The death itself wasn’t very difficult — Hastings had no sense of taste at all — but what was she to do with his body, now that she had it on her hands? She wasn’t worried about anyone looking for him, not Hastings, but she couldn’t just leave it where it was without attracting flies and all sorts of unpleasant creatures. She was just clean enough that that bothered her.

“I suppose I should have thought this out ahead of time,” she said, as much to his body as to herself. He had been a good listener, credit where credit’s due, after all. Absolutely no use to anyone otherwise, but patient and considerate as a listener, sure. “What am I to do with you?”

Hasting stared at her, his gums faintly blue.

“I could bury you in the garden.” She nibbled on one of the crackers left on the table while they considered this. “I’ve heard that’s very good for roses. I’ve always wanted roses. Or there’s lime, that’d make short work of you, I’m sure.” She tsked. “I have no imagination for this sort of thing! How disappointed you must be.” She reached out to tap the back of his hand softly, a gesture she’d made a thousand times or more over the years.

“MURDER!” Hastings bellowed, dead lungs pumping once and falling silent.

“Dear me,” she said. “I guess we’re both slaves to convention, after all.”