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looked like in spring or summer, with vivid flowers or vines spilling from huge stone goblets, ivy climbing the walls and grave markers, or autumn leaves carpeting the paths. There was a melancholy beauty here, an old and exhausted silence. A few of the statues played instruments — a woman with a flute, a man with a harp — as if the sculptor had caught them between notes. A stone elk grazed on the far end, while a pair of chipmunks stayed trapped in a position of ever-tumbling together. The quiet was uncanny.
    “What is all this?” I asked as we passed an iron trellis with tendrils of metal shaped into flowers and leaves. Frost glistened. “Who’s buried here?”
    Sam inclined his head. “I am.”
    I couldn’t interpret his tone, but I’d feel sad if these graves were mine.
    Raven-topped obelisks guarded the center of the cemetery, a slab of snow-covered stone with gold veins running through. Writing had been carved into the limestone, but ice and snow obscured the words. Sam led me around it.
    “What’s this one?”
    “My first grave. The original materials were falling apart, as they do after a few thousand years. I didn’t want to dig myself up, but I didn’t want to lose track of it.”
    So everyone was responsible for their own cemeteries. “Why honor old flesh if you’re coming back?” Focusing on anything but the pain helped, though every several steps, a dizzy spell forced me to pause.
    “It’s not so much honoring old flesh as acknowledging past lives, achievements. It’s a way of remembering. After you live so long, it’s easy to forget what happened when. Not everyone does as much with their cemeteries, and plenty do more. I don’t know everyone’s reasoning behind keeping one, only mine.”
    For a moment, I wondered what Li did with her former bodies. Probably left them where they fell. But I didn’t have to think about her anymore.
    “Are you afraid of forgetting your achievements?” I searched the frozen yard for a sign of what they might be, but I could only see death. “Can you tell me about them?”
    “I keep journals. Most people do, and then give them to the Councilhouse library for archivists to copy and file. You can read them if you like.” He guided me to another path that went all the way to the back gate, black metal on white and green and brown.
    The promised cabin stood in the shelter of fir trees. It was smaller than Purple Rose Cottage, but there were curtained windows and a chimney. It looked cozy. “You like sleeping by your corpses?”
    His chuckle misted on the air. “It’s a long trip from Heart every morning, just to work on a statue.”
    “So you made all these?”
    “Most of them.” He pushed open the gate and let me through. “Last night was the final night of my journey here from Heart. I like getting work done in the winter. It’s quiet. Peaceful.”
    “Sorry to disrupt your plans.” The bandages around my hands weighed a thousand pounds.
    He just shrugged. “There’s plenty of time for that later. It’s not every day I get to know someone new.” He turned away, but not before I saw him wince. At least he knew he said stupid things. “Let’s go inside.”
    “What about Shaggy?”
    “He’ll be waiting by the stall in the back. I’ll get him settled.” Sam pushed a key into the lock and opened the door.
    While he took care of Shaggy, I explored the cabin. As expected, it was small and dusty, though what I first mistook for cracks in the wood panels were actually etched animals of Range: osprey, deer, eagle, bison, fox, pronghorn, and dozens of others.
    It was an open room with a kitchen area to one side and a sleeping area on the other, all heated — presumably — by a wood-burning stove near the middle. Only a small washroom had been sectioned off. In spite of the rustic appearance, the kitchen held modern conveniences like a coffeepot and sink, cupboards and a pantry, neither of which I could open without help.
    Before I had a chance