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I understand. I just can’t make it.

For God’s sake, Bert— But before he could write more, the connection was lost. Bert Whitehead had hung up.

Armand went online, ordered tickets, and sent one to General Whitehead.

He’ll show, thought Armand.

Yvette Nichol was struggling with the laptop, unable to get into it.

“Take a break,” said Gamache from the door into the study.

“No, not yet.”

“Take a break, Agent Nichol,” Gamache repeated, making it clear this was not a suggestion.

Without waiting to see if she obeyed, he put on his field coat and called the dogs, and Gracie. Then Gamache, Lacoste, and Beauvoir walked slowly around the village green. The sun had set without them noticing. The wind had picked up.

It was an unpredictable season. Anything could be coming their way.

They walked in silence, breathing in the fresh air, feeling the bracing cold against their cheeks. Each lost to their own thoughts. Behind them they heard the galumphing steps of Yvette Nichol as she ran to catch up.

“I can’t—” she began, before the Chief Inspector stopped her.

“You’re not alone,” he said softly, and held her worried gaze. “None of us is making headway. That’s why we’re out here. To clear our heads and do something useful.” He picked up the slimy orange tennis ball Henri had dropped at his feet and gave it to her.

She made a face, tossed it, then wiped her hands over her jeans.

The dogs, and Gracie, ran after it, joyous.

If this is useful, we’re doomed.

And yet she found herself smiling. She looked at Gamache, then over to Beauvoir and Lacoste, all watching the romping animals. All smiling.

Twice around the green, and then they all veered off to the bistro for drinks and an early dinner. Clara, Myrna, and Reine-Marie were already there.

Reine-Marie had met her husband on his return and seen that now familiar expression as he once again strained to understand what she said.

She hugged him and silently hoped that flight had been worth it. And it might have been. She’d also seen the laptop.

Nichol pulled up a chair next to Ruth.

“I see they’re down to scraping the bottom of the barrel,” said the old poet.

“Are you still alive?” asked Nichol.

“She’s lost the will to die,” said Gabri, joining them.

“I was talking to the duck,” said Nichol.

As they drank their wine and Pepsi and hot chocolate and put in their orders for dinner, Ruth studied Yvette Nichol. Who was studying Gamache. Who was looking at the pitcher of water on the table.

“What’re you thinking?” Ruth asked Yvette.

“That he’s aged since I last saw him. More lines down his face.”

“He claims they’re laugh lines,” said Ruth.

“Nothing’s that funny.”