taking a seat or lying down in front of her. After exchanging a few incomprehensible words, they would get up and walk towards the distant gray-brown horizon. Among them was a man with two flies buzzing around his eyes. Their conversation went like this:
"Sir, your eyes are sick. I've seen this illness before."
"Yeah, it's getting worse. Nothing I can do about it. They've always been my friends."
"Let me shoo them away. Otherwise, they'll lay eggs in your eye sockets."
"No need, I know. Farewell, Miss Glocara. Next, it's your turn to meet Miss Glocara. Good day."
Glocara felt the meaning of these dreams couldn't be clearer, so she didn't care much. But as the number of bodies she accumulated increased, she felt that her past reputation as "Lady Death" was unjustified, because people usually wouldn't call an executioner who carried out public executions Lady Death. This was her profession, and there were many others in Stormwind who did similar work, meaning she had to compete with her peers. "Lady Death" once brought her partial hostility and isolation from the crowd, and now that title was gone, but at least the isolation hadn't completely disappeared. As a stranger who suddenly came to the funeral parlor looking for work, combined with her extreme lack of talent for lying, she hadn't been able to fabricate a credible background for herself, which led many people to regard her with both avoidance and scrutiny. Sometimes, a little carelessness in speech or action brought suspicion from others, like when she casually inserted, "Eat human flesh at least once a week? Who said that? They don't have such customs," into a troll-related topic. After that incident, she could no longer buy oil from that merchant.
She didn't particularly care about these things because there had never been a moment in her life when she was genuinely welcomed by others. This excludes the time spent in Theramore, where the maids she often interacted with liked her. Ironically, the most leisurely days were during her confinement, and she occasionally found it quite ironic but never nostalgic.
While bandaging the body, the owner of the funeral parlor came in. He was in his fifties, dressed in cheap attire for receiving guests, with cuffs and trouser hems still dirty as usual, standing by the door speaking loudly.
"Miss, what are you doing?"
"Working."
"Stop, stop, stop. Stop what you're doing."
Glocara put down what she was holding. "What's the matter?"
"You can't cover this gentleman's face. He's a highly respected old gentleman, and many dignitaries will come to pay their respects, like Mr. Stevens, who is a viscount's steward. It's too disrespectful to cover his face completely. You'll embarrass his family, and then everyone will say we mishandled it. Will there be any future business then?"
"Of course, I don't want to cover it all, provided he still has a face."
The employer walked to the side of the corpse, frowning, while Glocara stepped aside. He took a look and scratched the side of his ear with his index finger.
"Hmm... like this..."
"So, you didn't see the body when it was brought in," Glocara said. "Any better solutions?"
"I've told you many times, in our line of work, we provide the last service for others, so we must maintain a proper attitude. We can't afford to offend customers, and reputation is important..."
"So, you mean there's no other way."
"Then I'll have to apologize to his family. The government doesn't understand the plight of the funeral industry, and employees keep causing me trouble. Let me tell you, miss, I'll only work in this business for another three years at most, then I'll switch careers. I heard selling tea is very profitable nowadays, and you can interact with many educated people. I've always wanted to sell tea, so you better think about your own future... Why are you smoking in this room again?"
"Dead people don't mind."
"Oh, here you go again. They may not mind, but I do. One day you'll burn something of mine, miss, you will... My youngest son came down here yesterday, he had a bag of marbles on him, but couldn't find them when he went back. Have you seen them?"
"No, I'll keep an eye out for them and give them to you if I find them."
"Really didn't see them? It's unlikely. My son never lies; he said they were here..."
Glocara was about to resume her work when she stopped again. "Could you tell me why I would have any reason to steal your son's toy?"
"I didn't say you stole... Forget it. Treating your employer like this isn't good for you, miss. I'll go upstairs to attend to the guests. Keep quiet and do your work. Besides covering his face, is there really no..."
"No, there isn't."
The employer gave Glocara one last look, wobbled his chin, and left the room.
For the rest of the day, Glocara handled three more bodies before returning home. In a nearby building not far from the funeral parlor, she rented a bedroom. The landlady, Mrs. Rosaline, was around eighty years old, never married, and never had any relatives visit her. She used to be a seamstress, but her fading eyesight and withered hands made it impossible for her to work. If not for Glocara's rent, Mrs. Rosaline's life would have become very difficult, so there wasn't the typical landlord-tenant relationship of tension and mutual dislike between them. Aside from always eating together, Glocara occasionally helped Mrs. Rosaline with some daily chores when she had time, but she wasn't often willing to do so—assisting an old lady with the hands that were always in contact with corpses made her feel somewhat ominous.
"Glocara," Rosaline said during dinner, "Mr. Tindell gave me another block of butter today. He's such a nice man."
"Yeah."
"He asked about you. He asked when you'd be home."
"Mm-hmm."
"What do you think of him?"
Glocara, who hadn't been paying much attention, looked up. "Why are you asking me this?"
"He's asked about you several times. He's honest, hardworking, and kind-hearted."
"Please don't go on, Mrs. Rosaline."
"Do you mind that he's been married before?"
"No. I don't want to talk about this."
"There aren't many men your age who haven't been married yet. You're a good girl, so..." Seeing Glocara stop eating, Rosaline said, "Okay, I won't say anymore. Just think about it. I told him the same; it's okay."
That night, Glocara lay in bed, never having considered Rosaline's suggestion, but still daring to imagine what life with this man named Tindell would be like. He was a widower with two sons, tall, with one ear not working well. Honest, hardworking, kind-hearted—all these descriptions seemed to fit. But perhaps to the old lady, almost every neighbor who was friendly possessed these qualities, or these were typical lines of a matchmaker. Honesty meant not philandering, hardworking meant being able to support a family and having a healthy body, and kind-heartedness meant... just being kind-hearted, perhaps partially implying not easily hitting his wife. To those who toiled in the mundane world, these were the three virtues needed in a good husband; if coupled with not drinking or gambling, it would be perfect, but Mrs. Rosaline didn't mention these. Glocara naturally considered these things too. Perhaps besides simply finding a man who could start a family, her greater concern was not wanting to become like Rosaline in a few decades. No matter how much she liked the old lady, she didn't anticipate such a second half of life: working until unable to, relying on relief or meager savings to grow old without any relatives. She imagined Cookeing for Tindell, mending clothes for his two sons, but when she tried to imagine the two of them meeting naked, she couldn't continue thinking and quickly fell asleep.
The next morning, upon waking up, Glocara heard an unusual boiling sound coming from the kitchen. She rushed to the kitchen and saw water overflowing from the pot on the stove, while Rosaline lay motionless on the floor. Although this scene saddened her for quite some time, she also had a sincere but unspoken thought: she didn't want her future to end up like this.