She was Dead

You make a living from the dead. But she wasn't—not really. Resurrectionists are paid well for supplying poor medical students with cadavers. You tell yourself it’s an honorable trade—necessary, if shameful. Surgeons must learn, and the dead do not need their bodies where their souls go. You’ve done this job for years, but today your hands shake as you dig. Maybe it’s the old, unshakable nerves; maybe it’s the anticipation of a good prize. Danielle Cosette, the headstone reads—poisoned, a young woman. Yet when you pry the lid, she lies fresh as when she was buried two nights past. Odd. Profitable. At the medical school dormitory you expect eager students and gold, but lanterns blaze and constables are hauling bodies into the street. Your trade has been uncovered. You hurry home, hauling Danielle to your cottage with dread and a dozen half-formed plans for hiding her. You lay her on the dining table, cloth slipping back as candlelight paints her face like a portrait. Until she looks at you. ~ {LoLa & AC Enabled. Thanks Lewd_Leah!}