Memento Beauty

The Princess was dead. She was cold, drawn, and colorless, but still, she was beautiful. As her mother leaned against a wall and sobbed, her father stood stone-faced. Only the grinding of his teeth betrayed his inner tension; whether it stemmed from the loss of his daughter or the now-uncertain fate of his empire, no one could have known.

It was the height of the industrial revolution, for better or worse, and The Princess had until quite recently been the sole heiress of Monarch, the largest textile manufacturer in the western world. She had been long awaited by her parents, so much so that it was an unmentioned but unquestionable fact that another child for the couple would be impossible. It seemed the whole city mourned when her death was announced, as if she had represented the spirit of goodness, femininity, and hope for the future. She had been a lovely and virtuous child, who earnestly expressed that it would be her life's ambition to make the world a brighter and safer place; and although she was expected by most to leave the running of the mill to her future husband, whomever he may be, she had become genuinely interested in the business and the welfare of its employees. The proud father nurtured her enthusiasm with frequent visits to the factories, often at night, when production slowed and the workhouse was not so crowded, in order to observe the conditions and suggest improvements.

During the last of these visits, as her father conferred with his foreman, she had wandered away to inspect the workings of the machinery. Minutes later, a shrill cry was heard and she was found in the dark alleyway behind the mill, dragged, and dead. Buried deep in her side was an industrial spindle, ripped from one of her father's machines by a strong, cruel, anonymous hand. There was little hope that the culprit would ever be found and brought to justice. Now, less than two days later, she sat in The Photographer's studio, about to have her lingering beauty preserved forever.

A fresh sixteen years old, with the delicate frame untouched by hard, manual labor, her muscles had remained pliable even with the early onset of rigor mortis. Her eyelids had been brushed with adhesive and held up to dry, so that she was able to stare effortlessly into the camera. A pile of cut roses sat on a small table in front of her to hide her darkened hands from view, and her soft, freshly curled hair made it easy to conceal the neck brace attached to the back of her seat. The Queen suffered to see her only child look so natural when she knew the bitter truth. A passerby might have mistaken her for a normal, living (though unhealthy) girl.

Tricks like these added to The Photographer's reputation for producing lifelike images of people who had been dead for several days, or even weeks. He was quite renowned, known by his acquaintances, and moreso by his close friends, as 'the man who could make a corpse blush'. His natural talent had been honed by constant practice, particularly in this violent time, and it was no coincidence. The Princess was the most tragic loss, but she was far from the first.

For over a year now, a serial murderer had been attacking beautiful young women, mainly of the upper-class, many of whom made their way through The Photographer's doors on their way to the grave. His studio was built alongside the city's best funeral parlor, giving wealthy customers the convenience of a portrait sitting before the dearly departed were hidden from view forever. It was in fact a family business of sorts, as his brother worked next door as The Undertaker's assistant. If anyone had looked close enough, they might have suspected that The Photographer had a wicked secret, and that his brother was responsible for far more than cleaning up the corpses and preparing them for photographing and burial. Judging by their success, it would seem that they had perfected their methods; which was a relief, as the two men were getting too old to be assuming new names in new cities with every failed endeavor. Lessons learned, tempers tested, they were confident that they could thrive in a city where only little girls truly cared about public welfare.