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As he left the house, Jean-Guy saw his father-in-law standing on the far side of the frozen pond. Watching the children play.

Armand looked up, and their eyes met. He’d been waiting. Patiently. In the cold. For him.

They didn’t speak as they walked through the bright sunshine, up the hill to the Auberge. Past the chapel. Past the New Forest. Past the bench.

May you be a brave man in a brave country.

Reine-Marie was more than halfway to Enid Horton’s home, the box in the back seat of her car, when she slowed down. Stopped. And turned around.

Parking at the Inn, she went in and found Haniya standing at the window, looking out over a field of snow, her arms wrapped around herself.

Without turning she said, “It’s so white. And cold. Everything looks dead. I don’t know why anyone lives here.”

She coughed, and Reine-Marie stopped where she was. And had to remind herself that a cough was no longer a threat. A sneeze wasn’t an attack.

The vaccine had worked. It was one of the great global shared experiences. The plague and the cure. But still, she had to force herself forward, to stand beside the young woman with the sniffles.

“Voltaire described Canada as quelques arpents de neige,” said Reine-Marie. “A few acres of snow. It was, of course, dismissive. An insult.”

“No offense. I didn’t mean to insult your home.”

Reine-Marie smiled. “I think you know the difference between an insult and a compliment.” Then she too looked out the window. Where Haniya Daoud, and Voltaire, saw a few acres of snow, of misery, she saw tobogganing. Skiing. Snowshoeing. Hockey games on frozen lakes. Sitting by a fire with a hot chocolate, while a blizzard pounded the windows and walls. Was there anything more comforting than being safe and warm inside during a snowstorm?

“Each snowflake is unique, you know.”

“Really?” It would be impossible to convey less interest.

“Oui. A fellow named Snowflake Bentley proved that, more than a century ago. He was a Vermonter. Lived not far from here. A backwoods man who was fascinated by the new invention of photography. He figured out how to take a picture of a single flake. Sounds easy, but just try to capture one, never mind take a picture of it. His photographs are amazing. Beautiful. It was only then that scientists confirmed what they suspected. That each snowflake is different. Trillions and trillions.” She turned to Haniya. “All unique. All exquisite. Each a work of art. Imagine that.”

“His name was Snowflake?” asked Haniya.

“His name was Wilson. Snowflake was an affectionate nickname.” Reine-Marie returned to the view. “Without that thick layer of snow, the crops, the flowers, even many of the animals would die. It’s insulation against a killing frost. Then in the spring it melts. Liquid gold, the farmers call it. They pray for as much as possible. Perception’s an interesting thing, non?”

“What?” said Haniya. “I wasn’t listening. Are you still talking about snow? I’ve been here three days and all you people seem to talk about is the weather.”

“And murder.”

“The two seem to dovetail, yes.”

Reine-Marie heaved a long sigh that fogged up the glass in front of her. Fully realizing she might be making a terrible mistake, she did it anyway. “I have a delicate, maybe even unpleasant task to perform, and I’m wondering if you’d like to come along.”

Haniya’s brows all but disappeared into her bright purple hijab. “Why?”

It was, of course, a very good question.

Why? Reine-Marie asked herself.

“Because I don’t think you should be alone. Because you might be a distraction.”

“Because I’m Black?”

“Because you’re annoying. It’ll make me look more reasonable.”

Haniya laughed, then considered. “Might as well. Nothing else to do except look at that.” She gestured toward the acres of snow.

As she followed Reine-Marie to the car, Haniya scooped up some snow. She stared at the flakes in her mitten. Then tried to separate one from the pack. But couldn’t. She leaned close, trying to see the patterns of each individual flake, but her breath melted them before she could see.

She raised her head and looked at the snowbanks and snowdrifts. At the snow balancing on tree limbs and sitting on the roof of the Inn, and the cars, and the stone walls.