Aren't There Butchers Enough?

viii.

Mrs. Lovett was not a professional necromancer. She was not certain that there was such a thing. Practiced, perhaps, but she was not that, either. She had, however, resurrected the crows that flocked to her like children to a dark and powerful mother. They flapped their wings and shook away the rotting flesh and molting feathers and gathered in thick clouds by her windows.

Even in the dead of the night, she could see their decayed shapes in her tree and on her lawn, the march of time halted permanently for their hollow figures. She had given them life once more, but she did not know if she could do it again when it counted the most.