Miles's voice was ragged. "Couldn't you have had him cryoprepped anyway? The technology might progress…"

"To wake without mind or memory, soul in tatters? He told me himself once; no man would want to live on like that."

Or else wake with the burden of his memories intact, hardly less a horror. Could Miles understand?

Ensign Dubauer, I'm sorry.

4 Ivan.

The state funeral ran for a grueling week. Ivan watched Miles mount the podium to present the eulogy. Gregor'd lent his best speechwriters; Miles had edited. Still, Ivan held his breath when Miles clutched the flimsies in a shaking fist and almost, almost cast them away to deliver his wounded words ex tempore.

Till his eye fell on his children, squirming and confused in the front row between their mother and grandmother. He hesitated, smoothed out the flimsies, began reading. The new Count's speech was everything it should be; many wept.

Ivan wondered what the old Miles would have said.

5 Gregor.

The interment at Vorkosigan Surleau was private, meaning a hundred or so people milling around. The grave was double but only one side dug; the earth waited like a bridal bed. The pallbearers were six: Ivan, Illyan, and Koudelka, of course; Duv Galeni for Komarr; Admiral Jole for Sergyar. And one other.

Lady Alys, to whom everyone owed their sanity, pointed out that Gregor's place was with the chief mourners.

"The man has carried me since I was five years old," answered the Emperor of Barrayar. "It's my turn."

Alys gave way as Gregor went to help shoulder the bier.