Along about eleven or so the next morning she bounced out of bed, bright, beautiful and lively. I dragged on down to the kitchen with her to see if we could put together a breakfast from whatever staples she hadn't found it necessary to incorporate into new construction. By the kitchen table I stumbled over the most ravaged, deadest looking corpse I ever hope to see. It was, of course, the unlamented body of the original witch, lying just where it had dropped the evening before.
"Look, hon, what about this?"
She shrugged quite charmingly, in spite of the tentlike dimensions of Aunt Belle's nightgown. "What about it?"
"Well, why didn't you use the—uh—material there, instead of all the groceries?"
Another shrug. "I wanted something fresh."
She had a point. I couldn't argue. I never could, when she turned those big green eyes of hers on me, full power. "Yeah," I said. "Only what are we going to do with it?"
"What do your kind do with old bodies here?"
"Mostly we bury them."
"All right then."
That was unassailable feminine logic. All right. So I'd bury it.