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While Isabelle lit the fire, Vivienne retreated to their small tent, emerging a minute or so later wearing a tuque and gloves. And carrying a nice Pinot Noir and two tumblers.

“Please tell me you remembered the corkscrew,” said Isabelle.

“I did.” She fished it out of her coat pocket. “Only forgot it once.” She poured them both liberal quantities. “Fortunately, I know how to open a wine bottle without one.”

“You unscrew the top?” Isabelle heard Vivienne’s full-throated laugh.

“Non. A cork. I’ll show you sometime.”

“When needs must…,” said Isabelle, tipping her tumbler toward Vivienne.

“… the devil drives.” Vivienne touched the plastic cups and finished the old saying. The second half of which Lacoste had never heard.

They sat quietly on the stones warmed by the fire. Embers drifted lazily into the darkening sky before dying and landing in the lake. They’d been careful to build their fire by the shore and not risk a forest fire. There had been more than enough of those.

The two women watched the sunset, drank red wine, and huddled close to the crackling campfire on the shores of the remote lake, their faces illuminated by the burning logs.

“Are you okay?”

Armand and Reine-Marie were at the basement door. He’d taken both her hands in his and could feel her tremble. It wasn’t from the cold, it was barely contained rage.

She nodded and looked behind him at the woman standing beside the map. It was all she could do not to scream at her.

For her part, Jeanne Caron was smart enough to just say, “I am sorry, Madame Gamache, for what I did. But I won’t ask forgiveness.”

Then she accepted the cookie and mug of tea Reine-Marie held out to her. Almost as though Daniel’s mother were offering her a wafer and chalice. If Jeanne Caron noticed that Madame Gamache’s hands shook, she didn’t show it.

Now Armand and Reine-Marie stood at the exit. He stroked her hands with his thumb.

Reine-Marie brought her gaze back to her husband’s face. She could not imagine, though she’d tried, what those minutes that must’ve felt like hours and nanoseconds were like as he’d knelt on the floor, waiting to be killed. And then to be saved. By this woman. By that woman.

How that moment must have bonded them, bound them. In some strange connection.

“Are you sure about her, Armand?”

He smiled. “She didn’t have to do what she did. Do I think she’s suddenly an exemplary human? No. I know her for what she is. But we also need her.”

“When needs must?” Reine-Marie kissed him on the lips and left.

He watched her walk down the hill toward Myrna’s bookshop. One of Reine-Marie’s many havens.

Once there she helped Myrna shelve the latest consignment of used books, picking out a few for herself. Reine-Marie suspected they were ones she and Armand had donated to the library sale. And would again. And buy them again. The life cycle of a book.

Armand turned back to the room and Jeanne Caron.

When needs must, the devil drives …

“You have an extraordinary wife, Armand.”

“Oui,” he said, though the less time Caron spent thinking about his family, the better. He needed this woman. He was grateful to her for saving his life. But he did not like her.

And he suspected it was mutual.

“Okay, out with it. Why did you bring me down here? Why do you think there’s more going on? Not because of some numbers on an old map, and the fact my shit of an assistant has run away and is probably making piña coladas for tourists in Saint Lucia.”

“Do you know the code we used to describe the poisoning plot?” Armand asked.

“The Grey Wolf and the Black Wolf. Oui,” said Jeanne Caron.