The comfort of herbs and potion ingredients hovered in the air. George stabbed a needle as big as a soda straw into her arm. An IV bag full of milky serum hung from a coat hook. He squeezed and kneaded. The first bag emptied into her, then a second. Tingling pushed the numbness out of her fingers on the third bag, and turned to burning on the fourth. Her pulse was now banging in her ears and each move shot stabbing pain through every inch of her body.

The old priest's words were like a faraway echo, "How was I supposed to know? I just read the words straight out of the bible. It's not like I've ever raised anybody from the dead before."

Dead?

George said, "I'm not sure how you even got her here. She's going to need more blood expander, a bunch of warfarin to unclot all the old, gelled blood, and healing potion. She's been dead for a while. She'll need a miracle to live through the night."

The words dribbled through the fog in her brain.

Miracle?

Father Timothy's voice was warm like a summer breeze. "I have it on good authority. She will make it."

The world drifted in and out as the rain drummed on the skylight. Half an hour later, George pressed a jar into her hand. "Drink this."

The liquid burned like turpentine in her throat. One glass became a second. The third stank of burnt bone and rotten fish. Crackling silence turned into buzzing and then voices stirring in the muck of her brain. Her skin was waxy and gray. Her hair was a caked lump glued to her head. Her throat and ear burned. Her fingers interrogated the side of her neck and found rows of rough staples running from her collar bone, past a ragged blob on the side of her head.

Her whole body burned as it warmed under a heap of electric blankets. She cradled a coffee cup and sipped honey sweetened tea. Another pitcher of healing potion brought gnawing hunger. The back door clattered and an unfamiliar voice greeted the owner. A white haired man laid a medical bag beside her and eyed her up and down. His nose wrinkled. "I thought you were joking about a dead girl."

He pushed wire rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and quirked an eye at a thermometer, and said, "So, explain this to me again. She's a witch. Like an actual, honest to goodness eats babies and turns people into zombies witch, and you raised her from the dead?"

Definitely Wesen.

Father Timothy wrung his hands as the man poked and prodded. "She's not that kind of witch. She was demon possessed."

The man pressed his face into his hands. "That doesn't make it better. I still don't understand how she has a pulse. All my tests say she ought to be dead as a post. When did she die?"

"Two and a half days ago."

"Wait, is this the one from the paper? The nut who shot up your church and killed herself before the cops got there. And she's a witch. Why?"

Father Timothy shrugged. "Stuff like that is above my pay grade."

The old man rubbed his eyes. "You mind helping me move her to the work bench. I need to open her back up and check her internal organs.

Her stomach burned as they hauled her onto the workbench. The man donned reading glasses and rubber gloves. A pair of pliers came out of his bag, and he started yanking staples. He was muttering under his breath as they clanked into a bowl. "Cop must have used a rusty pocket knife to saw the baby out. So you really died?"

She nodded. "I don't remember much about that part."

"Nasty wound on your neck. I suppose that's from the gun. Saw the bit about the shooting in the paper." He turned to the priest. "How'd you... You know?" The old veterinarian waved her direction.

The priest shrugged. "Miriam and Ruth said I needed to go pray over the body."

The old man snorted. "Never figured you for one of those holy roller types."

She bit down into a rag as he continued yanking staples. Loose folds of skin pulled this way and that. She couldn't shake the feeling of vultures picking inside her as he rummaged. The man whistled, and then muttered, "At least they didn't harvest all your organs for transplant. Your liver will regrow from what they left. Yep. There she is. I'll get your uterus stitched back together. Compared to hogs and cows wallowing around in a muddy barn, you're the easiest patient I've had in years. Everything else looks fine, so we'll close you back up. Probably have a nasty scar, but it's better than the alternative, right?"

He slobbered half a bottle of brown betadine all over her neck, head, and belly, and then snorted out a chuckle. "You didn't happen to see Hades down there did you."

She thought for a minute and then huffed out a laugh that sent pain shooting through her ribs. She tried to give him a witty response about the eagles working over her liver, but it simply came out as a grunt.

Two hours later, Hermione was sore but fully trussed up. Rivulets of pain leaked in through the tingling and numbness. Aches throbbed like she had been kicked through ten rounds by hippogriffs and then got eaten by a mountain troll. She was drifting in and out between sleep and crying over her lost baby when the back door clicked open. The priest met one of the nuns, and they laid Mark into her arms. Euphoria filled the empty pit inside her as her tears poured out. She shook as her kisses pressed into his wispy black hair. The baby snuggled into her chest, and his eyes opened, revealing light, sea green.

Half an hour later, the baby was grumping and squirming. She offered her breast, and he sucked, but nothing came out. Tears welled up. Guilt and inadequacy flooded into her chest, but George rubbed her shoulder. "This is pretty normal. We'll get you some milk stimulant and you'll need to pump. Everything will be fine."

Every time she turned, the nun was staring at her. Hermione croaked, "Is everything Ok?"

"I... I saw... You were dead. Your neck was all blown up. The police officer cut the baby out with a knife from the kitchen. They left you laying there for hours, waiting for the coroner, then they piled you into one of those zipper bags and hauled you off."

She simply nodded.

The veterinarian chided them about getting baby poop into a fresh incision, so the nun changed Mark, fed and burped him, and then passed him back. The pressure on her chest burned like fire, but the warmth of her baby against her flesh comforted her.

Then they all left.

The spice shop was dark and silent and her baby was gone. Hermione wept as she pulled the thin wool blanket over her throbbing body. The cot creaked as she stared up at the yawning skylight.