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If this was broken, Reine-Marie thought, what must whole be like?

“I’m going to have to go over there soon,” said Myrna a few minutes later, looking across the room at Haniya, who was holding court next to the Christmas tree.

“Why?” asked Jean-Guy. He and Idola had joined them. She was in a chipmunk onesie, with little ears and a tail.

Olivier took and cradled her, turning away from Gabri’s outstretched arms as he reached for the child. “Mine.”

Parents were shoving their children forward, toward Madame Daoud. So that one day they could tell their own children they’d met a saint.

Photos were taken, while Haniya stared stone-faced into the cameras.

As a little girl walked away, they heard her ask her mother, “Do all saints have scars?”

“I can answer that,” said an older man who’d just joined their group.

“Hello, Vincent,” said Reine-Marie, smiling as they kissed on both cheeks, then turning to Stephen.

“I don’t think you’ve met. This’s Dr. Vincent Gilbert,” she said. “And this is Stephen Horowitz.”

“Ahhh,” said Stephen with a smile. “The Asshole Saint.”

“That’s me,” agreed Gilbert, as the two older men shook hands. “And you’re the failed billionaire.”

“Please, I’m now living off my godson and his family. Can’t call that a failure.”

Gilbert laughed. “Nice crowd.” His eyes scanned the room, looking, Armand thought, for someone.

Myrna took a swig of punch and said, “I think I’ll do the deed now before her mood completely sours. Such a shame she doesn’t drink.”

“What deed?” Vincent Gilbert asked.

“An apology.” She turned to Reine-Marie. “I’ll introduce you. Clara?”

“What?”

“Come on, you know what.”

“Oh, all right.” Clara drained her glass and gave it to Annie. “If we don’t come back, know that I loved you all.”

“Can I have your painting of Ruth?” asked Gabri.

“No, I want that,” said Ruth. “It’s the only one that isn’t crap.”

“So much for love,” said Myrna as they headed across the room.

“That’s the famous Hero of the Sudan,” said Dr. Gilbert, taking Reine-Marie’s place beside Armand. “I heard she might be here.”

The Asshole Saint was staring at Haniya with curiosity and unconcealed resentment.

Having lived for years not only in the forest, but in his spacious ego, Dr. Vincent Gilbert had grown to expect he’d be the center of wonderment and awe at any gathering.

“She’s younger than I thought.”

“She’s twenty-three,” said Armand. “Madame Daoud was kidnapped and sold into slavery when she was eleven.”

“Oui. Terrible story.”

Gamache was reminded why this man was known as the Asshole Saint. He was certainly part saint, but it wasn’t lost on anyone who met him that while his medical research had improved the human condition, he himself did not actually like humans.