"There is no right or wrong," said Qebhet, her voice gentle. "It's... the act that's important, more than the choice. Clothing a person, it's an act of love." She gestured toward the door behind the reception desk with a light tilt of her head. "It's this way. Nobody else is working tonight, so you'll have privacy."
She led the way along a short corridor. The first few rooms they passed would have fit into any workplace: a couple of offices, a staff break room with a fridge and a slightly threadbare couch. But there was no mistaking room that Qebhet stopped at. Sterile white walls, pale vinyl flooring, bench tops laden with some obscurely medical-looking equipment, and at the centre of the room – a metal embalming table. No mistaking, either, what lay on the table beneath the cover of a white sheet. The scent of sweet incense wafted from one corner of the room.