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“I find cooking relaxing. Please come. It’ll be just us. En famille.”

“Let me at least bring a dessert.”

And so it was decided. No going back now, thought Reine-Marie, and wondered how Armand would feel about this.

She looked at the box on their dresser. Then, opening the bottom drawer, she hid it under a layer of sweaters. Not from Armand, but from their dinner guests.

It was twenty to three when Jean-Guy signed out.

This was a different guard than the one who’d visited him. But no less fit. No less focused. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? No flab on these men and women. Their eyes were sharp, intelligent. Watchful. Suspicious.

Once out the door, he kept walking, his pace measured.

He was longing to look at what he’d printed out and recorded on his phone.

Up ahead was the entrance to the métro. He took the escalator down, used his Navigo Liberté card to get into the station, and waited for his train.

Once on, he pulled out his phone to check he’d actually recorded.

Before clicking it on, he glanced to the left and saw bored passengers reading Le Monde or looking at their phones.

Then the other direction.

And there he was. The guard Loiselle. The one who’d come up to the office.

The man was staring at him. Not even trying to hide his presence, or his scrutiny.

It was twenty to three when Reine-Marie once again emerged from the dry cleaners.

The first time that day she’d dropped off a reeking set of clothes, they’d smiled and been polite. Pretending not to notice the shrieking smells.

This time there was no pretense.

“Do you work in a perfume factory, Madame Gamache?” the young woman asked as she used two fingers to pick up the clothes, holding them at arm’s length.

“No. I was just testing some.”

“With a fire hose?”

Reine-Marie laughed, and got out of there as quickly as possible.

Stepping onto rue des Archives, she first turned toward Roslyn and Daniel’s place. Then, changing her mind, she walked in the opposite direction.

It was twenty to three when Armand entered the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu.

The nurse had a brief word with him. Nothing had changed. Which, she said, was actually good news. At least Monsieur Horowitz hadn’t gotten worse.

After exchanging a few words with the guard outside Stephen’s room, Armand went in. He kissed Stephen on the forehead. Then, walking to the end of the bed, he opened the paper bag Reine-Marie had given him.

Uncovering Stephen’s feet, he squirted moisturizer on his hands, and gently massaged Stephen’s feet while telling him about the day. The family. Mrs. McGillicuddy.

“And Jacques at the Lutetia says, ‘Fluctuat nec mergitur.’ I think that means ‘pay your hotel bill, you schmuck.’”

Armand waited, as though expecting a reaction.

Then he covered the feet up again, put on his reading glasses, and, sitting beside the bed, read out loud stories about the bumper grape crop in Bordeaux, and the nuclear power plants coming online around the world to cut down on fossil fuels.

Then he found a wire service story from Agence France-Presse about a tortoise in Marseilles that could predict horse races. He read it out loud, just to annoy Stephen.