Page 190

“Well, he must’ve been out of his mind,” said Ruth. “I’m no expert, but I suspect demons can get through walls.”

They suspected Ruth was, in fact, an expert. She did have the ability to show up unexpectedly, and uninvited.

“It’s hard to get rid of—” Clara began.

“Ruth?” said Gabri.

“—beliefs. Think about what we’re planning to do later.”

“What are you planning to do?” asked Armand, half afraid of the answer.

“You’ll see,” said Clara.

It was the answer he was afraid of.

“Did you say it?” Myrna asked Harriet.

“Of course. It’s the first of the month. Did you?”

Auntie Myrna nodded. She’d taught Harriet to say Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit when her niece was just a child.

“It brings good luck,” she’d explained to the wide-eyed girl, who seemed to need luck. “But you have to say it first thing, before anything else, at the beginning of each month.”

And Harriet did. Even as a rational scientist, she still did it. Because … because you just never knew. It did no harm. And Harriet Landers was beginning to understand that believing something was even more powerful than knowing it.

I’ve seen worse, I’ve seen worse was her new mantra.

Fear no longer had her by the throat. She would always be afraid, but she’d come to realize it was not so much a matter of less fear, but of more courage. And Harriet Landers had that. Now.

“So, the owner put the grimoire in the attic and commissioned the stonemason to brick it up,” said Billy, guessing the rest. “He chose Pierre Stone because he hadn’t worked on the original building and he wasn’t known in the village. He couldn’t tell anyone about the commission, even if he wanted to.”

“But he did tell one person,” said Reine-Marie. “His fiancée.”

Armand nodded. Each of Pierre’s letters to her, and there were many through their lifetime together, ended with the same thing.

I love you. I miss you.

The letters had sat, in a box in the basement of a rural historical society, buried and dismissed. The unimportant memories of a stonemason and his wife.

Or maybe, thought Gamache, they were waiting. For Sylvie Fleming to find them and set all this in motion.

Part of Armand railed against the notion of fate, preferring to think they had at least some control over their lives. But another part of him found comfort in the idea of predestination.

So far the Fates had been kind. Though not everyone, looking at events in his life, especially recent ones, would agree.

But any agency that allowed him to spend a month by the lake with his family, then return home to this village, to have breakfast with close friends, his beloved wife by his side, was kind indeed.

“Armand?” said Myrna.

“Wake up, Clouseau,” said Ruth.

A car had stopped at the crest of the hill down into the village. The driver got out and stood, staring down.

The one investigator Armand had invited to join them at the cabin by the lake was Isabelle Lacoste.

“You know, patron,” she’d said as they strolled down the dirt road, the sound of laughing and screaming children fading into the distance, “this isn’t a social call. I’m here to question you, as part of the investigation.”

“I know. It’s all right.”