Chapter Text
The bell above the door chimed softly as Castorice looked up from the mahogany casket she was polishing. Cyrene entered carrying an armful of white lilies, their sweet scent filling the quiet preparation room.
"You're early today," Castorice said, setting down her cloth. "The Hendersons' service isn't until tomorrow afternoon."
Cyrene carefully laid the lilies on the worktable, her fingers already sorting stems by length. "I know, but Mrs. Henderson specifically requested lilies mixed with forget-me-nots. The blue ones just came in this morning, and I wanted to get the arrangement perfect." She paused, glancing at the casket. "How are you holding up? I know Mr. Henderson was one of your father's old friends."
Castorice smiled sadly. "That's exactly why it needs to be perfect. He used to bring me candy when I was little, back when I thought I'd do anything but follow Dad into this business."
"And now look at you," Cyrene said warmly, beginning to weave the flowers together. "Giving people the most dignified farewell possible. There's honor in that."
"Says the woman who makes death beautiful," Castorice replied, watching Cyrene's practiced hands create something stunning from simple stems. "You know, people always focus on how sad funerals are. But working with you all these years... I've learned they're really about love. The flowers you place, the details I perfect... it's all love."
Cyrene looked up, her eyes glistening slightly. "That's the most poetic thing you've ever said to me, Cas."
"Don't get used to it," Castorice laughed, returning to her polishing. "Now finish that arrangement. Mr. Henderson deserves your best work."
"He'll have it," Cyrene promised, adding the final forget-me-not. "He'll have both our best."
---
Three days after the Henderson funeral, Castorice was updating the schedule when she heard raised voices from the front parlor. She recognized Cyrene's calm but firm tone, contrasted with a man's agitated shouting.
"I don't care what the 'standard package' includes! My mother deserves better than grocery store flowers!"
Castorice quickly made her way to the front. A man in his mid-forties stood red-faced before Cyrene, who maintained her composure despite his finger jabbing dangerously close to her face.
"Sir," Castorice interjected smoothly, stepping between them, "I'm Castorice, the mortician here. Perhaps we can discuss this calmly?"
The man turned his anger toward her. "Your 'partner' here is trying to upsell me on flowers! My mother just died, and you people are trying to profit off my grief!"
Cyrene's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Castorice had seen this before—grief wearing the mask of rage.
"Mr...?"
"Skott. Lyndon Skott."
"Mr. Skott, please sit." Castorice gestured to the consultation chairs. "Cyrene, could you bring us some water?"
As Cyrene left, Castorice sat across from the grieving son. "Tell me about your mother."
Lyndon blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Your mother. What was she like?"
His anger deflated slightly. "She... she loved her garden. Spent every morning out there, even when she got sick. Roses, mostly. Yellow roses."
Castorice nodded. "And I imagine you want her service to reflect who she was?"
"Of course, but—"
"That's all Cyrene was trying to do," Castorice said gently. "She wasn't upselling you. She was listening. Yellow roses aren't in our standard package because they're expensive and require special ordering. But if your mother loved them, then that's what she should have."
Lyndon's face crumpled. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know how to do this. She was all I had."
Cyrene returned with water and a small photo album. "Mr. Skott, I took the liberty of pulling some arrangement samples. No pressure, but... would you like to look through them with me? We can create something that honors your mother's garden."
Lyndon took the album with shaking hands. "The yellow roses... how much would that actually cost?"
Cyrene glanced at Castorice, who gave a subtle nod.
"For someone who loved her garden as much as your mother did?" Cyrene said softly. "Let's not worry about the standard packages. Let's just make it beautiful."
---
Later that evening, after Lyndon Skott had left with a genuine smile and a custom arrangement plan, Castorice found Cyrene in the back room, still organizing stems.
"You gave him the premium arrangement at standard pricing, didn't you?" Castorice asked.
Cyrene didn't look up. "We'll make it work."
Castorice leaned against the doorframe. "You know, most people couldn't handle being yelled at like that and still show such kindness."
"Most people don't understand that anger is just grief with nowhere to go," Cyrene replied, finally meeting her eyes. "You taught me that, remember? My first month here, when that widow threw a vase at you."
Castorice laughed. "Your mother. She apologized for three years straight after that, brought us cookies every Christmas."
"Exactly." Cyrene smiled. "This job isn't about flowers and bodies, Cas. It's about holding space for people's worst moments and helping them find their way through."
"When did you become so wise?"
"I learned from the best mortician in the business," Cyrene said, returning to her flowers. "Now go home. You've been here since six this morning."
"Only if you leave too."
"Deal. Just let me finish these eucalyptus stems for tomorrow's service."
Castorice grabbed her coat, then paused. "Hey, Cyrene?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For being my partner in this. I couldn't do it without you."
Cyrene's smile was soft in the dim light. "We're a good team, aren't we?"
"The best," Castorice agreed. "Now hurry up with those stems. I'll wait and we can grab dinner."
"You don't have to—"
"I know. But Mr. Henderson's funeral reminded me that life's too short. And we spend so much time with death that we forget to actually live sometimes."
Cyrene set down her shears. "Dinner sounds perfect. Give me five minutes."
As Castorice waited in the quiet mortuary, surrounded by the tools of their trade and the lingering scent of lilies, she realized that somewhere between the grief and the flowers, she and Cyrene had built something rare: a partnership that honored both the dead and the living.