Qebhet helped a little, lifting Ronan's limbs to let Marcie sweep the cloth over the harder-to-reach places, but mostly she stood back and let Marcie work. This was her time for farewells, the last time she would ever run her hands along his arms, his chest, his face; the last time she would ever look him in the face. Qebhet could see that truth dawning on Marcie now, and she tried to intrude as little as possible.
A damp sheen clung to Ronan's cold skin, along with the subtle scent of myrrh and honey and spice. Once Marcie was done bathing him, Qebhet handed her a fresh cloth for drying. The second bowl and used cloths joined the others in the sink, while the oils and pitcher were returned to their proper places. That also gave Qebhet the chance to retrieve the obol – a wafer-thin gold facsimile of real ancient currency – and the olive oil, of which she poured a small amount into an inch-wide dish.
Both of these things she set down on the equipment table, before looking to Marcie again. "Are you ready to dress him?"