Dinner was served promptly every other day in the kitchen, and consisted of delicately prepared castoffs from the funeral parlor’s customers, prepared in a deliciously noxious fashion by Silas himself. Llewelyn took to his plate of reeking brains with gusto, clawing into it with both hands while resting his elbows on the table as Silas looked on uncomfortably.

“So, Mr. Ebonwright…tell me of your business,” Silas said. “What do the Ebonwright owe their fortune to? Banking, as is the case with so many of your lithe-eared brethren?”

“Oh, we have…land,” Llewelyn said, brain matter dribbling down his chin. “Lots of it. Not sure where, really.”

“Why be bothered by such trivialities in one’s income?” Silas said. “We Moores have long been in the body-trade, even back east.”

“Even when that old zombie was still alive,” laughed Elijah.

“Eons ago by the look of it, then, even to my long-lived folks,” Llewellyn laughed.

Silas, stung, was silent for a moment before continuing. “We have long recognized that there will always be a need for people to attend the newly bred, the newly wed, and the newly dead. And as we haven’t the feminine proclivities to be midwives or the dextrous needles to sew wedding finery, we chose the latter.”

“I don’t know, Silas, I feel like you’d be a pretty good midwife,” said Llewellyn as he slurped noisily at a goblet full of lymph. “You’ve got the sissy aspect down, certainly.”

“Sissy?” Silas said. “I would call it more…refined. I am a gentleman about town, and the leading figure in our first Undead Society.”

“Is that where the lace on your sleeves comes from? Being a refined gentleman? Or is there a bylaw in the Undead Society that only the biggest fop may lead?” Llewelyn roared with laughter at this, spraying the party with fluids and chunks of cerebrum.

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