At first, Francis tried teaching himself how to carve. He had watched Silna at her work enough times in all the weeks that the four of them had been traveling together. Besides, winter was setting in, and soon there would be little else for him to do. It was preferable to yet another round of James's war stories.

So, tucked safely inside the large igloo that he, James, Silna and Goodsir had constructed, he took out the rocks he had gathered and begun whittling.

Now he was wondering how on earth she managed to do it so often and with such ease. It was slow, dull work that never seemed to get anywhere: the stone was too obstinate to yield to his knife most times, and when it was not, he would get ahead of himself and end up ruining what little work he had accomplished.

Francis swore under his breath as his blade slipped again, carving a gash across the surface of the stone. Tossing it to his side, he picked up another and began again. If he was to be honest with himself, he had half a mind to throw the whole pile out into the snow and forget the damn business.

Silna looked up from her own carving and saw his growing stack of failed attempts. Setting aside her work, she picked up the stone he had just been chipping at, examined it and then held it back out to him.

"No, not that one," he said. "I'll start over."

She mimed carving at it, then held out her hand for his own knife.

"I can manage well by myself. Can't I, James?"

James, who was stretched out on the ground watching him, laughed and said, "Ikajuk. Help him. He gets quite confused."

Silna and Goodsir smiled at this. Francis, meanwhile, sighed and put down the stone he had just selected. "Very well. Show me."

For many nights after that, they would sit side by side, and she would guide him through the steps. Silna would make him etch an outline into the stone first, and then cut away until the picture was free. Slow strokes, always slow. Patience. Once he had a rough shape in his hands, she would help him smooth out the edges and make it look more presentable. At first, they were merely sad, lopsided shapes which resembled no recognizable object. With more time and practice, he could craft a reasonable facsimile of a boat, or a seal, or a vague human figure.

When the others had declared his attempts in that last endeavor to be adequate, Francis was satisfied. Now, he thought, he could do the work he had set out to do.

One day, toward the end of winter, James woke to the sound of metal scraping against rock. He opened his eyes and saw Francis sitting cross-legged in the same spot he had been when the rest of the group had gone to sleep. Sitting in front of him were a number of rocks placed out in a neat line. He had another one in his hand, which he was carving into a bell-like shape.

"Have you been up all this time?" James asked as he sat up.

"I tried not to disturb you."

"What are you doing with those?"

Francis gestured for him to come closer. When he did, he saw that the rocks had been carved to look like men: not very detailed, but enough for the intent to be clear. Each one had a set of initials etched into its surface. James caught his breath as he recognized several of them.

By now, Goodsir and Silna were awake. They gave quizzical looks to Francis and his collection, then approached him when he beckoned.

Once he had his friends' attention, Francis picked up the first stone figure. This one was more slender and pale than the others, with the letters TJ across its chest.

"Jopson," he said slowly. "Thomas Jopson."

James bowed his head. Goodsir's eyes widened, and his gaze drifted down toward the rest of the figures. Silna reached out to touch Francis's shoulder.

The next rock had broken in one corner, and so the figure was missing a leg. "Blanky," Francis said. "Thomas Blanky."

"God rest his soul," James whispered.

The third rock was the largest of the bunch, and Francis seemed almost hesitant to say its name at first. Finally he said, "Franklin. Sir John Franklin."

Goodsir twisted his face in slight disapproval, but after a moment, he chose to look solemn and nod anyway.

The fourth stone was the thinnest of all, with cracks already formed in its edges. "Gibson," Francis said of it. "William Gibson."

Tears sprang to Goodsir's eyes at the name he had not heard in so many months. With a trembling hand, he reached out and ran his fingers across the stone. Francis pressed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it when he tried to give it back. Goodsir slowly brought it to his own chest and held it there.

They all went down the line, and each name was said aloud. John Bridgens. Henry Peglar. Henry Collins. Stephan Stanley. John Hartnell. Solomon Tozer. Graham Gore. Edward Little. George Hodgson. John Irving. On and on and on. Francis had made one for each name he could remember.

"And," he said, pointing to the last figure in the line, "those whose names have escaped us."

Silna pointed to the figure he had been carving when he had summoned them. Who is this? Her face seemed to ask.

Francis set it down. It was wider on the bottom than the others had been, as though it wore a long skirt. "Cracroft," he said. "Sophia Cracroft."

Silna furrowed her brows and eventually shook her head.

"A woman," Francis said. "Like you. Good, kind. A dear friend."

She placed the figure on its side. Dead?

"No," he answered, picking it up. "Not dead. But I will never see her again. I first knew that long ago. I did not accept it then." He was quiet for a moment. "But I have now."

When the seasons changed, and the time came for the travelers to move on, Francis gave the stone figures a burial. Each one in its own small plot, the most honor he could give them in such a desolate resting place. Silna added several figures of her own to the makeshift graveyard: one which must have been her father, judging by the level of care given to it, several for the Netsilik slain by Hickey, and a larger rock which could only have been Tuunbaq. It was given its due space along with the others.

Francis lingered behind when the others began to move on. Sophia Cracroft, or all he had left of her, sat in the palm of his hand. What would she want me to do with you , he thought in passing. Forget about her, no doubt.

He began to set the figure down on the rocks, but he could not will his fingers to let go of it. Instead, he slipped it into one of his gloves. There it sat, growing warm between his skin and the layer of thick fur, as he followed his companions.

But it was the thought of his men finally resting in peace that brought a smile to his face.