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Gamache was doing it to protect him. But Jean-Guy suspected it went further than that.

Armand Gamache wanted to know more about this Abigail Robinson. Knowledge was power, and he needed as much power as he could get, to protect his granddaughter and others like her. And unlike her.

Jean-Guy glanced toward the hearth and Haniya Daoud, the extraordinary woman sitting there. Who’d, at great peril to herself, led so many to safety. Especially children. Leaving her own behind.

He tilted his head toward the fireplace.

Armand, understanding what he meant, stood up and pulled the table from the corner, releasing his prisoner.

As Jean-Guy slipped by, Armand laid a hand on his arm.

“You don’t look anything like me,” he said. “But you’re still my son.”

Olivier and Gabri had joined the women, and now all got up to greet Armand and Jean-Guy. Even Ruth.

As he embraced her, Jean-Guy could feel the birdlike bones beneath the moth-eaten sweater, and marveled that maybe the mad old poet was Rosa’s mother after all.

“We made a mess, patron,” Armand said to Olivier, pointing to the pile of pie on the floor. “We can clean it up.”

“No worries. I can do that. I have a disposal system.” He looked over at Ruth.

The only one who’d remained seated was the guest, in her bright fuchsia-and-gold caftan and hijab.

“I’d like to introduce you to Haniya Daoud,” said Myrna. “Haniya, these are our friends Armand Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir.”

Now that he was closer, Jean-Guy could see that she was actually quite young. The scarring on her face and her large, worn eyes had made her look much older.

Haniya Daoud stared at them. “You’re police.”

“Yes. And neighbors,” said Armand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Madame.”

He bowed slightly, not offering a hand he knew she would refuse.

“I don’t like police,” she said after staring at him for a moment.

“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either if I’d been through what you have.”

She smiled at him. “I’ve met people, men, like you. Dignified. Thoughtful. Powerful. A natural leader, no?” She looked around, and the others nodded. She dropped her voice and leaned forward, so that he had to bend further to hear her. “I also know what you do with that power, and what you’d do to hold on to it. You don’t fool me.”

“I’m not trying to,” he whispered back. “You don’t know me, Madame Daoud. I hope that might change in the next few days.” He straightened up. “It’s late and we’re all tired. I hope you have a good night’s rest. Perhaps this will all look different in the morning.”

“Will the snow be gone? Will there be flowers and grass?” She glanced toward the window. “I’ve never seen a bleaker landscape.”

“No,” said Armand. “The outside won’t change, but the inside might. We can but hope.”

“We can do more than that, Chief Inspector, if we choose. Hope on its own is rarely enough.”

Her smile only deepened the scars, the slashes down her face.

“So you do know who I am,” said Gamache. “You called me Chief Inspector.”

“I know your rank, and yes, after watching the news reports I think I have a pretty good idea who you are. And what you are.”

Haniya Daoud muttered something into the hearth.

“Excusez-moi?” said Gamache.

“Was my French not good? I said”—she raised her voice for all to hear—“faible.”