Hunger came first, after a century or so, then terrible, unquenchable thirst. She searched desperately but found no sustenance among the identical trees and bushes. Somatic resonance, she told herself, a redundant memory of the flesh, but that didn’t assuage the pangs, nor the fatigue that she struggled to resist before finally succumbing and lying down to sleep.

She was woken by a frantic rustling. Sitting up, she watched as the foliage parted and a large black bird struggled forth.

“Nuncio – can you hear me?” it squawked, flopping to the ground.

“Who is it?”

It hopped towards her. “Provost Kohl Ma’am.”

“Kohl. Of course.” My murderer, she thought. The wind under the door.

“We seek your counsel,” it cawed.

“Indeed.” How tedious to be still burdened with such pettifoggery, even in the afterlife. “And in return for my wisdom?”

“Your continued maintenance. Ma’am.”

“I see,” she replied. “So, you choose to bargain with the saints?”

The bird hopped back a step, observing her with cold, black eyes.