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“Maybe . . . ,” Debbie muttered to Abby.
“No. We’ve come too far.”
Raising her arms slightly in what looked like surrender, Abby stepped forward and broke the silence.
“I know most of you recognize me, and that this isn’t necessarily a welcome surprise. I want you to know that our hosts didn’t invite me.”
She smiled. Just as at the event, her voice was soft, reasonable. Personable. Armand could feel the tension lower.
This wasn’t the monster they’d expected. The lunatic with the crazy ideas. This was someone just like them. Nice.
“So,” said Abigail. “No need to shoot them. Just me.”
At that there was some nervous laughter.
Armand had rarely seen a crowd turned so quickly. It didn’t mean anyone there was suddenly going to join the professor’s crusade, but he could see their own defenses dropping.
They liked her, if not her goals.
Though there was one other person in the room who’d managed to turn the crowd equally quickly, just in the opposite direction. Haniya Daoud had managed to turn almost everyone away.
From down the hallway there came a commotion, young voices raised in excitement.
It was 11:25. The rehearsal was over. The main event was about to begin.
“What is this?” Haniya asked Roslyn as the village kids excitedly shoved the adults off the raised foyer and took their places on what had become a stage.
“It’s a Québécois tradition,” Roslyn explained. She was watching her daughters take their places. “I did it when I was a child.”
Roslyn hadn’t noticed that Haniya was staring at Abigail Robinson when she’d asked, What is this?
Now Haniya Daoud refocused on Roslyn. “Did what?”
“Les Fables de La Fontaine. Each New Year’s Eve the children choose one of his stories and act it out.”
“God,” said Haniya. “More torture.”
Clara caught Haniya’s eye and, just before Haniya turned away, Clara saw a smile. She’d, unexpectedly, made a joke. For just that moment Clara saw the young woman behind the scars. Whose wounds had momentarily healed at the sight of children in homemade costumes, pushing and shoving each other on the “stage.”
And then the moment passed, and the scars reappeared, deeper than ever.
Clara shifted her gaze to see what Haniya was now looking at.
Who she was looking at.
Abigail Robinson was making her way through the crowd, which parted as though the professor wore a tattered cloak and carried a scythe.
“Oh, this’s one of my favorites,” said Myrna, elbowing Clara. “ ‘Les Animaux Malades de la Peste.’ ”
“ ‘The Animals Sick of the Plague,’ ” Roslyn translated for Haniya.
Not with the plague, Haniya noted as she followed Abigail’s progress across the room, but of it.
She too was sick of it.
“Vincent Gilbert, is it not?” said Abigail Robinson, smiling.
He inclined his head but did not offer his hand. “Professor.”
