April 23rd, 1894 — Whitby & Co.

WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE.
The words sat front and center at the top of the parchment in the witch's hand, relentless in their promise of doom. They were not, perhaps, the words Divona would have chosen to advertise the morturary's memory services, a fact she was quick to relay apologetically to the print shop's manager.

"The wording and layout are my sister's choosing, though design... elements are less her forte."

The verbiage was also not Damona Dodderidge's forte, a fact that lay unspoken and yet somehow quite loud between the two women. Lots of people came to Dodderidge's when they died, which was fantastic for buisiness. It was, however, quite morbid to wait around for corpses all the time, and so the sisters had resolved this spring to redouble their efforts advertising the other services they had to offer. For Damona, that meant memory services, the bank of pensieves kept on the premesis eerie as anything as far as Divona was concerned, though surely worthy of more poetry than we're all going to die.

"I was tasked with seeig what new boarders and designs you have available that might suit the... message," Divona added, "and reporting back."

Under different circumstances, it might have chafed that her sister had all but sent her on an errand while dealing with 'more important' things (her research), but Damona was not the only one with side projects, and this particular errand happened to line up with one of her own. That, and the widow Pettyfer was once again in the morturary wailing to anyone who would listen about her dear Bruce.

Tess Whitby

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   Tess Whitby

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— set by stef ♡ —

Tess gave the parchment a quizzical smile; she had been chewing on the inside of her cheek to stop herself saying anything before that remark. She recognised the woman before her as a Dodderidge sister even without the clues in the copy, but (understandably, she thought) she didn’t trust herself to guess which of the sisters she was.

“Of course,” Tess agreed. “Let me show you some of our templates,” she said, untucking a bound bundle of printed designs from one of the shelves nearby and flipping through a few to demonstrate the breadth of border options.

“We can also do a custom style, depending on the...” mood you’re after, Tess had meant to say, but she gave the wording another quick scan, once more thrown off by the death threat at the top of the page. Was it meant to be vaguely ominous? (Their father’s funerary arrangements, not so long ago, had been distinctly traditional, so she wasn’t sure). Her tone turned politely apologetic, in case the oversight was all her own. “What, er, exactly is this advertising?” Besides everyone’s oncoming decomposition.

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Even the printer was too distracted by the... bluntness of the wording that she didn't quite get the overall message. That was far from ideal in an advertisement; Divona made a swift note to alert her sister as soon as she returned home.

"Memory preservation services," the photographer sighed in response. "Namely, pensieves. The wealthy, they like the idea of lingering on even if their spirit shuffles off our mortal coil. Impart knowledge on future generations."

To Divona, the notion of future generations traipsing about in her memories, even ones she deliberately selected, made her feel rather squeamish. She had never been interesting enough that a legilimens would want to poke about in her brain, so she had never had to worry about her thoughts and experiences being picked apart by a third party. No, she'd leave everything to do with that side of things to her sister.

"It's rather an abstract concept to represent in print, I know, but we must do our best."

Tess Whitby

  

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— set by stef ♡ —

“Ah,” Tess said, piecing together the words in the subtext with newfound understanding now. Understanding of the advertisement more than the concept. Not the imparting knowledge part; her entire business (and her hobbies, too) was largely founded on the spread of knowledge, but the horrendously personal idea of one’s own thoughts and memories being shared without bounds. “The privilege of the wealthy,” Tess remarked ironically, before she could stop herself. (In the second she remembered she was with a customer and not her colleagues, she prayed that the rattling and clanking of the machines upstairs had drowned her out.)

“I’ll certainly try my best,” she said hastily, earnestly, to make up for it. “Memories,” Tess echoed, considering the design of the advert anew. Pensieves. She flipped through the sample catalogue to the sort of border they could use. Perhaps linocut of a pensieve or a vial to illustrate. She explained this, and then added in confession, “I can’t imagine what kind of memories people want to pass on.”

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