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This extreme politesse was masking a brutal aggression, he could tell that much. Violent emotion was radiating off both Abigail and Gilbert. The place might smell like the forest in high summer, but it felt like a courtroom, nearing the end of a long and dreadful trial.

What had Abigail said? Scientists might appear rational, but they were in fact completely at the mercy of their emotions. Because most never learned to face them.

And it seemed to Gamache that, now faced, their emotions would have no mercy. Not today. Not in this courtroom.

“Why did you come here?” asked Gamache.

“We wanted to talk in private,” said Abigail. “No one was forced. There were things that needed to be said.”

“And done,” said Gilbert. “We hadn’t expected company.”

“What did you expect?” asked Beauvoir.

He slowly, carefully unzipped his pocket. He could feel the weight of the gun and knew that he could get to it long before either Abigail or Gilbert could grab the rifle.

He hoped it would be Abigail Robinson who tried.

“We expected to finally have it out,” said Abigail. She turned to Gilbert. “What’s that line from Ruth Zardo’s poem? I’m sure you know it.”

“Or will it be,” he said, “as always was, too late?”

“No, though that would fit too.”

“And now it is now,” said Beauvoir, “and the dark thing is here.”

Abigail shifted to him and nodded. “That’s the one.”

Gamache and Lacoste were staring at Beauvoir in disbelief.

“Why are you here?” asked Gilbert.

“For the same reason,” said Gamache. “To have it out.”

They’d collected the evidence. The facts. Now they needed the feelings.

The dark thing.

There was a sound outside, and then, incongruously, a polite knock on the door.

Gilbert started for it, but Gamache stepped in front of him and nodded to Lacoste, who opened the door.

“Oh, thank God.” Colette Roberge practically fell inside. Her face was bright red, her eyes and nose running, and her speech slurred by frozen lips and cheeks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Gilbert.

“I couldn’t stay away.” She stomped her feet to get the circulation back and glared at Vincent for a moment before turning to Gamache. “But you knew that. Did you tell the agent in the car to let us by?”

“Us?” asked Isabelle. She opened the door again and saw Haniya Daoud trudging to the porch. Her head down, her beautiful blue abaya sodden and dragging behind her, like a long teardrop.

Pushing past Lacoste, she muttered through chattering teeth, “Fucking snow.” Once inside she shivered uncontrollably and looked around the cabin. “Fucking Canada.”

Colette had gone straight to the woodstove and stood with her hands outstretched toward the warmth.

“You got your meeting after all, Armand,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Though maybe not where you’d planned.”

She stood almost exactly midway between Abigail and Vincent. Her allegiance as yet undeclared.

“We’re used to adjusting when things don’t go as we planned,” said Gamache.