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She feels it too, thought Armand. He wondered if those who’d experienced death recognized the boatman.

“Auntie Myrna, who’s that?”

Harriet was standing with her back against the wall, beside the bright red Sortie sign and the door. As close to out as in could be. She was openly staring at the most beautiful young man she’d ever seen. His gleaming brown hair, auburn really with its natural highlights, was slightly longer than fashionable, though however he chose to wear it would be de facto fashionable.

His clothing was casual, though appropriate to the occasion, and fit him well.

But a green garbage bag would have looked good on him. Though Harriet thought it was a shame to cover up that body at all. She spent a moment imagining …

She’d noticed that the young man had looked over at her aunt and nodded. He clearly knew her. So she must know him.

“His name’s Sam Arsenault,” said Myrna.

Harriet grabbed her hand and started forward. “Come on, introduce me.”

But Auntie Myrna didn’t move, and after a few tugs Harriet realized it was futile.

“Why not?”

“We don’t have time. We need to get back to the village before Ruth sacks the place. She’s already stolen half a dozen books from the store this week.”

It was clear this was an excuse. That her aunt, for whatever reason, didn’t want to approach the man.

Harriet would have argued, but she was sidetracked by the mention of the elderly poet. It conjured up so many images, so many feelings.

So many summer evenings sitting on the dilapidated front porch of the ramshackle house, Ruth in her rocker, her cane across her lap. In another era it would have been a shotgun, thought Harriet. And she’d have had a corncob pipe.

Rosa, the mad duck, would hop up and settle on Harriet’s lap. Exhausted after a day of terrorizing the villagers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” one of them muttered, though it wasn’t always clear which one.

Harriet loved listening to the old poet and the duck while sipping lemonade and watching life in Three Pines come to a rest. Across the village green, she’d see light through the mullioned windows of the bistro. And above the bookshop, another light in the loft where her aunt lived.

On those summer evenings, Ruth often talked about the history of the village. Some of what she said was documented, though much had been passed down verbally. Some of the stories had the mist of myth about them.

There’d been people living there long before the huge pine trees were planted. Before Champlain “discovered” the territory.

“What he discovered,” said Ruth, “was that there were people already here. Of course, the Abenaki and Iroquois should have slaughtered them. An opportunity missed.”

Harriet had laughed, then noticed that Ruth was not actually joking.

Mostly, though, Ruth listened as Harriet talked about her dreams, her perceptions. Her demons.

“A poem begins,” Ruth had said one evening, as they watched Monsieur and Madame Gamache walk hand in hand, while their young dog Henri played on the village green, “as a lump in the throat.”

Harriet understood. She woke every day with a lump in her throat. Sometimes it felt more like a bone.

Except when she was there, in the peaceful little village.

“Okay,” she said now to her Auntie Myrna. “Let’s go.” They started for the door, but Harriet hesitated and looked back. “I need to thank Madame Provost.”

She paused, clearly hoping Auntie Myrna would tell her it wasn’t necessary.

“I’ll wait,” said Myrna and watched her niece, still clutching the bouquet of roses, go around the room, talking to strangers, despite the bone caught in her throat.

But Myrna’s eyes kept being dragged back to the handsome young man. And every time they did, he was staring at her.

“Are you all right?” Billy asked, putting his hand in hers.