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Winter was fast approaching. The trees on the surrounding mountains were already naked. Their branches grey, like old bones left out in the elements. Soon the maples and apples and oaks in the village would also be bare. Many of their red and amber and yellow leaves had already fallen.

The first snow was expected in the coming week. A killing frost was on the way.

But for now, the villagers were snug and warm in their heavy sweaters. Their scarves and hats and boots and gloves were at the ready by the front door.

The firewood was cut and stacked.

Shovels leaned against veranda walls and snow brushes had been placed in vehicles along with booster cables and emergency kits.

This was a time to prepare. To build the defenses.

Though far from building a defense, these three sat in front of the muttering fire and planned an offense.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” said Clara.

Myrna had placed herself where she could see the three Sûreté officers. Though she was unable to hear what they said, she too was adept at reading body language. Now she tried out her lip-reading skills.

Jean-Guy and Isabelle’s faces were intense as they listened to their Chief. Nodding every now and then.

Armand’s back was to Myrna and Clara, but it was still eloquent. His shoulders were slightly raised, in tension. Then, as Myrna watched, he rolled them, then lowered his head a bit, and much of the stress fell away. Though not, Myrna could see, the burden. But it was now shared.

As she watched her friends, she thought of the power of three. It had long ago struck her, in her practice as a psychologist, what could happen, for better or worse, when three people found a common goal.

One person alone could have a great idea, but it was unlikely to thrive until someone came along who agreed. At that point, life was breathed into that idea. It was animated.

But what happened when a third person was invited in?

It was a tricky number. Three’s a crowd. Three on a match. The third wheel. There were all sorts of warnings about the number three. But at the same time, it was considered by many cultures and beliefs as the most powerful number. The perfect number.

The Three Graces. The Holy Trinity.

For Pythagoras, three was the number of harmony, wisdom, and understanding. Three words to describe the number three.

Philosophy aside, it was the first number that could form a pattern.

Three people in agreement, working together toward a common goal, could feed each other, encourage and support each other, bring different strengths to the project, and send their common idea out, healthy and strong, into the world.

For better or worse.

And Myrna Landers, in her work in the Special Handling Unit, had looked into the eyes of “worse.” People who might have led normal, even exemplary lives had they not met that other one. And then the final one.

Dr. Myrna Landers watched Armand and Jean-Guy and Isabelle.

When the rule of three worked, its power was nearly immeasurable.

“The sooner you get to that lake, the better, Isabelle,” said Armand.

He was trying to catch the eye of the new server in the bistro, who seemed determined not to serve them.

“I’m ready now. Just have to let my husband know and pack a few things in case the pilot and I need to camp. Do you think we can get a hot chocolate?”

“I’m trying,” said Armand, raising his arm, but to no effect.

Brother Simon, the wayward Gilbertine monk, still had not forgiven Gamache for taking him out of the monastery. For his own safety, Armand had explained.

And while Simon pretended to hate his new life, the fact was he’d grown fond of the villagers and the village. To serving. It was a different sort of service, but the former acting Abbot was realizing he could serve God and serve coffee at the same time.

Just not to Armand.