Qebhet was lighting the incense when the reception bell sounded.
She wasn't sure whether it was an overstep. Ronan had worshipped Ares in life; perhaps he would prefer a blood libation and a coin on the tongue. But, cast aside by his gods as he was in his dying hour— perhaps he would want nothing of anything divine. (Kaden's words, sharp in her memory: I've seen what people turn into when they make vows to gods. I've seen what gods do to people.)
But if anything of Ronan's soul lingered in the world, he was keeping his opinions to himself, and Kaden (to her increasing worry) was still unreachable, so Qebhet had only her own best judgement to rely upon.
Kapet incense was cleansing, its scent honeyed and a little earthy, chasing away the stain of isfet. It couldn't hurt, surely?
Then the sounding of the bell. Qebhet left the kapet beads to soften and smoulder and hurried to reception to greet Ronan's sole mourner. "Marcie? I'm Qebhet. I am so very sorry for your loss."