She heard it before she saw it. The prayer stick, its brightly colored ribbons catching the wind, sending their gifts into the air, knocking against each other. Like true friends. Bumping, and sometimes hurting, though never meaning to. Ruth took hold of the old photograph, the image almost worn off by the rain and snow. She hadn't looked at this picture in sixty years, since the day she'd taken it at the fair. Jane and Andreas, so joyous. And Timmer behind, looking straight at the camera, at Ruth holding the camera, and scowling. Ruth had known then, years ago, that Timmer knew. Young Ruth had just betrayed Jane. And now Timmer was dead. And Andreas was dead, and Jane was dead. And Ruth felt, maybe, it was time to let go. She released the old photograph and it quickly joined the other objects, dancing and playing together.
Ruth reached into her pocket and took out the book she'd chosen as her gift from Jane. With it she withdrew the envelope Jane had left her. Inside was a card, hand-drawn by Jane, a near duplicate of the image on the wall of Jane's living room. Except, instead of two young girls embracing, they were now old and frail. Two elderly women. Holding each other. Ruth slipped it into the book. The worn little book that smelled of Floris.
In a tremulous voice Ruth started to read out loud, the words taken by the wind to play among the snowflakes and bright ribbons. Daisy looked at her with adoration.
Gamache sat in the Bistro, having come in to say goodbye, and maybe buy a licorice pipe, or two, before heading back to Montreal. Olivier and Gabri were having a heated discussion about where to put the magnificent Welsh dresser Olivier had chosen. Olivier had tried not to choose it. Had spoken with himself quite sternly about not being greedy and taking the best thing in Jane's home.
Just this once, he begged himself, take something symbolic. Something small to remember her by. A nice bit of famille rose, or a little silver tray. Not the Welsh dresser. Not the Welsh dresser.
'Why can't we ever put the nice things in the B. & B.?' Gabri was complaining, as he and Olivier walked around the Bistro, looking for a place for the Welsh dresser. Spotting Gamache, they went over to him. Gabri had a question.
'Did you ever suspect us?'
Gamache looked at the two men, one huge and buoyant, the other slim and self-contained. 'No. I think you've both been hurt too much in your lives by the cruelty of others to ever be cruel yourselves. In my experience people who have been hurt either pass it on and become abusive themselves or they develop a great kindness. You're not the types to do murder. I wish I could say the same for everyone here.'
'What do you mean?' asked Olivier.
'Who do you mean?' asked Gabri.
'Now, you don't expect me to tell you, do you? Besides, this person may never act.' To Gabri's observant eye Gamache looked unconvinced, even slightly fearful.
Just then Myrna arrived for a hot chocolate.
'I have a question for you.' Myrna turned to Gamache, after she'd ordered. 'What's with Philippe? Why'd he turn on his father like that?'
Gamache wondered how much to say. Isabelle Lacoste had sent the item she'd found taped behind a framed poster in Bernard's room to the lab and the results had come back. Philippe's fingerprints were all over it. Gamache hadn't been surprised. Bernard Malenfant had been blackmailing the young man.
But Gamache knew Philippe's behavior had changed before that. He'd gone from being a happy, kind boy to a cruel, sullen, deeply unhappy adolescent. Gamache had guessed the reason but the magazine had confirmed it. Philippe didn't hate his father. No. Philippe hated himself, and took it out on his father.
'I'm sorry,' said Gamache. 'I can't tell you.'
As Gamache put on his coat Olivier and Gabri came over.
'We think we know why Philippe's been acting this way,' said Gabri. 'We wrote it on this piece of paper. If we're right, could you just nod?'
Gamache opened the note and read. Then he folded it back up and put it in his pocket. As he went out the door he looked back at the two men, standing shoulder to shoulder, just touching. Against his better judgment, he nodded. He never regretted it.
They watched Armand Gamache limp to his car and drive away. Gabri felt a deep sadness. He'd known about Philippe for a while. The manure incident, perversely, had confirmed it. That's why they'd decided to invite Philippe to work off his debt at the Bistro. Where they could watch him, but more importantly, where he could watch them. And see it was all right.
'Well,' Olivier's hand brushed against Gabri's, 'at least you'll have another munchkin if you ever decide to stage The Wizard of Oz.'
'Just what this village needs, another friend of Dorothy.'
'This is for you.' From behind her back Clara brought a large photograph, stylised, layered by video and taken as a still off her Mac. She beamed as Peter stared at it. But slowly the smile flattened. He didn't get it. This wasn't unusual, he rarely understood her work. But she'd hoped this would be different. Her gift to him was both the photograph and trusting him enough to show it to him. Her art was so painfully personal it was the most exposed she could ever be. After not telling Peter about the deer blind and the trail and holding back other things she now wanted to show him that she'd been wrong. She loved and trusted him.
He stared at the weird photo. It showed a box on stilts, like a treehouse. Inside was a rock or an egg, Peter didn't know which. So like Clara to be unclear. And the whole thing was spinning. It made him feel a little nauseous.
'It's the blind house,' she said, as though that explained it. Peter didn't know what to say. Recently, for the last week, there hadn't been a lot to say to anyone.
Clara wondered whether she should explain about the stone and its symbolism with death. But the object might be an egg. Symbolic of life. Which was it? That was the glorious tension in the luminous work. Up until that morning the treehouse had been static, but all that talk of people being stuck had given Clara the idea of spinning the house, like a little planet, with its own gravity, its own reality. Like most homes, it contained life and death, inseparable. And the final allusion. Home as an allegory for self. A self-portrait of our choices. And our blind spots.
Peter didn't get it. Didn't try. He left Clara standing there with a work of art that, unbeknownst to either of them, would one day make her famous.
She watched him wander almost aimlessly into his studio and shut the door. One day she knew he'd leave his safe and sterile island and come back to this messy mainland. When he did she'd be waiting, her arms open, as always.
Now Clara sat in the living room and took a piece of paper from her pocket. It was addressed to the minister of St Thomas's church. She crossed out the first bit of writing. Below it she carefully printed something, then she put on her coat and walked up the hill to the white clapboard church, handed the paper to the minister and returned to the fresh air.
The Revd James Morris unfolded the slip of paper and read. It was instructions for the engraving on Jane Neal's headstone. On the top of the page was written, 'Matthew 10:36.' But that had been crossed out and something else had been printed underneath. He took out his Bible and looked up Matthew 10:36.'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.' Below it was the new instruction. 'Surprised by Joy.'
At the top of the hill Armand Gamache stopped the car and got out. He looked down at the village and his heart soared. He looked over the rooftops and imagined the good, kind, flawed people inside struggling with their lives. People were walking their dogs, raking the relentless autumn leaves, racing the gently falling snow. They were shopping at M. Beliveau's general store and buying baguettes from Sarah's boulangerie. Olivier stood at the Bistro doorway and shook out a tablecloth. Life was far from harried here. But neither was it still.