He lined up the long steel needle under the Duchess’ navel, then thrust smoothly, the trochar piercing the tender flesh and stabbing deeply into her soft dead organs. Her eyes were sealed shut, and soft white cotton treated with insecticide was packed deep into her elegant nostrils to repel bugs; her mouth was closed but not, somewhat unusually, sewn up. Sophie’s soft dead body was then carefully dressed. Several staff officers were summoned, and they took their positions, reached under Sophie, and tenderly lifted her, carrying her solemnly to the bier where a gleaming metal casket, fitted in brilliantly polished brass, waited, open. In any case, by the time the car stopped at the Konak’s entrance, Sophie was inert, limp as she lay face-down in her husband’s lap. He reached up, gently pried open Sophie’s jaw, and then fell to fondling Sophie’s soft, slightly pulpy tongue with his own. After a moment, he strode decisively over to the casket on the left and removed the flag, folding it and draping it carefully over the flag on the other casket. The world turned gray, then black, as Sophie, duchess of Hohenberg, crumpled to her left side and toppled into her husband’s lap, her face between his knees.
