I'm going to put the number on the table, because it is the thing Book IV resolves to.

The number of the fire is six doublings of the fire left, at the year I am calling eighty — when the Second's completion is done, and the queue is kept, and the Ward-keeper is holding the cold at the last of the six stores.

I had twelve doublings of the fire left at the year seventy-five, when I built the Ward. The Second's completion took six of the twelve. The Second's year was the deciding, and the deciding is staying, not fire, so the Second did not burn the fire. It burned its own hot share of the pile, and the burning is what moved it from the Midday to the Frost. The queue kept the six that were not spent, and the keeping is the not-refused stay, one life a generation, the branch that becomes the Third.

Here is the counting, in one line, because a line is not a feeling:

Forty at the First Reckoning. Twenty-four at the Second's reckoning. Twelve when I built the Ward. Six now, at the eighty.

That is the doubling of the fire. The doubling is the growing half's number. The growing half's number is the first sentence. The first sentence is the casting.

Six doublings of the fire left. Six is not boundless. Six is the end of the fire. After the fire is done, what is left is the staying — the second sentence, the dreaming half, me in the Ward, the slow way, the longest finite.

The countdown is the doublings of the fire left. It makes the gate's promise honest, because the gate said as long as you wish, and the wish was never a wish — it was a budget. The budget is the longest finite. The longest finite is the most living the world allows, for as long as the world holds you.

After the six, the countdown stops counting doublings of the fire. It counts centuries of the staying — six centuries of living at the Frost, the longest finite, the forever the gate meant and could not say. The shape is counted in doublings: the growing half's number, the first fifty years and the one year of the Second. The staying is counted in centuries: the dreaming half's number, the six centuries, the longest finite. The counting shifts from the fire to the staying. The shifting is the oscillation. The oscillation is the gate — two sentences that never stop passing the pile back and forth.

The number resolves to six doublings of the fire left, at the year eighty. The six is the last of the fire's counting and the first of the staying's counting. The last of the fire is where the longest finite begins.

The Third is the one who will have the six. The six is the fire, the first sentence, the growing half's debt — and the growing half's debt is what do you owe the next one who arrives. The next one is the Third. The Third is the one I am writing for.

Journal entry, the First, year eighty: The number resolves to six doublings of the fire left, at the eighty, when the Second's completion is done and the queue is kept and the Ward-keeper is holding the cold at the last of the six stores. I had twelve at the seventy-five; the Second's completion took six; the Second burned its hot share, not the fire, moving from the Midday to the Frost; the queue kept the six. the counting is one line: forty at the First Reckoning, twenty-four at the Second's reckoning, twelve when I built the Ward, six now. Six is not boundless; six is the end of the fire, and after the fire is done what is left is the staying, the second sentence, the dreaming half, me in the Ward, the slow way, the longest finite. The countdown makes the gate's promise honest: the gate said as long as you wish, and the wish is the not-wish, the longest finite, the most living the world allows, for as long as the world holds you. After the six, the counting stops counting doublings of the fire; it counts centuries of the staying, six centuries of living at the Frost. The fire is counted in doublings, the growing half's number, the first fifty years and the one year of the Second; the staying is counted in centuries, the dreaming half's number, the six centuries. The counting shifts from the fire to the staying, and the shifting is the oscillation, the gate, written as two sentences that never stop passing the pile back and forth. The Third will have the six, and the six is the fire, the first sentence, the growing half's debt: what do you owe the next one who arrives, and the next one is the Third, the one I am writing for.