Qebhet nodded quickly and rose. "I'll be back." The cool room opened onto the prep room, where the dead were embalmed and readied for their journey forth: Qebhet's domain. A blur of spirits followed after her, voices overlapping in a flurry of questions.
—she was dead, she was deader'n me, how—
—it's unholy, what kind of abomination—
—what the fuck—
—how can you be so goddamn calm right—
—this ever happened before?
Reaching the alcove by the door, Qebhet turned to face them, hands spread open in a gesture of appeal. "Please. She needs my help. I will explain later, I promise." The muttering didn't stop, but it quieted, ghosts drifting back a few paces. It was hard to tell how many were giving her space and how many were drawing back in suspicion or fear. She'd been fortunate that Hecate's return had come at a time when no mortal staff were working, but the dead were ever-awake in this place, and she would have some uncomfortable explaining to do later.
For now, she put it firmly out of her mind. In the alcove, waiting for just this moment, was a thick blanket, a glass, and her clay pitcher with its cool, quenching water. It was a drink normally reserved for the dead, parched and anxious from their wait in the Hall of Truth, but it would do just as well for the newly-resurrected. She stuff the blanket under her arm, filled the glass, and brought both back to Hecate in the cool room.
Kneeling back on the floor, she set both glass and blanket down where her friend could reach them.