Days were normal, as normal as they could be. Petronia McBride had attained protected status with the caps. This meant that there was always one of them not too far off; lurking around a corner, keeping watch in a nearby alley, keeping the evil away from her. A girl could never be too safe. Sometimes she wondered how she could have been so fortunate, regarding her initial misfortune in the city. 

Her first meeting with Mr Maynard had gone as well as she could have expected. She had stuttered, almost fallen over and broken a vase. The broad man had only smiled at her clumsiness and proceeded to instruct her on her duties. Mr Maynard was a man with a lot of interest in the well-being of the city. Not only was he the biggest producer of corn on the island but he had helped secure a treaty with the Vorgen in his early years.

It was surprising how many people passed away in Adelwreth—young and elderly alike. Petronia had the duty and privilege of restoring these lifeless bodies to a presentable state. She felt comfortable here among the dead. They didn’t give her fear and didn’t expect her to speak whole sentences or act in a proper manner. 

There was a Mr Creese lying on the table: lifeless, inflated and somewhat putrid. She started with her duties, treating the body with oils and minerals. 

“I only ask that if there is a body part of sorts that is, how should I say, beyond repair”—she remembered Mr Maynard saying—“that that body part be removed to spare the deceased’s loved ones grief and shock.”

She inspected Mr Creese for injuries. Many others had had injuries that had resulted in their lifeless state. Some arms, some legs and even some faces had to be replaced with prosthetics and masks. Mr Creese seemed to have been, for the most part, in perfect health. She moved on with the sewing of the eyes and closing of the mouth. This was a difficult task and required both dexterity and strength. Fortunately, no one saw her doing what she did as she placed a knee on Mr Creese’s chest to allow her better grip when forcing the wire up his palate.

She was almost done with the chemical processes when she smelled smoke.

“Really!” she exclaimed and ran to the back. The room was filled with all sorts of tools, caskets and bottles of chemicals. She stopped by a burner that she had transformed into a makeshift oven and cleared the tools from it, scattering them across the floor. She pulled open the door and burnt her finger while attempting to remove a hot tray of burnt cookies. She sucked it, grabbed a cloth that was lying somewhere close by and removed the tray. Smoke filled the room and she coughed while she turned down the burner and waved frantically. She sunk down to her knees, looking at the burnt cookies on the tray.

“Donkin is going to kill me,” she sighed. She finished up with Mr Creese and then Mr Greinzholt before ending her day.

***

She locked the glass door in the evening light. Across the street, police officers stood proud, guarding the station. Constable Constable was in there somewhere today. She would often greet him in the mornings when she passed him on her way to work. Those days she was on time, unlike most normal mornings. 

Down towards Peasant’s Way, a cap nodded to her and started leading the way from a way off. A carriage or two rolled past her as she passed groups of people heading up and down the street. This was her favourite route of the day; in a few hundred metres or so she would be able to breathe in that ocean air again. It somehow reminded her of her new life, a life where she meant something. The waves crashed onto the beach; then the water withdrew slowly, built up, rumbled and smashed over itself onto the beach again. It was mesmerising, rhythmic and peaceful. She looked up at the cap waiting further down Peasant’s way and pointed awkwardly at the ocean. The cap nodded. Petronia removed her shoes and stepped onto the warm sand and down to the water. Great ships lay in the bay, each awaiting their turn in the harbour. She sat down in absent thought and gazed out over the seemingly endless blue.

“Well, isn’t this odd?” asked a man behind her. She swung around in shock. “A lady sitting on the beach in the middle of the day?” The man wore white trousers and a green jacket. He had perfect teeth and flowing hair. Petronia didn’t like people with perfect teeth—they couldn’t be trusted.

“Uh… well…” she stuttered and looked up towards Peasant to see if the cap was still there.

“You are that lady keeping the morgue if I am not mistaken?” he asked as he sat on his haunches next to her.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Yes… well…”

“I would just like to thank you for what you did for my father,” he said with a sincere face.

“What? I… I don’t even…” she didn’t know what was going on or what she was supposed to say.

“You did him up nicely. It really helped my mother at the funeral,” he said, looking towards the harbour and then at his hand. “We hadn’t seen him look so… so alive in years. It was a good sight to remember him by, so, thank you.”

The man stood up and started walking away.

“It’s my pleasure,” she called back to him once she figured out the words to say. By then, he was already out of earshot and disappearing into the crowd of people heading towards the market square. She looked back to where she was sure the cap was, and sure as daylight, there stood the cap. He stood on the corner by the cigar factory, talking to some cleaning girl. Petronia got up and stomped in his direction. Before she could get to him, however, he took his leave of the girl, nodded to Petronia and escorted her up to Tenth Street before handing her over to another cap.

Uncle Bing was a kind, old man. He normally escorted the protected up the alleys. He had crooked teeth—at least, the teeth he had left were crooked. He could be trusted. She hooked in by his arm and they spoke at length about his day and about a certain orphan who was learning how to count coppers and find stashes. The caps really did look out for those of less fortune. Petronia was practically the embodiment of why the caps existed.

“Thank you, Uncle Bing,” she said as she stopped at her apartment door. It was on the ground floor and right where everyone dumped their rubbish.

“Doa’ you mention it, darlin’,” the old man said, smiling with a mouth empty of teeth, and wandered off.

She reached into her handbag for her keys when she saw the cookies. She had once again forgotten. She put her hand to her forehead.

“Uncle Bing?” she called.

“Yes darlin’?” he replied, turning around.

“Can you take me to Donkin?” she said, and a lock of hair fell on her face. She blew it away from her face, only for more of it to fall down and cover one side. She sighed, slouching; then stood up straight and fixed her hair.

“See, I baked cookies, and I completely forgot.” The old man’s eyes lit up.

“Well of course!” he chuckled and waddled up to her. They wandered out to Peasant’s Way and to the alley behind the furniture factory. They spoke, once again, at length—this time about the harbour and the time the third pier was added. Bing had worked on it back then, and he took pride in it that he initialled the fourth plank from the ocean. It was a secret; only he knew about it at the time, but it still made him swell with pride when talking about it.

The air smelled of all different kinds of wood. The aromas intermingled and burnt the nose on occasion but then turned into sweet incense. A cap stood on the corner. They passed the room that she had once occupied for a while.

“Lassybushka!” exclaimed the Scrussian, running around the corner. Petronia finished her conversation with Uncle Bing, then received the boy crashing into her—almost knocking out her wind.

“Scrush!” she said, regaining her breath. “That is no way to greet a lady!” she scolded him, and then hugged him.

“Och, ladyshmady, lass,” he said in his Russian-Scottish accent and pulled her along around the corner.  Uncle Bing laughed, greeted the Scrussian and waddled after them.

***

Behind the factory were a whole bunch of caps. A meeting had been called and most of them—those not on duty—was here. Some of them were fuming. Old Man Greg was just climbing off a box, assisted by Donkin. Petronia waited patiently. The Scrussian was blathering about his day, about an operation where he and a few others had obtained a stash of bread. He handed her a piece. It was slightly mouldy but edible—almost anything was edible to a cap. If it wasn’t completely rotten, it was almost a delicacy. She thanked him and stood watching Donkin. Something was off. Donkin caught her eye, exchanged a few words with those around him and then made his way to her.

“Petronia, it isn’t safe this time of day out here,” he scolded her.

“Well, I forgot at first,” she defended.

“Scrush, safely, home, now,” he said.

“Donkin!” she protested.

“Get!” he yelled at her and turned around.

Something was very wrong; Donkin had never yelled at her before. Her eyes started to tear up, but she stifled her tears and stomped her foot. She stood up straight, freeing herself from Scrush who was pulling at her arm.

“I am protected, and I shall not be yelled at,” she said, surprised at her own confidence. “And as such, I have brought payment.” Donkin stopped in his tracks. The others all stopped their hushed conversations and looked up sharply.

“Cookies?” Donkin asked softly. Some of the others mouthed the word.

“Indeed,” she said, relaxing.

Almost immediately, the congregation of caps were around her like vultures. Petronia withdrew her handbag, guarding it and shoved away a cap that came too close.

“First, Donkin,” she said. “You have to apologise.” The other caps looked at Donkin, willing him on to do the deed.

“I…” he started and looked around him embarrassedly. “I apologise for yelling at you.” Old Man Greg laughed heartily in the distance and started clapping slowly. Donkin blushed.

“Well then,” said Petronia and started handing out cookies. They all ate and were transported into their own individual worlds of bliss.

***

Donkin escorted Petronia home that night. There was mostly silence, and his hawklike eyes inspected each path and alleyway. Every movement caught his attention.

“Petronia,” he started as they came to her apartment. “In a few days, you will probably get a body.” She stopped, looking at him confusedly. He was uneasy; he fidgeted and constantly looked up and down the alley.

“I get bodies every day, Donkin,” she replied.

“Not like this one, you don’t,” he said.

She put the keys in the door and thought it over in her head. The caps weren’t killers; sure, they would beat people up but they didn’t cross that line, unless—

“One of the orphans went missing, Petronia,” he hissed. She shoved the door open revealing her tiny apartment: a chair, a table, a small fireplace, a bed, and a dresser. She looked him squarely in the eyes.

“A man,” he said, gritting his teeth. Petronia relaxed again. Donkin probably had the most crooked teeth of all the caps. He was also the most trustworthy one of them all.

“There was a man seen taking the orphan.” He looked past her into nothing. “No one takes orphans; no one harms them and gets away with it.” There was something in Donkin’s eyes: pain, a distant memory and an intensity.

“I understand, Donkin,” she said. “But you aren’t killers.” He looked into her eyes for a few seconds; she saw only resolve and hatred. Not for her, but for someone else. He then left into the dark of the night. Petronia noted the day in her diary and rested. 

***

She was late the next day and the next. She did her work, all the time dreading what she may find—what may be delivered to her. She waited and expected, but hoped and hoped. The first body had died of a heart attack; the next was a drowning. A few more of old age and a few of disease. Days went by but she never got a body that was stabbed to death. She never got a body that was in connection with the caps. For this, she was thankful. And when it became evident that she was right about their crooked teeth, she started feeling more and more alive.