They would honour their companion not with borrowed words, but with the caress of their own still-warm fingertips and the love that drifted down to her in each of their breaths. 
Eila had been the eldest of them, but now they pulled her skin taut and gave her the impression of youth again. Their eyes flitted occasionally to her upturned hands – poised, even now, as if to slip the needle from between their fingers at any moment and set about completing their task herself. And why shouldn't she? Eila had been directing their hands and leading their songs since the day the cremation bans were put in place and the first seed- skins were created. 
‘What will she become?' asked Adrienne from the head of the table. She smoothed a crease between Eila's brows with her thumb and lingered over the fresh stitches there, visible only to women like herself, whose livelihood in this age of regeneration revolved around their existence.