Lucretia becomes the storyteller for lost worlds. She observes, and she writes, and as the year’s end approaches she makes sure that her journals are stowed safe on the ship so they’ll survive the Hunger even if she doesn’t. 

(She misjudged once, early on, caught too far from the ship when the sky went dark. It was the first time she died, but far more than her body she mourned the thirty-seven pages that she lost. She re-wrote everything she could remember, but there were gaps; plants she couldn’t draw, songs she couldn’t remember.)

Lucretia becomes the storyteller for lost worlds the way that she had once been the storyteller for great lives. She’d never wanted to be a great life herself. She drew her satisfaction from her work, and she was content telling other people’s stories.

Until, finally, they come to the last world. Her pens scrape across the page, splattering her with ink as she records the decision someone else made, the decision that she’s certain is wrong. 

She pauses.

And then she lays down her quills, and takes up her staff, and walks into the story.