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“Why not now?” said Reine-Marie, suddenly curious to go deeper into Jericho. Where that young biologist might have been. Where the line he drew almost certainly passed through. Doing it with friends, visiting a museum, would not arouse suspicion should anyone be watching.

She felt ridiculous even thinking that. As though visiting a museum dedicated to a man named “Snowflake” could be dangerous. Still, Reine-Marie knew there was a difference between what things appeared to be and what they actually were. Best to be careful.

She sent off a quick text to Armand, letting him know; then they headed off.

Despite her predictable protests, Ruth joined them, though she left Rosa at home in case the Customs people decided ducks could fly into the country but not be driven.

They were through the border with Reine-Marie driving when Myrna looked up from her phone. “Seems Jericho excels at odd names. Snowflake isn’t the only one. It was founded by a guy named Remember.”

“You’re kidding.” Clara sat forward from the back seat.

“No, look.” Myrna passed her phone over.

Sure enough, one of the first European surveyors back in 1773 was named Remember Baker. Clara scanned the rest of the history. There was a guffaw next to her.

“What’s so funny?” she asked Ruth, who was leaning on her shoulder and reading the entry.

“Look at that passage. Seems the good folks of Jericho lived in terror of invasion from Canada.”

“How times have changed,” said Reine-Marie.

“Well, you say that, but…”

“But what?” said Reine-Marie as they turned off the main road and reached the outskirts of the town.

“You haven’t seen the posts?” asked Ruth.

Of everyone in Three Pines, Ruth Zardo was the most connected on social media. It was, they figured, one of the reasons her wits were addled.

“Some people on social media are crazy,” said Ruth.

“Some people in this car are crazy,” murmured Clara, and got no argument.

“Here we are.” Reine-Marie turned into the Old Red Mill.

Even Ruth was reduced to silence as the four women, the only people in the museum, moved from photograph to tiny photograph, marveling at the images of snowflakes that Wilson Bentley managed to capture using an old, though state-of-the-art in the 1880s, camera and microscope. At a time when photography was in its infancy, this rugged farmer, with almost no education, had developed a fascination bordering on, and occasionally crossing into, obsession with capturing the image of a single flake.

Eventually, on January 15, 1885, he did it.

Wilson Bentley became the first person in the world to photograph a snowflake. But that wasn’t the only surprise. The biggest was yet to come. Bentley discovered that no two were exactly alike.

When he announced his findings in the local paper, he was ignored. Those who did pay attention roundly mocked him. But when he showed them hundreds, then thousands of images of the stunning crystalline shapes, all different, he was finally believed.

Then forgotten.

Like his subjects, Snowflake Bentley melted away, disappearing as though he’d never existed. Until, decades later, his work was rediscovered. And now, more than a century on, four Canadian women stood in his former home, and marveled.

“They’re beautiful,” whispered Ruth. “I wish Rosa could see them.”

“He captured a moment, a split second, before the flake melted,” said Myrna. “My God, it’s incredible. He essentially froze the snowflakes in time.”

“Huh,” said Clara. “That’s true.”

It was a museum dedicated not just to the remarkable man’s life’s work, but to that moment just before something happened.

They each bought a poster reproducing the flakes. When it was Reine-Marie’s turn to pay, she casually asked the cashier if a young man, Québécois, had visited sometime in the summer.

“Kaybek?”