All I could smell was pig shit, and it reminded me of my boyhood. I could hear the beasts oinking, wherever they were, and down the road a few men were caught up in a shouting match. This din was familiar too, as were the stooped, muddy hovels around us, but the memories they conjured were hazy and unwelcome. My parents had sent me to the Order at such a young age that my most vivid memories were all there in the dormitories, in the gardens and the classrooms, all of them so carefully swept and quiet.
          Now, as Brother Driscoll and I walked down the road, I realized how much my feet had grown accustomed to the surety of cobblestone. The muck of the road was all squelch and squish and stink. The smell of shit was so profound and the muck so damp that I had to wonder if they had all mixed into one substance, as was likely. My hands shook violently. I was fighting back the urge to vomit. I wanted to go back to the dormitories.
         "Are you all right, son?"
         Brother Driscoll had his huge hand on my shoulder. I smiled up at him. He was one of our finest. I remembered meeting him on my very first day, when I was just one in a wagon full of boys and he was helping the other brothers hand out our little grey robes. He was just at the end of his own education, then, and was starting to take missions of his own. As I grew up, I heard the stories of him taking missions all across our country and doing the Order proud every time. Now it was my first mission, and I was thrilled to have such an esteemed mentor at my side.
         "Yes, Brother Driscoll, of course!"
         He chuckled.
         "Good. The place is just ahead. Remember, do as I tell you and save any questions for afterward. Your chief duty today is observation."
         I nodded fiercely. Though I was responsible for carrying our bag of supplies, Driscoll would be carrying out the return mostly by himself. In the early days of the Order, apprentices had to take a vow of silence for their first three missions, permitted only to handle supplies and learn by watching. The Order had since relaxed that rule, but the principle of it remained.
         Brother Driscoll led us up to the door and knocked. A woman answered. She was turning grey, both in her hair and in her skin. Her eyes were sharp and clear, but her shoulders and arms fell inward, and her head craned forward, giving her the shape of a sickly bird.
         "Yes?" she said. "Oh! Are you from the Order of the Blessed Return?"
         "Yes, my dear lady!"
         Brother Driscoll produced from his robe a string of dark beads and let her inspect the pendant. It showed the seal of the Order: a skeleton kneeling in prayer and looking up into a beam of light. For practice, I pulled out my own beads and held them forward. The woman looked them over and nodded.
         "Good. I'm Martine, but I'm sure they told you that. Please, come on in."
         In the dark, single room of the hovel, I could make out a long box laid out on the floor. As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the box bore the seal of Order as well. It was one of our coffins on loan-a standard practice for peasant families. Once we were finished with the return, the family would give the coffin back to the Order so we could reuse it for the next family. Thus, we ensured safe handling of all bodies with low expense, and those peasant families could, for a moment, see their departed laid out with dignity.
         "Best of tidings, Martine. I am Brother Driscoll, and this is my apprentice Brother Wynam."
         We shook hands.
         "Apologies for the cold," she said, "I would've made a fire for you, but there's not much room for him. Right up against the fireplace he is-don't want any embers flying astray and harming him. Besides, wasn't sure if that would mess with your work. Sorry."
         Around the coffin sat three young boys and a girl who was almost a woman. The boys were quiet, save for the biggest one who sniffled and used his sleeve to brush the tears off his cheeks. The girl sulked and met my gaze with a glare.
         "We don't need you here," said the girl. "I can tell you what Father has to say right now: he says save our money. Save it for a new pig. Don't waste it on these grey robes."
         Martine charged over to her daughter and smacked her across the face. I winced, and could almost feel the sting of my own mother's hand on my cheek. Without even thinking to do it, I tried to back out of the hovel, but Driscoll's hand gently held me in place.
         "There'll be none of that talk. Apologize now or you get another one."
         The girl scrunched her lips and kept quiet. Martine smacked her again, and still she kept quiet. Martine pulled her up by her hair and she shrieked and started to cry.
         "I'm sorry!"
         "Say it to them!"
         The girl shot glances at Driscoll and I, too fast for me to read her face. I tried not to show my fluster, but it did bother me to hear her speak ill of the Order. Our robes were a sign of honor. That very morning, most of the townsfolk had seen Driscoll and I in our grey and met us with blessings, handshakes, and extra food.
         "I'm sorry."
         "Good," said Martine, turning to us, "Sorry about Enid. She's not been taking it well."
         Brother Driscoll nodded and came over to Enid. With his massive, round frame and grey robe, he looked like a rolling boulder, and I could see the girl back away a step. Yet, when he spoke, his words bounced sweetly through the air like the song of a sparrow.
         "All is forgiven, Enid. It's no easy thing, losing a father, and grief brings low even the mightiest. You are valiant to stand and to fight. You are good to honor your father, forever and in all things. I could speak 'til tomorrow's sunrise of how much your father loves you, and the pride he feels for you, as should any father with such a loyal daughter. Grant us only this, then: the chance to let that fine man tell you this himself."
         Enid's lips quivered. I could picture exactly what she was seeing: Brother Driscoll's round cheeks, peppery beard, button nose, and soft, sad eyes. When one heard him speak, Driscoll was no boulder. He was a great pillow, and one wanted only to curl up into him for warmth. The girl could not let herself relent completely, but she nodded, and bowed, and took her seat again. I marveled at Driscoll and wondered how I could ever live up to his example. I didn't look like him. I had the sharp nose and shoulders of a hawk, and I was all sticks below. My own voice was reedy, and even I couldn't stand it.
         Now, Driscoll opened his scroll and traced through the list of names.
         "To confirm," he said, turning back to Martine, "he passed on Monday, by way of an accident with the plow, yes? Roderick Thorne?"
         "That. . .yes, that's right."
         "Say no more. It's only to confirm we have the right home, dear. Now, what was his temperament?"
         "He was. . .a careful judge of things. Did not like to take chances. Quick to anger if any of us disobeyed him, but everything he did was for our safety. He was a good man, truly, he was."
         "Of course, a man must look out for his family," said Driscoll, "and better if we know what sort of man we're summoning. Some can be quite stubborn, you know, but I'm sure your Roderick will be eager to see you."
         Martine smiled. Her face was out of practice smiling and it showed. Her lips jerked on their way out to her cheeks, and the smile didn't quite seem to reach her eyes. Still, Driscoll was getting more and more smiles out of her, and she seemed to be regaining form.
         "Any sore subjects we ought to avoid with him?" asked Driscoll.
         "His cap. He always kept it on, hated to be asked about it. He'd take it off for church, but even then, he'd want to sit in the back so nobody would see him from behind. Please, let him keep it on if you can."
         "So we shall," said Driscoll, "anything to make him comfortable."
         "Oh, thank you."
         Driscoll strolled over to the far end of the coffin, near the cold fireplace.
         "Now, my assistant and I will need our privacy to prepare the return. This art is between us and the Lord, you see."
         "Yes, of course," said Martine. "Come on, all of you, come on."
         She herded her boys and her daughter outside and shut the door behind her. Driscoll produced his beads once more, as did I, and he lead us in our prayer.
         "Lord our Father, King of all in Heaven and in Earth, bless and forgive us, bless and forgive our art, so that we may perform wonders of life over death before the eyes of the faithful, and increase their love for thee, and add to thy power and thy glory. Eternal is thy Kingdom, sacred is thy name, amen."
         We put our beads away. Driscoll motioned for me to help him with the lid of the coffin, and we set it gently to the side.
         "I'm glad I could bring you here for your first mission," he said. "This town has a good undertaker. Always remembers to rinse out the body before it comes to us. In other towns, I've seen such awful negligence: nightmares of fluids and maggots and the most heinous smells you can imagine."
         Just then, the stench hit me. It was foul, but not overpowering, and there was something else mixed in.
         "Flowers?" I asked.
         "Indeed! That's the proper way: they mix in floral oils while they rinse, and that takes out the sting a bit."
         I nodded and smiled. Already I was learning so much. I had paid attention in all my classes at the Order, but those were all theory and history. They taught us how the early Church forbade necromancy, and how just a century ago Saint Hector reformed the practice as a service to the Church. Though he was killed by conservative conspirators, his followers went on to found the Order of the Blessed Return. In our own times, they told us, the practice was spreading rapidly throughout the Kingdom, even beyond the reach of the Order.
         Still, the other boys and I had always wanted to know more about the art itself, but every time we asked they told us we were not ready-not until our first missions. Well, here I was on my first mission, finally on the cusp of understanding, and so excited I was bouncing on my toes.
         "Let's have a look at him," said Driscoll.
         Roderick was in a clean shirt and pants, with his arms folded across his waist and his eyes closed. He looked quite peaceful. Driscoll started by gently patting his chest.
         "Wound's on the left side. Must've caught his lung. Hmm. . .the right one seems fine. That'll do."
         He hadn't removed Roderick's shirt, so he must've used his necromantic sense to check on the wound. I fought back an excited yelp. Even though the Order had let us practice the sense on animal corpses, it was so much more exciting to see a fully trained brother use his sense on the body of a man. Driscoll felt around Roderick's neck, then opened his mouth and pulled out his tongue.
         "Excellent! His vocal cords and throat are all in working order. We're going to have him speak."
         Something about Driscoll's phrasing felt odd to me, but I nodded along. He checked the arms next.
         "Good, good."
         Then the legs.
         "Ah, a bit weak here. That's fine. Here's my rule: if the legs aren't in truly perfect condition, don't try to have the body walk around. You wouldn't want it tipping over."
         I nodded still.
         "Right," said Driscoll. "Let's get him propped up against the chimney. It's a good thing they've already got his head on this end of the room. I'll do the lifting, you just push from the bottom and keep him steady."
         We maneuvered the coffin so that it could rest at an angle against the chimney and we kept the angle steep enough so that Roderick wouldn't fall out. Still, it looked a bit like he was standing. Brother Driscoll inspected his head again.
         "Let's see. . ."
         He slid open one of Roderick's eyes, then quickly shut it again with a shudder.
         "Well then, good thing I checked. We'll just let the eyes stay closed. Are you ready to lay out the candles and petals?"
         "Yes, Brother, of course!"
         "Good, how about you line up the candles along the walls and have the petals fan out from the coffin? That should look lovely."
         I grabbed the candles from our bag of supplies and did as he instructed, lighting each of the candles once they were set. They were infused with sweet-smelling oils, and their thin lines of smoke shimmered in the glow. I laid out the petals too-white petals freshly picked from the Order's garden that morning. I stopped to take in my work, and my spirit stirred. Driscoll was deep in thought, stroking his beard.
         "So, when does he speak?" I asked.
         He grinned the way one grins at a precocious child.
         "When I think of what he's going to say, son. That's when."
         I frowned.
         "What do you mean? Isn't Roderick supposed to speak?"
         "His body, yes."
         "But his spirit?"
         "Gone."
         I felt a sinking in my chest.
         "What do you mean 'gone'?"
         "I mean that God decided his fate the moment he died. He's off to his eternal reward now, or punishment, whichever is God's will."
         I was starting to feel cold, colder than the room itself. I must've looked so pale and awful, because Driscoll came to put an arm around my shoulder.
         "Come now, what's wrong?"
         "I just don't understand. . .I thought we were going to bring him back."
         "That's what the family will think, but no: matter cannot command spirit. I will use what they told me to put together some soothing words, then I'll use our art to control the breath and the vocal cords, which are the source of speech."
         "But how is this a miracle, then? Saint Hector used necromancy to create miracles-that's what made him different."
         "Oh, but son, it will be a miracle for the family. A miracle is that which increases faith, and what could be more inspiring than one last talk with a beloved, departed father? Besides, think back to all the Saint Hector stories. Do they not all end with converts and lapsed parishioners pouring into the Church? Hector was not commanding ghosts-that would be impossible, not to mention heretical. Rather, he was increasing the faith, and that is the noblest work we men can do."
         "So, it's all a trick? We're only using Roderick as a puppet?"
         "No, not a trick. Tricks hurt people. This is a miracle. And pray, do not call Roderick a puppet. That's insulting."
         I was starting to understand why the Order wouldn't let initiates practice the true art until our first missions. If they had shown me the true art as a boy, I might have refused to continue my studies. But now? Now there was a family right outside the door waiting for the return of their father. How could I refuse them? Driscoll was walking back to the body. Kind, sweet, wise Driscoll. Surely some part of him knew this was wrong. If I said so aloud, I hoped, he would listen.
         "But it's wrong to lie. We're hurting them."
         Driscoll had his back to me. He sighed, and the boulder of his form shifted. When he turned to face me, there was a red flare twisting his once soft face, and his eyes shone like sharp, dark flints.
         "You are too young and too pampered, boy, to know grief. You do not know how it eats you, how it rusts and rots everything around you, how it blackens the sun and steals stars from the night sky. It is a suffering beyond suffering, a chill as cold as death itself. If you think the work of the Church is as simple as keeping the dead from entering Hell, you only know half of it. Grief is Hell in life. When we perform our art, we rescue those poor souls from their present Hell, and in their awe they return ever more loyally to the Church, who's steady hand guides them away from the Hell of damnation. If your sickly, prideful stomach will not let you carry out our art, know that you are no honest man, but Hell's own servant."
         I trembled. It was enough of a task to hold back my tears, so I concentrated on that until Driscoll was done staring me down. His face softened, and that strange, sad cheer I loved so much returned. With one of his great hands, he shook my shoulder.
         "Breathe, son. Pull yourself together. If you have any other questions, I'll be happy to answer them later, but for now we have a family waiting."
         I breathed deep and straightened myself out. Driscoll gave me a pat on the back and returned to the coffin.
         "I'll have him greet Martine first and tell her something sweet. Then I'll. . .oh dear, I forgot to get the names of the boys. Not to worry-I'll just have him ask for his oldest, then tell the boy he's the man of the family now. Then I'll have him praise Enid for her fiery nature, and then we'll conclude with his spirit ascending to Heaven. Understood?"
         I nodded.
         "Good. One last thing: though your art will not yet be strong enough to command the body, you are to follow along with your own sense and feel what I do. This is the part no book can teach you, son. This is the real art."
         He was right. I should've been excited, not soggy eyed and aching in my stomach. I forced my chin up even higher.
         "Start the music. I'll bring in the family."
         I grabbed the pan flute from our bag and began to play the traditional entry song for the Blessed Return. Of all things, the Order had made sure to drill this into my head from the day I arrived, as they did with every initiate. I was told it was a sweet and soothing tune, but by force of repetition I could barely hear it anymore. Still, I could see the family gasping at the beauty of the whole scene as they entered. Brother Driscoll led them right up to the coffin then knelt in prayer. I ended the song so he could speak.
         "Heavenly Father, thank you for your infinite bounty, and praise be your name. We ask that you permit us on this day a Holy Return of this husband and father, Roderick Thorne, before the eyes of his faithful and loving family. Bless and forgive our art, for we serve in your name, in this and in all things, amen."
         "Amen," said the family.
         "Roderick, I call to you. Mine is the voice of a friend on the other side of the mist. Mine is the light of home guiding you through dark woods. I stand beside your family and beg that you return to them a moment before you meet our Father in Heaven. Here, Roderick, here!"
         A moan issued from Roderick's mouth, and the family gasped again.
         "I see. . .I see. . .not with my eyes, but with my spirit! Martine, my love, is that you?"
         Martine pressed her hands against her heart, the tears streaming down her face.
         "Yes, Roderick, I'm here!"
         "And you are as beautiful as I remember you. Your spirit shines as bright as the sun."
         "Oh!"
         Martine took a step forward, but stopped herself. I peered over at Driscoll, whose face was knotted in perfect concentration. I had kept my mind free to watch the family's reaction, but now it was time for me to learn. I bowed my head and concentrated. I let my sense drift into Roderick's fingertip, then slide up through his arm. I could feel the wasting firmness of his muscles, and the softness of the fresh shirt on his shoulders. Somewhere below there was a gap, a gap large enough that I could feel my sense slipping into it. That was the wound. Still, the air in the other lung swelled and pushed me upwards. I felt through his throat, where Driscoll's words rattled in his cords. I settled in his temple, and I could feel the jaw moving below.
         "My love, I know you will be faithful to me, as you always were. You are the best wife a man could hope for, even now."
         Martine wept freely. I let my sense creep down Roderick's cheek. From there I could feel Driscoll's tugging of the muscles more clearly. At any moment, he could pull jaw, tongue, lip, and cheek all at once, and there were even finer muscles at play which I could barely name. Driscoll was right: it was an insult to call this puppetry. Our art was so much more demanding than that.
         Still, I let go of my sense so I could peek at the family once again. Martine was trembling, her face red and soaked and radiant. The boys held each other, their eyes locked on their father with perfect attention. Only Enid let her gaze wander the floor. The longer I stayed in my own body, the more I could feel the disgust welling up in my own chest. Seeing the joy and relief on Martine's face only made me feel sicker. I pitied her for falling for the lie. I hated her for being so gullible. More than anything, I hated Driscoll and myself for telling the lie.
         "Now, where is my oldest boy? Come forward, please."
         The tallest of the boys stepped forward. Though his eyes watered and his lips quivered, he stuck out his chest and held his head high. He was the perfect little picture of dignity, not the simpering brat that I was. I concentrated again and let my sense slip back into Roderick.
         "There you are, my son," said Roderick. "Just a few years shy of a proper man, and you will be a proper man. In title and duty, you are the man of this house already, and already you do me proud."
         The boy let out a few sniffles.
         "Look after your brothers, and your sister, and most of all your mother. Save every coin you earn for them. When in doubt, ask yourself only this: what will keep my family safe? Will you do this for me?"
         "Yes, Papa!"
         "Good, my strong little man. You do me proud. Now, let me speak to Enid."
         I could hear Enid shuffle forward as the boy rejoined his brothers.
         "Yes, father?"
         "Ah, but look at me straight on, my girl. I miss your sweet face."
         I let my concentration slip just a moment to check. Indeed, Enid did lift her eyes to see Roderick, but still her shoulders curled and her head faced the floor. I returned to my sense.
         "I know that look," said Roderick, who was only Driscoll. "You can't hide from me, sweet one. You never could. I know you've been angry. I know you've had some harsh words with your mother."
         Again, I could hear her shuffling. There was something else, too. I was in Roderick's temple again. I could feel Driscoll moving the mouth below, but above there was the smallest sensation. Ever so slowly, the cap was slipping.
         "Fear not. I forgive you. It is in your fiery nature to argue and to speak your mind. You do not easily trust anyone outside the family and well you shouldn't. You are too clever to be anyone's fool, and I know you rage out of loyalty to me."
         The cap was slipping further, but it was still so slow that Driscoll didn't notice it.
         "You love me still with fierce devotion, the way a daughter should love her father. I love you dearly. It is no easy thing to have a daughter, but I would not trade a single moment I had with you."
         The sham was going too far. It had to stop. Roderick's slipping cap was a blessing: once it fell, Driscoll would have to send Roderick into a rage, or worse, betray his character. Either way, the whole awful ceremony would come crashing down, and we'd have to flee without collecting payment. I broke my concentration and looked up, eager to witness the moment of justice.
         Instead, I saw Enid's face glowing like a star. There was no sulking left in her, just perfect love sparkling under a wash of tears. Now that the full beauty of her spirit shone through, all I could think about was serving her. I darted over to Roderick and nudged the cap back in place.
         "Pardon me, friend," I said, "I noticed your cap slipping off."
         Roderick craned his neck to "look" at me with his still-shut eyes. Driscoll added a curl of annoyance to his face.
         "Thank you," said Roderick, with an almost comical snarl, "but next time, let me touch my own damn cap."
         One of the boys laughed, and Martine chided him even as she fought back a grin. I returned to my place. Driscoll had Roderick let out another long moan that turned into a happy sigh.
         "My dear family, it's time. I see the light of Heaven, and I hear the voice of the Father calling me home!"
         "Roderick. . ." Martine whispered.
         Roderick raised his right hand.
         "My wife, take my hand one last time."
         Martine gingerly wrapped her hand around his. He raised his left hand.
         "And my children, come here."
         The oldest boy took his left hand, then Enid locked hands with the boys as they all formed a circle with their mother.
         "Bless them, Father," said Roderick, "and protect them."
         The family breathed deep in the quiet that followed. Driscoll broke his concentration and returned to himself. He did not need to add any extra gesture to Roderick; the family seemed to feel the life leaving the body. They sighed and hugged each other. Driscoll rose to his feet and waited. Martine at length separated and went to grab her coin purse from a cupboard at the other end of the room. When she looked Driscoll in the eye, she whimpered and fell into his arms.
         "Oh, Brother Driscoll, thank you. You've given us such a wonderful gift. Bless you. Bless the Order."
         She poured a few coins into his hand. From my angle, I couldn't count them, but it looked to be more than the standard.
         "Keep them all," she said. "You deserve so much more. I had heard such praise for you and the Order from the others, but even their stories don't do you justice. Thank you, oh thank you."
         Brother Driscoll sorted through the coins and returned the extra, only for Martine to push them back into his hands. They kept on like this as Enid walked over and, seeing that Driscoll was busy, turned to me.
         "I'm sorry for what I said before," she said. "I was wrong about you. You let me see my father again. Thank you."
         With that, she threw her arms around my neck. Her soft hair tickled my cheek, and I nervously patted her on the back. I couldn't remember if she was this beautiful when I first saw her, but I could see it now, and I could feel her breathing fully. She was radiant, but I was still a liar.
         "You're a lucky one, Brother Wynam," said Martine. "You're lucky to be apprentice to such a great man."
         "Please," said Driscoll. "We are but humble servants, and we must be going. We have another family to visit today."
         We packed up our supplies and headed out. The family waved to us as we went.
         "Well done with the cap, son. That could've gone quite poorly!" said Driscoll. "Now, do you have any questions for me?"
         I had no questions about the return. He had made the working and the reasoning of it abundantly clear. Nor did I have any question about the family's joy and relief. I had many questions-dark, heavy questions like dragons swarming in the night-but they were all for the Father.
         "No, Brother," I told him. "You've opened my eyes today."