There was no shine to the girl's blond hair. There was no light in her unfocused blue eyes. Her bones - elbows, shoulders, clavicles - were at sharp angles, poking at the thin layer of her skin. A sore on her lip had crusted over and turned black. Track marks at the curve of her offered arm looked old. A filthy sheet draped down to the floor, as if the bare mattress were a Roman pedestal, presenting the dead girl upon it as an object of beauty.

Eva stood in the doorway and listened to the silence of death. A light summer drizzle fell on the West End just outside the windows. A drop of rain and sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She had brought lilies for her friend, the blooms just starting to open. She thought their sweet, fresh scent would help Dynna feel like she was starting anew. Eva bent to lay the flowers on the carpet. Appropriate now. Funeral flowers.

She wasn't sure who to contact. Mason. The Watch. Father Michelson. Yes, Father Michelson. Eva blew out a breath. Dynna had been religious. She would have wanted some sort of prayer.

On the street, Eva paid a girl a silver to carry a note to the Church of the Holy Trinity on the other side of the river. Her clothes were damp again by the time she stepped back inside.

Dynna was naked. The nights had been hot, after all. Eva moved to the closet. Mostly empty hangers. A pile of clothes on the floor. Eva bent. Picked through. A light green dress was crumpled, but clean. She shook it out, laid it on the bed.

Most of the dresser drawers were empty. How long had it been since Dynna had done laundry? Had done anything normal? She found a pair of pink cotton panties with a pattern of tropical fruit. Pineapple, kiwi, and bananas danced across the fabric.

Dead weight. Eva carefully released the rubber tie from around Dynna's arm and set it on the bedside table. She threaded the underwear around each of the girl's feet, then worked them higher up her legs. She rolled the girl gently to her side to get underneath her bottom. The panties looked baggy.

The dress she pulled on over Dynna's head, avoiding the blank look in her eyes as she lifted her torso, and let her body lean against her own. Eva drew the dress down the girl's back, and then carefully laid her back to rest on the mattress, like dressing a doll.

Eva was sweating by the time Dynna's dress was in place. Her eyes shifted to the bedside table. The syringe was still there. Spoon. Rubber tie. She could clean up for her. But what was the point?

As she retreated to the doorway, Eva looked around the room, then out towards the rest of the apartment. Dynna had nothing. Father Michelson would probably take her clothes and what could be salvaged of her furniture for charity sale. She couldn't imagine that Dynna had any money stashed away. So the girl would be buried in Potter's Field.

Eva stepped to the window and watched the clouds darken as the sun set behind them. Her hands trembled, so she balled them into fists and rubbed them on her thighs.

She could feel Death in the room. Its hot humid breath pressing on her chest. Lingering. Slowly she turned, her eyes scanning the empty space.

"I'm not ready." Eva's voice was quiet and hoarse. "Neither is Mason."

The silence of the room stretched. Eva rubbed her thighs. "Do you hear me? We're not ready."

When Death made no answer, Eva turned back to the window. It opened with a scrape, a rush of rain-washed air ruffling her hair, the sounds of the West End interrupting Death's silence as she sat on the window sill to watch and wait for the priest.