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There was scattered applause for her Anglo-accented French.

And then she went into a dissertation. Citing figures. Dates. Data. Facts compiled by various sectors both before and during the pandemic.

She cited projections.

As she talked, Gamache realized it wasn’t just words. There was a rhythm, a cadence, to what she was saying.

There was a musicality in her voice, a beat not unlike Bach, as she went through the litany of disasters. Of crises facing not just the health sector but also education. Infrastructure. The environment. Pensions. Jobs. The monstrous national debt that would eat the children’s futures.

What was clear was that there were too many calls on dwindling resources. It was a crisis heightened but not created by the pandemic.

The place had grown quiet as she methodically built her case.

Her voice never wavered, never rose above a drone. It was calming, mesmerizing, and somehow made what she was saying sound reasonable.

The Chief Inspector knew, from years of interrogating murderers, that if you yelled at someone, they clammed up. Walls rose. Minds and mouths closed.

But if you spoke softly, their defenses might drop. At least you had a better chance of it.

That’s what she was doing. With a melodic voice, Abigail Robinson was crawling into people’s heads. Mining their bleakest thoughts, drawing forth their buried fears.

As he listened, Armand Gamache realized that the Chancellor had been right.

This lecture on statistics, on mathematics, was also music. And it was art. Albeit a dark art. Not at all the sort Clara Morrow created, with her luminous portraits.

Professor Robinson was, before their very eyes, turning thoughts into words, and words into action. Facts into fear. Angst into anger. It was artful.

Abigail Robinson was not simply an academic, she was an alchemist.

This was the moment, Gamache knew from watching her previous talks, when she’d reached the turning point.

Having painted a bleak picture of a society on the verge of collapse, she would now offer hope. All will be well. Professor Robinson would tell them what they needed to do to move forward into a bright new world.

She would give them her simple solution. One revealed, ironically, by the pandemic itself.

Abigail Robinson paused now and looked at the gathering.

As did Gamache.

What he saw in their upturned faces was desperation. They’d just been through hell. They might’ve lost family members, friends. Many had lost jobs.

But he also saw hope.

Still, he wondered how many who’d followed her this far would be willing to take this next step. And he wondered how many who’d come to protest had changed their minds after listening to her rhythmic litany of disaster.

He could even see some of the agents, especially the younger ones lined up in front of the stage, turning to grab quick glances at her.

Their senior officer obviously said something because the faces snapped back forward. But still . . .

A child was hoisted up on a man’s shoulders. Then another one.

“Inspector Lacoste—” he began.

“I see them, patron,” she said. “I have eyes on twelve children in the auditorium. Agents are ready to grab them if things turn.”

“Bon. Inspector Beauvoir, how many children came into the hall?”

There was silence.