Yakul was scheduled to die that year, and she wanted to spend her last days in the White Mountains, where the oldest trees in the world grew. Ramsi had agreed without a second thought, but now, as they were hiking towards Widow's Pass to investigate a murder on Yakul's last day, he wondered if Yakul would have preferred some peace and quiet instead.
       Yakul trudged up the slope against the biting wind, her hand clenched around a coat that was threatening to fly off. She was tall, stick-thin, and in maker years, appeared twice Ramsi's age. Her kind face, wrinkled from a lifetime of smiles and adorned with round spectacles, could have belonged to a librarian rather than a hard-boiled detective, but beneath her scarf, a lone scar ran down her chin and beneath her gloves were weathered hands, telling a different story. Ramsi reached out and held one of those hands--the grip was still strong. He admired her determination to solve the mystery even as her time dwindled.
       "Over there!" Yakul cried, pointing down the side of the trail. Hand in hand, they trekked down the slope.
       With an underbite, thick eyebrows, and hunched back, Ramsi appeared inherently sad. He looked all the sadder as he stared at the man, resting against the trunk of a tree, one boot missing, a hole in his sock, head tilted, tendrils of hair frozen to the pallid skin on his forehead, and eyes mercifully closed. The body was discovered in the morning by B19, one of the guests at the Candlewax Inn.
       Yakul's joints popped as she bent down. "He was a maker," she said in awe.
       "How can you tell?"
       She pointed at the profile of a bear embroidered on his leather jacket. "The mark of the Calisto reservation."
       Ramsi nodded. The Calisto reservation was one of the secluded communities makers flocked to after most were killed during the revolution.
       "The body froze early in its decomposition. It will be impossible to ascertain the time of death." Yakul examined the blood matting the man's hair and reached behind his head. "He was hit in the back of the head by a blunt object."
       Yakul tilted the torso forward and looked through the maker's backpack. "For such a large backpack, there's little in here. Somebody has rummaged through it. Also, where is his other boot?"
       "Do you think the body was moved?" Ramsi asked.
       She stood and scanned up and down the slope. The land was barren. Nothing could grow in the White Mountains except for the Candlewax trees. Like tombstones, they jutted out in sparse, regular patterns. Their gnarled, twisted shapes gave the impression that they had torturously fought their way out of the ground.
       Yakul was gifted with heightened senses, and despite her age, her eyes were still sharp. She pointed excitedly up the slope. "There!" she exclaimed. She coughed into her hand, and blood spotted her glove.
       Ramsi put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't strain yourself. I'll go take a look."
       "No, I'm okay. I'll come with you."
       Holding hands, they slogged up the slope and found a walking stick propped against a tree, halfway submerged in snow.
       Yakul pulled it out and ran her hand down the smoothly polished wood.
       "This walking stick seems a bit too extravagant for the maker, don't you think?" Ramsi said.
       Yakul bit her lip. "It's embossed with the initials 'I.P.' Perhaps B19 left it. Why would he move the body, though?"
       A gust of wind whistled through the trees. Yakul shivered.
       "Come," Ramsi said, "let's make our way back to the inn before we freeze to death."
       The trail was close by. Without a word, Yakul wandered up the trail, reached down, and pulled on a shoelace buried in the snow. She dragged up the missing boot.
       Ramsi shook his head and smiled. "After all these years, you still amaze me."

       They hiked back towards the Candlewax Inn. All around them was white. The trees were the only delineators between land and sky.
       "Can you imagine that most of these trees are older than us?" Yakul said, "Dr. Namira told me the oldest she had ever studied was 5,000 years old, long before the revolution, before people were even created."
       Ramsi was looking down at the trail, ruminating on how unfair it was that he was blessed with eternal life while Yakul was not. If only she had been born a hundred years later when the makers had improved their designs.
       Yakul walked up to him and wrapped an arm around him. "Don't look so glum. I'll solve this mystery soon. Sing me a song."
       Before the revolution, Ramsi was a musician, gifted with a 12-octave vocal range, long, dexterous fingers of a pianist, and a face able to depict the deepest sorrow.
       "Today is your last day," he said, "and Mama Fu is asking you to solve a murder."
       "I want to. With the storm of the century brewing, the only people within a hundred miles are staying at the Candlewax Inn. No one has come and gone for a month; we could be trapped with the killer. Besides, I'm feeling better now than I have for a long time. Do you know the folktales of people living past their death dates because they had a job to finish? I wonder if this mystery is keeping me alive."
       They walked in silence for a while. Yakul leaned on the walking stick to hide the weakness in her legs, and Ramsi periodically glanced over at her with a look of concern.
       "Let's not think about such dark things," Yakul said, "We are hiking through a beautiful landscape. Can't you sing one song?"
       "Okay, which one?"
       "Sing the one about Halma destroying the Great Computer."
       His voice carried through the empty woods--up and down the slopes. No storm could drown his voice. He sang one song and began another. His heart lifted, and he pulled Yakul in closer as he sang, letting her feel the trembling of his body. Sweat trickled down his brow, and his face reddened as it contorted to express emotions of melancholy and joy. He wove those emotions like a seamster--only stopping when he felt like the tapestry was finished and he had said all he wanted to say.
       "Thank you," she said.
       "Anything for you."
       "I knew it would cheer us both up."
       "How can I fight against my nature? Just like you and your mysteries."
       Yakul huddled close to Ramsi. "You should know what I love most is hiking with you--even through the biting cold."

       As the sky darkened, the snow turned grey, and the winds picked up speed, turning the falling snow into a blizzard. The Candlewax Inn emerged from the storm, looming over them. Carved into the mountainside, the inn appeared larger than the sum of its parts as its concrete facade blended into the dolomite rock. Only two windows were lit: the dining hall on the lowest level and a room on the seventh floor.
       Once a mecca of pilgrimage for makers, the Candlewax Inn became nearly empty all year round after the revolution. Now the inn was a refuge for those seeking isolation, a vacation destination for wealthy eccentrics, and a curiosity to scientists studying the long-lived trees.
       A blast of warm air welcomed Ramsi and Yakul as they entered. They walked down the hallway, where two rows of ancient concrete columns led into darkness. Candles lined the walls, providing dim lighting to a collection of photographs strewn over the entire length of the hallway. Each guest of the inn was immortalized on the wall; Ramsi and Yakul had found a spot for their photograph near the entrance where the most recent guests were displayed. From the dining hall, aromas of cumin and coriander caused both their stomachs to gurgle.
       In front of them, a short, stout woman mopped the floor. She was Mama Fu, the innkeeper of the Candlewax, who had lived through all the prosperous, prewar years when makers filled every one of the seventy-four rooms year-round and the decline when she was forced to dismiss her entire staff and excess food rotted in the storeroom.
       "Did you find him?" Mama Fu asked.
       Yakul nodded. "He was a maker."
       Mama Fu gasped and put her hand to her mouth.
       "They don't come around these parts anymore, do they?" Ramsi asked.
       "A maker hasn't been seen in the White Mountains for fifty years," Mama Fu said and rubbed her forehead, "And the last maker that was here. . .he was murdered too. Jon was his name--a guest at the inn. His body is still frozen in a cave near Widow's Pass. The makers stopped coming after that."
       "Why was he murdered?" Yakul asked.
       Mama Fu looked up and down the hallway and whispered, "Jon came to me in an agitated state. Some men were looking for him. Before he left the inn, he gave me something to keep safe, a family heirloom that he wanted nothing to do with anymore but also could not bring himself to destroy. A book of command."
       Yakul's body stiffened. She looked at Ramsi, stunned. From the creation of the first person to the last days of the revolution, makers controlled people through the book of command, a manual of spells. Most copies were destroyed either during the revolution or the Neo-Luddism movement a thousand years ago.
       "Why did you take it? Why didn't you destroy it?" Ramsi asked.
       "I--I don't know--I didn't want it to get into the wrong hands, and I thought I could help people. But I couldn't decipher the symbols and put the book in my desk drawer, thinking nothing more of it. After B19 found the maker's body this morning, I had a terrible feeling. I opened the drawer, and the book was gone."
       "When did you last check on the book?" Yakul asked.
       "I really can't say. It must have been at least a year since I saw it."
       "Then it could have gone missing at any point since you last checked," Yakul said.
       "I know the murder and the theft are related. I just know it. It feels too familiar to what happened fifty years ago. There's something else," Mama Fu said, her hand clasped tightly around the mop, "Someone is stealing food: vegetables from the cellar and preserved meats from the storage room. Also, the wine and beer. I think there's someone else hiding in the inn that we don't know about."
       "How much food?" Yakul asked and coughed up blood. She wiped her lips with the back of her glove.
       "Are you okay?"
       Yakul nodded.
       "It's substantial," Mama Fu said, "I'll need to take stock."
       "I'd like to take a look if you don't mind."
       Ramsi placed a hand on her shoulder. "We should eat first. You need your strength."
       Yakul nodded weakly and glanced at the clock on the wall. Its brass gears had stopped.
       "Oh, that old thing stopped running overnight," Mama Fu said, "I need to request a clocksmith, but no one will be coming or going with the storm of the century outside. Could be several years before the storm subsides and the clock gets fixed." She laughed nervously. "This weather." She shook her head and continued mopping.

       In the dining hall, at the end of a long table, a large pot of stew simmered under a low flame. Booths lined the walls next to windows that stretched up to the ceiling. For such a large space, only one of the booths was taken by the youngest guests at the inn. Mr. and Mrs. Primlian, dressed in their fine fur coats, picked at their stew and looked indignantly at their servant, B19. Ramsi attempted to guide Yakul towards the stew, but she inevitably drifted towards the Primlians.
       "I'll get our food," Ramsi said hopelessly.
       The Primlians sat on a bench, and across from them sat four overflowing backpacks: one for each of them and two for B19 to carry. Propped against the table were five walking sticks, one of which matched the walking stick Yakul carried in her hands.
       B19 stood next to the booth while Mrs. Primlian said, "Have some backbone, B19! I cannot be stuck in this dilapidated inn for the next decade. The storm of the century is coming. It's now or never."
       "Maybe he's right," Mr. Primlian said, "There's no use sending him out tonight because it will be too cold for us to hike overnight. Let's send him out in the morning."
       "In the morning, I don't want to wait for him. If only he checked Widow's Pass this morning instead of coming back early."
       "It would do us some good to sleep on a real bed for our last night."
       "I'm not spending another coin! Mama Fu is gouging us for as many nights as she can get. Who is she to tell us it's too dangerous? That sluggish dowager hasn't hiked up the pass for who knows--" she stopped and looked at Yakul.
       "Sorry to interrupt," Yakul said, "But I believe this is your walking stick."
       As B19 turned around, his joints creaked and groaned. He took the walking stick in his cold, metallic hands. He was from an older generation, his face no more than a synthetic mask plastered onto a system of mechanical pistons used for basic facial expressions. Patches of the skin-like material had deteriorated around his mouth, his nose, and his eyes. His lips and tongue didn't move as he spoke. Instead, a raspy, hollow sound escaped from his maw. "Thank you," he said and grinned, revealing a sparse set of metallic teeth.
       "B19, please excuse us," Mrs. Primlian said.
       "Actually, I was hoping to ask B19 some questions, if you don't mind."
       "Yes, of course."
       Yakul turned to B19. "This morning, you said you found the body buried in the snow."
       "Yes, I was making my way to Widow's Pass to determine if it was safe to hike through," B19 said without affect, "Before I could get to my destination, I saw hair protruding out from a mound of snow. I walked over. I swiped away the snow and uncovered the body."
       "Did you move the body from where you found it?"
       "No."
       "That's interesting because I found your walking stick further up the trail."
       "I forgot how I lost the walking stick."
       "He's incapable of lying," Mrs. Primlian said.
       "Is he capable of forgetting?" Yakul asked.
       "What are you insinuating, detective?"
       "Nothing, ma'am. I'm only seeking answers."
       Ramsi walked over to them and nodded at the Primlians. "We should eat," he said to Yakul.
       "If you'll wait one moment, detective," Mrs. Primlian said and turned to her servant, "B19, will you go find Mama Fu and tell her that we will be leaving first thing in the morning and to have breakfast ready by first light?"
       "But dear," Mr. Primlian said.
       "No buts! We'll be plenty warm from hiking uphill. It will be fine."
       B19 nodded and walked away, knees squeaking. Mrs. Primlian beckoned Yakul and Ramsi to come closer.
       "He's been acting strange lately," she said, "He's been slower to respond. Sometimes I have to command him three times before he'll respond." Mrs. Primlian leaned in closer. "There was one day when he was gone from morning until dusk. We let him wander off sometimes, but he always comes back at a reasonable time. That day, he came back with a vague explanation and a missing walking stick. He also lost a patch of skin off the tip of his nose as if it had frozen off, and his shoulder was screeching like a dying animal."
       "During the revolution," Mr. Primlian said, "B19 hunted down his own kind, under the influence of the makers, of course. After the war, his memory was wiped with a spell, and his nature changed. We hired him, and he's been with us since. You don't think he's reverted to his murderous tendencies, do you?"
       "I really can't say anything definitive at the moment. The big question is why B19 would report the murder in the first place if he committed the crime," Yakul said and coughed. She wiped the blood from her mouth. "But rest assured, I will--" she coughed "--do my best to find the truth to the matter. Be careful when you talk to B19. Pretend as if everything is normal."
       Ramsi led Yakul to a booth where two bowls of stew sat, still warm. "They're at the perfect temperature now. Come, come. Let's eat."
       He took a bite of stew, swallowing it before he could savor it, enjoying the warmth seeping into his stomach. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
       "Fine." Yakul sat with her elbows resting on the table and her head resting on her thumbs, palms pressed against each other, prayer-like.
       Ramsi sighed. "Your stew will get cold."
       Yakul held the spoon and tossed her food around. "B19's forgetfulness and sluggishness are characteristic of the older generation getting one too many spells cast on them. I think someone is using the book of command on him."
       Ramsi stopped eating. "The Primlians have only been here for a month."
       Yakul nodded. "I believe the murder happened within that time. And the killer, who likely has the book of command, is still here. We can't trust anyone; even our actions and memories should be questioned."
       Ramsi reached across the table and held Yakul's wrinkled hands. "Don't worry. You'll figure this out. You're the best detective that I know."
       "Well, the sun has set, and I'm still alive. I've been given more time, I suppose. How have you been doing?"
       Ramsi pointed at the bowl in front of Yakul. "Please, eat. That will make me feel better."
       Just as Yakul had a spoonful of stew halfway to her lips, the crunching sound of boots, with snow still clinging to the soles, entered the dining hall. Dr. Namira and her two research assistants strode to one of the long tables and, with long faces, unceremoniously dumped their equipment: snowshoes, T-shaped tree borers, bundles of sticks extracted from tree cores, and entire cross-sections of tree trunks. Dr. Namira's usual hawk-like, yellow eyes were dulled by the deep bags underneath her eyes.
       In the corner of the hall, Mrs. Primlian rolled her eyes and whispered something in Mr. Primlian's ear.
       Yakul lowered her spoon without taking a bite.
       "You can talk to them after dinner," Ramsi said.
       "It will just take a moment. I promise," Yakul said, stood up, and walked over to Dr. Namira.
       "Is something wrong, doctor?" Yakul asked Dr. Namira.
       "Someone is after my work," Dr. Namira said.
       "Who?"
       "I don't know! Today we went out and found holes bored into the trees, ones we didn't sample ourselves. Worst of all, our research logs have been stolen. Months' worth of data gone! Can you guess how long it takes to count tree rings from thousand-year-old trees?" Dr. Namira raised her arms in frustration.
       "I'm sorry."
       "Not only the main research log but all my assistants' notes were taken as well. I fear that one of them is working for my rivals."
       "Why would someone go out to extract tree cores when stealing your research logs is much easier?"
       "I can't think of a good reason, detective. Do you have any ideas?" Dr. Namira studied Yakul with her sharp eyes.
       "Did you hear about the murder?" Yakul asked.
       "Yes, I just talked with Mama Fu. The victim was a maker, wasn't it?"
       Yakul nodded.
       "Well, the maker would have died from old age within a hundred years anyway. As long as no people are getting hurt, it's no concern of mine," Dr. Namira said in a matter-of-fact tone. It was embedded in her nature for science to be more important than anything else.
       As Yakul walked back to Ramsi, she glanced at her watch and frowned. The hands had stopped moving. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. She read what was written and sat down with a blank expression on her face.
       She took a bite of stew.
       Ramsi beamed. "Is it cold?" he asked, "Can I get you another bowl?"
       Yakul shook her head. "I discovered something," she said and slid the paper across the table.
       Ramsi looked down at the note written in Yakul's handwriting: Going in loops, memories erased.
       "What does it mean?"
       Yakul spoke quickly with a glow in her eyes. "There's a common thread: the broken clocks and Dr. Namira's missing data logs are all systems of tracking time. By removing these tools and then casting a spell to remove our memories, the killer has put us in a state where we are repeating the same day over and over again. I was about to jot down this thought as soon as possible when I found out I had already written it."
       "I'm getting shivers down my spine."
       "Same for me! This explains the stolen food Mama Fu reported. This food"--Yakul held up a spoonful of stew--"that we've been eating every day. Imagine the killer's frustration in having the body being found every day!"
       Yakul stopped.
       "What's wrong?" Ramsi asked.
       "The killer has control over us. Why haven't they killed us yet? Why not erase all our memories? What kind of game is the killer playing?" Yakul stood up and marched towards the door with newfound strength in her stride.
       "Where are you going?" Ramsi called after her.
       "I have to check something," she said without looking back.
       Ramsi wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and shuffled out of the booth, nearly tripping over his backpack. By the time he reached the hallway, Yakul was already scouring the photographs of past guests by the entrance. Her eyes darted left and right, up and down, moving with speed and efficiency. Then, she stopped with a wry smile on her lips and pointed at a photograph that was nearly eclipsed by another.
       "That's the maker we saw!" Yakul said.
       The photograph captured a man caught in the moment, sitting in the dining hall with a pipe in hand and staring at the camera with a blank expression. He wore a leather jacket with a bear embroidered on the chest. This weary, ungifted man did not know he was going to die soon.
       "It's Jon, the same maker that was killed fifty years ago," Yakul said, "Where we once had a killer and thief, we are now left with just a thief. One who likes to play games. The body was left near the trail so we would find it. The thief must have cast a spell on B19 to search Widow's Pass for the missing body and bring it down. That's why B19 was missing for a full day and came back with frostbite and a busted shoulder. It's all very elaborate. Who would go to such lengths? What is the motive?"
       Yakul turned to Ramsi, and a flicker of realization surfaced from her face. She took a step back. "Oh, Ramsi. Don't tell me."
       Ramsi smiled sadly.
       "You were the one," Yakul said. As she solved the mystery, the strength left her body; she clutched her chest and leaned against the wall. Ramsi held her and gently guided her to a seated position.
       "That's not the whole mystery," he said, tears welling in his eyes, "Your job isn't finished yet."
       Yakul straightened her back. "You stole the book of command because you thought you could delay my death date. That was why you spent so many late nights--long after I had gone to bed--in the library. You learned quickly because you were a singer. You could speak the spells in perfect pitch and tone. But you didn't find a cure."
       Ramsi shook his head. "No, I didn't."
       "How did you come up with the idea of a mystery to keep me alive? It must have happened organically. Mama Fu might have discovered her book of command was missing and asked me to find it. You saw how my health improved when I had an unfinished case. I must have solved it, and you were forced to wipe everyone's memories."
       "That's exactly how it happened. But you were too good. Even after wiping your memory, you still solved the mystery faster and faster, as if you had vestiges of the previous day."
       "So, you needed a more complex mystery. Which brings us here. How many times have we gone through this loop, Ramsi?" Yakul's voice was raspy and weak.
       "I've lost count, honestly."
       "Has it been days? Weeks?"
       Ramsi said nothing.
       "Months? Years?"
       "I don't know. The storm is getting stronger, though, and soon we won't be able to go outside. I'll need to think of something new."
       "Ramsi. . .I think I'm ready to go. I don't want to keep you and everyone else in this state of purgatory."
       "But we have all the time in the world. After the storm is over, we'll go someplace new, and I'll keep creating mysteries for you."
       "I feel so tired. I welcome the darkness so that I can finally rest. Will you let me go?"
       Ramsi's tears dripped down onto Yakul's cheeks. "You only feel that way because the makers built you to accept your death."
       "But so is everything else that I am."
       "You may feel fine, but I can't accept that. I can't live without you."
       "You'll find a way. You have an eternity ahead of you. I'll just be a blip in your memories, a place you can go to for comfort and happiness."
       Ramsi clasped Yakul's wrinkled hands. His own hands were young and smooth. He bowed his head.
       "How about one more day?" Yakul asked.
       Ramsi looked up.
       "Remove my memories one more time, and let's have one more day to send me off properly."
       Ramsi wiped away his tears and nodded. "Yeah, one more day."
       "I'll see you tomorrow then," Yakul said.
       "I'll see you."
       "Good night."
       "Good night."
       Ramsi sang the words of command. He felt them resonate in his throat. If he deviated even slightly in pitch from the book of command's notations, they would have been powerless. He imagined the words as they burrowed their way into Yakul's ears, thrummed through her skull, and worked meticulously to remove the day's memories. Yakul's eyes closed. Ramsi continued to sing. He imagined the rhythmic patterns sending signals to Yakul across reality, reaching into her sleep like a gentle lullaby, granting her pleasant dreams. Tomorrow seemed a lifetime away. Tomorrow he would create a new mystery. They still had time.