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her lying in the bed, thought of coming to see her after using the vial to wake her up from her torment. In none of these conjurings could I see her with any expression other than a loving but sad disappointment.
    She was still screaming.
    I don't know how long I stood there. I don't know if I was crying. I know that at some point I snarled something wordless, pressed my right hand to my chest, and willed the world to change.
    It did. The machines' lights faded to green. The screaming stopped.
    I cried.
    Later, I took the 6 train uptown to Grand Central Terminal and sat down before the bar at the Cafe. A soulless-looking supermodel stood before me without my hearing her approach, and placed her hands on the bar. I looked up at her, tears still tracking down my face, and squinted at the light streaming through the tall windows that framed her. "Baba?"
    She touched my face. "You're crying." The voice might have been reading a financial headline.
    "Baba, I need to return your gift." I drew the glass vial from the bandolier and placed it on the bar, staring at its crystal haze of refracting light for a moment. Clear liquid sloshed in it. I looked back up, but the supermodel had gone. In her place was a twisted crone with brightened eyes, eyes like my grandmothers' which caused fresh tears to slide down my cheeks.
    "Why, Michel?" Her voice was cracked and aged, but her tone gentle.
    "I used it, today. I used it-" I shook my head and pushed the vial to her. She picked it up, unstoppered it and waved it beneath her nose as though sampling perfume.
    "Ah!" Her voice was surprised. She held it, looked at me. "Your grandmother. Your own baba. Is that why?"
    "Yes." My voice was small. "I'm sorry, Baba."
    "But why, Michel? That is what the Waters do."
    I looked at her, confused. "I killed my grandmother, Baba. I used your gift to take an innocent life."
    She laughed. "You are forgetting who I am, Michel." Her form rippled for a moment, straightening into a crone no less hideous but taller and terrible with fury. Her voice went cold again, the voice of the bitch queen supermodel. "I am Baba Yaga, little man; I am the mother of the Earth herself, and I have killed more innocents than you can begin to imagine have existed. I am death itself, and life; life when it is cruel, and death when it is a release." With that, her shape slumped again into the kindly bright-eyed woman, and she took the bottle and pressed it, open to my face, once on each cheek, so that two tears ran down into it. Then she stoppered it and shook it again, and the ripples in the fabric of the world flowed out from her hand. I stared at her.
    "Michel, Michel. The Water of Death. What is it for? You know this answer."
    I recited from memory. "The Water of Death is to allow corpses to decay, to free souls from their bodies so that-" I stopped.
    She nodded. "So that the Water of Life may bring renewal from the ashes and the soul may rise to heaven. Did you use the Water of Life?"
    "No, Baba."
    Baba Yaga patted my cheek, exactly like gran’mere had. "And that is why you yet survive, Michel. You did not seek to grant her life. You simply chose to release her from pain, and to ensure her body went to rest. That is what the Water of Death is for. It was her time, and past her time; in those cases, that is when Baba Yaga is sometimes called to hasten what must be." She handed the bottle to me.
    I took it, still staring at her. She patted my cheek again. "I will miss her, Michel. She was a worthy opponent. I am glad she sent her grandson to me to help pass the time."
    "What would have happened if I had used the Water of Life?"
    "Ah, but you did not. For that I am glad, Michel. It is a lonely life here, sometimes."
    I don't know why I said it, but I did. "I've killed others, Baba."
    "I know that, cher."
    "I'm not a good man."
    "That is not for you to decide." She turned and produced bottles, and without a flicker the supermodel bartender was in front of me mixing a White Russian,