Gamache had the feeling they weren’t talking about flowers any more.
‘But what would you have happen?’ he asked Peter. ‘They have to bloom, even if it’s for a short time. And they’ll be back next year.’
‘But not all.’ Peter turned to look at Gamache, the wooden spoon in the air dripping thick gravy. ‘Some never recover. We had the most beautiful rose bush just budding and a hard frost killed it a few years back.’
‘A killing frost,’ quoted Gamache. ‘It nips his root. And then he falls, as I do.’
Peter was trembling.
‘Who’s falling, Peter? Is it Clara?’
‘No one’s falling. I won’t allow it.’
‘Strange in Canada, we talk all the time about the one thing we can’t control. The weather. We can’t stop a killing frost and we can’t stop the flowers from doing what they’re meant to do. Better to bloom even for an instant, if that’s your nature, than live forever in hiding.’
‘I don’t agree.’ Peter turned his back on his guest and practically puréed the stew.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Peter to the wall.
Gamache took the bread to the long pine table, set for dinner, then returned to the living room. He reflected on T. S. Eliot and thought the poet had called April the cruellest month not because it killed flowers and buds on the trees, but because sometimes it didn’t. How difficult it was for those who didn’t bloom when all about was new life and hope.
‘So let me get this straight,’ said Olivier.
‘He almost never says that,’ Gabri assured Clara then turned back to the platter of shrimp Olivier was trying to get him to pass round. Gabri took one.
‘Easter isn’t a Christian holiday?’ said Olivier.
‘Well, it is,’ said Jeanne. The little, nondescript woman had somehow managed to dominate the room full of strong personalities. She sat bunched into a corner of the sofa, squeezed between the arm and Myrna, and all eyes were on her. ‘But the early church didn’t know for sure when Christ was crucified so it chose a date, one that would fit into the pagan calendar of rituals as well.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’ asked Clara.
‘The early church needed converts to survive. It was a dangerous and fragile time. In order to win over the pagans it adopted some of their feasts and rituals.’
‘Church incense is like the smudging we do,’ agreed Myrna. ‘When we light dried herbs to cleanse a place.’ She turned to Clara, who nodded. But it was a comforting ritual full of joy, not the somber swinging of the church censer, glum and vaguely threatening. She’d never seen the two as similar and wondered how the priests would feel about the comparison. Or the witches.
‘That’s right,’ said Jeanne. ‘Same with the festivals. We sometimes call Christmas Yuletide.’
‘In some of the carols anyway,’ said Gabri.
‘And we have the Yule log,’ Olivier pointed out.
‘Yule is the ancient word for the winter solstice. The longest night of the year. Around December twenty-first. It’s a pagan festival. So that’s where the early Christian church decided to put Christmas.’
‘So that a bunch of witches would celebrate? Come on,’ said Ruth with a snort. ‘Aren’t you making yourselves out to be more important than you are?’
‘Now, absolutely. The church hasn’t been interested in us for hundreds of years, except maybe as firewood, as you know.’
‘What do you mean? As I know?’
‘You’ve written about the old beliefs. Many times. It runs through your poems.’
‘You’re reading too much into them, Joan of Arc,’ said Ruth.
‘I was hanged for living alone,
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
and breasts.
Whenever there’s talk of demons
these come in handy.’
Jeanne quoted the poem, searching Ruth’s face.
‘Are you saying Ruth’s a witch?’ asked Gabri.
Jeanne tore her attention from the wizened old woman sitting bolt upright.
‘In the Wiccan beliefs most old women are the keepers of wisdom, of the medicines, of the stories. They’re the crones.’
‘Well, she does practice bitchcraft. Does that count?’ Gabri asked to roars of laughter and even Jeanne smiled.
‘There was a time when most people were pagans and celebrated the old ways. Yule and Eostar. The spring equinox. Easter. You do rituals?’ Jeanne asked Myrna.
‘Some. We celebrate the solstice and do some smudging. It’s a kind of hodgepodge of native and pagan beliefs.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Ruth. ‘I went to a couple. Ended up stinking of sage smoke for two days. People in the pharmacy thought I’d smoked up.’
‘Sometimes the magic works,’ said Myrna to Clara with a laugh.
‘Dinner,’ Peter called from the kitchen. When they arrived he’d put the casseroles and stews and vegetables on the island along with plates. Clara and Beauvoir went around lighting the candles scattered throughout the kitchen so that by the time they’d taken their places it was like sitting in a darkened planetarium, filled with points of light.
Their plates piled high with lamb stew and shepherd’s pie and fresh bread and smooth, fluffy mashed potatoes and baby beans, they tucked in, talking about gardens and the storm, about the Anglican Church Women and the condition of the roads.
‘I called Hazel to see if they could come tonight, but she said no,’ said Clara.
‘She almost always says no,’ said Myrna.
‘Is that true?’ asked Olivier. ‘I never noticed that.’
‘Neither had I,’ said Clara, helping herself to another spoonful of potatoes. ‘But now that I think of it, we wanted to take over dinners after Madeleine died but she wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Some people are like that,’ said Myrna. ‘Always happy to help others, but they have difficulty accepting it. Too bad really. She must be having a horrible time. Can’t imagine the pain she’s in.’
‘What excuse did she give for not coming tonight?’ Olivier asked.
‘Said Sophie’d sprained her ankle,’ said Clara with a scowl. There were guffaws around the table. She turned to Gamache to explain. ‘Sophie’s always sick or injured in some way, at least as long as I’ve known her.’
Gamache turned to Myrna. ‘What’s your thinking about that?’
‘Sophie? Easy. Attention-seeking. Jealous of Mom and Madeleine—’ She stopped, realizing what she was saying.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gamache. ‘We’d already figured that one out. Sophie’s also lost weight recently.’
‘Tons,’ said Gabri. ‘But she bobs up and down. Lost weight a few years ago too but put it all back.’
‘Does it run in the family?’ asked Gamache. ‘Does Hazel’s weight change?’
Again they looked at each other, except Ruth who stole a piece of bread from Olivier’s plate.
‘Hazel’s been the same as long as I remember,’ said Clara.
Gamache nodded and sipped his wine. ‘Marvelous dinner, Peter. Thank you.’ He raised his glass to Peter, who acknowledged the compliment.
‘I thought for sure we’d be having game hens,’ said Olivier to Peter. ‘Isn’t that your party dish this year?’
‘But you aren’t guests,’ said Peter. ‘We only do that for real people.’
‘I think you’ve been hanging around Ruth,’ said Olivier.
‘Actually, we were going to make Rock Cornish game hens but we thought with your babies, you might not want to eat them,’ Peter said to Ruth.
‘What do you mean?’ Ruth seemed genuinely perplexed and Gamache wondered whether she’d forgotten her ducklings weren’t human, weren’t her actual babies.
‘So you wouldn’t mind if we ate poultry?’ Peter asked. ‘Or even Brume Lake duck? We were going to barbecue some confit du canard.’
‘Rosa and Lilium aren’t chickens and they aren’t ducks,’ said Ruth.