Incarnate

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 to feel too sorry for myself, I turned toward the front of the cabin and found the bookcases carved right into the wall. Hundreds of leather-bound volumes rested in the dim alcoves. I had no idea what stories or information they held. It didn’t matter. I wanted to absorb anything they had to say.

 

No. My hands. I couldn’t even imagine holding a book without pain flaring up my forearms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Chapter 5

 

Honey

 

THERE WAS NO telling how long I stood in the center of the cabin, staring at the books I couldn’t touch, surrounded by cold and dust and someone else’s life. And his deaths right outside the door. As long as I didn’t move, as long as I didn’t think about anything but the point right in front of me—the spine of a red book—I didn’t hurt.

 

“Ana.”

 

My vision untunneled and the room snapped back into focus. So did the blaze in my hands and wrists. A groan rumbled through me.

 

Sam stood before me, concern dark on his face. “Come on. You’re still in shock.” He guided me to a chair by the now-lit stove and removed my boots and coat, taking extra care where the sleeves brushed my hands. “What can I do for you?”

 

I just wanted to stop hurting. Staring at the books had been better. I turned back to them, willing myself to get lost in my own numbness. The pain was too intense, more than I could possibly endure.

 

He crossed my field of vision, pausing in front of the bookcase. “You like to read.”

 

Had I said that? Had he guessed? Either way, I didn’t move from the chair. Eventually I would make it back into the nothing-state of no pain.

 

Sam chose a book and carried it to me, like I’d be able to do something with it. But he sat on the arm of the chair, next to me, and opened to the first page. “So I guess you know the fifteen years are all named after events or accomplishments that happened in the first few generations, before we’d created a formal calendar?”

 

I didn’t move.

 

“Year of Drought, obviously there was a terrible drought. Followed by the Year of Hunger, when everyone starved to death the next year.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “Yes? You know all this?”

 

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