(Well, truth be told, she’d never smelled any mummy before.) They didn’t have the same stench as the other long-dead-and-recently-exhumed corpses, the ones that came through her door for all manner of medical and chemical testing. Nor did they have the nice aroma of incense, of the various perfumes and oils used in the mummification process. Even the whiff of pine – from the resin that coated these linen strips and held them all together – had faded over time. Only a musty scent remained, like a box full of very old books. Gone were the internal organs, the biggest contributors to the usual foul odor of decay. The priests had removed them all, placed them in ornate canopic jars, then filled the empty body cavities with natron salt, with sawdust and flowers – drying them out, leaving no home for the stink of decomposition to take root. They’d done it carefully, reverently, with expert hands, and not just for the human bodies, either. They’d even done it for the cats.
