River had died this young, but it hadn't hurt. Or rather, everything had hurt so much, for so long, that the golden warmth of regeneration was a soothing pain. She hoped Rachel's death had been that kind. There were no final rites to whisper in the hour of death, no curates to murmur soothing platitudes. Christmas, in spite of its name, was a thoroughly irreligious society.
The ground of Trenzalore was frozen too stiff to dig graves, even small ones. Instead, bodies were cremated on double pyres, reminding people that community does not end in death. The constant cold ensured that bodies remained preserved until the proper time, even if they had to wait.
These days, that was rarely a problem. Rachel lay on the center pyre, curled next to Alderman Garan . In life, the alderman was gruff as sandpaper, dedicated to the civil defense, and enjoyed exploiting the truth field by detailing stiff joints, pulled muscles, and weak organs to anyone who happened to ask "how are you today?"
Rachel, on the other hand, delighted in using sarcasm, half-answers, and ambiguous phrases to outwit her parents. The eight-year-old had developed the wit of a teenage to match her rambunctious attitude. Going outside? Just a jumper, thanks. Eaten all your vegetables? Yes—chips count.
Flames crackled as pine branches released sap. The aroma of pine drifted on the breeze, accompanied by the faint popping of stray sparks. In the wavering blue-white heart of the fire, the red shrouds smolder long after they should crumble into ashes.