There was a brittle quality to the silence. A tightening in Marcie's lips, as though she was absorbing a blow. Nineteen. Had she— surely she must have—
But her confusion, when Qebhet had called him a teenager.
No, she hadn't known. She hadn't realised he was so young.
Marcie turned quickly from the subject, and Qebhet obliged her. It was the work of a few minutes to finish washing Ronan's body. When they were done, Qebhet carried the spent cloths and bowl to the sink, before returning to remaining items on the equipment table. "Now we rinse him clean, and now I bless him."
She took up her clay pitcher and she poured water into the remaining bowl, and she spoke the ritual words in a voice as soft and flowing as her movements. She spoke in English – less weighty, and less precise than her native tongue, but it was Ronan's tongue and it was Marcie's, and these words were for them. When the bowl was filled, she set the pitcher to one side, and one by one she added a single drop from each of the small bottles – the seven sacred oils.
"On this day is your mouth opened. Horus pours water upon your fingers; Geb hands over to you what is in him. Your face is washed by your father Nun, Your face is wiped dry by Hedjhotep. Ptah turns towards you with clothing, as he did for Re. Your mouth is opened with good utterances. The good is remembered for you And forgotten is evil on the blessed day. No ill which you have done will be reproached. No evil shall attach to your limbs. Re purifies you at his coming forth, Thoth at his shining forth, When this utterance is told to you which Isis spoke to her son Horus: You are purified, Ronan Murphy. You are protected."
Qebhet exhaled a slow breath, let the blessing settle into the water, a barely perceptible ripple across the surface.
She reached for a clean cloth and offered it to Marcie.