‘They aren’t?’ said Clara. ‘What are they?’
‘I think they’re flying monkeys,’ said Gabri to Olivier, who snorted.
‘They’re Canada geese.’
‘Are you sure? They look pretty small, especially that Lilium,’ said Peter.
Everyone was hushed and if Clara had been closer she would have kicked him. Instead she kicked Beauvoir. Another example, he thought, of suppressed anglo rage. Can’t trust them, can’t kick them out, or back.
‘So? She’s always been small,’ said Ruth. ‘When they hatched she almost didn’t make it out of her shell. Rosa was already out and squawking, but I could see Lilium thrashing back and forth, her wings trying to crack the shell.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Jeanne.
Her face, like all of theirs, was lit by candlelight, but while it made the others more attractive, it gave her a demonic expression, her eyes sunken and dark, the shadows strong.
‘What do you think I did? I cracked the egg for her. Opened it up enough for her to get out.’
‘You saved her life,’ said Peter.
‘Perhaps,’ said Jeanne, sitting back and almost disappearing into the shadows.
‘What’d you mean, perhaps?’ demanded Ruth.
‘The emperor moth.’
It wasn’t Jeanne who spoke, but Gabri.
‘Tell me you didn’t just say “the emperor moth”,’ said Clara.
‘I did, and for a reason.’ He paused, to make sure his audience was with him. He needn’t have worried.
‘It takes years for the moth to evolve from an egg into an adult,’ he said. ‘In its final stage the caterpillar spins a cocoon and then it dissolves completely until it’s just liquid, then it transforms. It becomes something else entirely. A huge emperor moth. But it’s not that easy. Before it can live as a moth it has to fight its way out of the cocoon. Not all make it.’
‘They would if I was there,’ said Ruth, taking another gulp.
Gabri was uncharacteristically silent.
‘What? What is it?’ demanded Ruth.
‘They need to fight their way out of the cocoon. It builds their wings and muscles. It’s the struggle that saves them. Without it they’re crippled. If you help an emperor moth, you kill it.’
Ruth’s glass stopped at her lips. For the first time since any of them had known her, she didn’t drink. Then she thumped the glass so hard on the table it shot a plume of Scotch into the air.
‘Bullshit. What do you know about the natural world?’
There was silence then.
After a long minute Armand Gamache turned to Myrna.
‘This is a beautiful flower arrangement, and I think you said there was something in it for me.’
‘There is,’ she said, relieved. ‘But you have to dig for it.’
Gamache got up and delicately moved the branches aside. There, in the forest, was a book. He brought it out and sat back down.
‘The Dictionary of Magical Places,’ he read from the cover.
‘Latest edition.’
‘They found more magical places?’ asked Olivier.
‘Guess so. I saw what you were reading in the bistro yesterday and thought you might be interested in this too,’ Myrna said to Gamache.
‘What were you reading?’ asked Clara.
Gamache went into the mudroom and returning with the books he’d been carrying he placed them one on top of the other on the table. Staring up at them was a small hand outlined in red on the black leather cover. No one moved to touch it.
‘Where’d you find that?’ Jeanne asked. She looked upset.
‘The old Hadley house. Do you know the book?’
Did she hesitate? he wondered. She reached out and he handed it to her. After examining it for a moment she put it down.
‘It’s a Hamsa hand. An ancient symbol to ward off the envious and the evil eye. It’s also called the Hand of Miriam. Or Mary.’
‘Mary?’ said Clara, sitting slowly back in her chair. ‘As in the Madonna?’
Jeanne nodded.
‘It’s all bullshit,’ said Ruth, who’d wiped up the droplets of spilled Scotch with her finger and was sucking it.
‘You don’t believe in magic?’ Jeanne asked.
‘I don’t believe in magic, I don’t believe in God. There’s no such thing as angels and there’re no fairies at the end of the garden. Nothing. The only magic is this.’ She raised her glass and took a gulp.
‘Is it working?’ asked Gamache.
‘Fuck off,’ said Ruth.
‘Eloquent as ever,’ said Gabri. ‘I used to believe in God, but I gave it up for Lent.’
‘Har-dee-har-har,’ said Olivier.
‘You want to know what I believe?’ said Ruth. ‘Here, give me that.’
Without waiting she leaned over and snatched the second book from the table. The cracked and worn Bible Gamache had taken from the old Hadley house. She squinted and brought it close to a candle as she tried to find the right page. The room was silent, the only sound the slight sizzling of a candle wick.
‘Behold I show you a mystery,’ read Ruth, her voice as worn as the Bible she held. ‘We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.’
Into the silence they stared.
The dead shall be raised.
And then Ruth’s alarm went off.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Gamache couldn’t sleep. His bedside clock said 2:22. He’d been lying awake watching the bright red numbers change since the clock had said 1:11. He’d been woken up not by a bad dream, not by anxiety or a full bladder. He’d been woken up by frogs. Peepers. An army of invisible frogs at the pond spent most of the night singing a mating call. He would have thought they’d be exhausted by now, but apparently not. At dusk it was joyful, after dinner it was atmospheric. At 2 a.m. it was simply annoying. Anyone who said the country was peaceful hadn’t spent time there. Especially in the spring.
He got up, put on his dressing gown and slippers, took a stack of books from the dresser and headed downstairs.
He relit the fireplace and made himself a pot of tea, then settled in staring at the fire and thinking of the dinner party.
Ruth had left as soon as her alarm went off, scaring the pants off everyone. She’d just read that extraordinary passage. St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians. Quite a letter, thought Gamache. Thank God they kept it.
‘Good night,’ Peter had called from the door. ‘Sleep tight.’
‘Always do,’ Ruth snapped.
The rest of the dinner had been peaceful and tasty. A pear and cranberry tarte was produced by Peter, from Sarah’s Boulangerie. Jeanne had bought handmade chocolates from Marielle’s Maison du Chocolat in St-Rémy and Clara put out a platter of cheese and bowls of fruit. Rich, aromatic coffee made the perfect end to the evening.
Over tea now, in the quietude of the B. & B., Gamache thought about what he’d heard. Then he picked up one of the yearbooks. It was from the first year Madeleine had been at the high school and she didn’t figure in many pictures. Hazel was in a few, on some of the junior teams. But as the years went by Madeleine seemed to bloom. Became captain of the basketball and volleyball teams. Beside her in all the shots was Hazel. Her natural place.
Gamache put down the books and thought a bit, then he picked one up again and looked for the missing cheerleader. Jeanne Potvin. Was it possible? Was it that easy?
‘Fucking frogs,’ said Beauvoir a few minutes later, shuffling into the living room. ‘We just get rid of Nichol and now the frogs start acting up. Still, they’re better-looking and less slimy. What’re you reading?’
‘Those yearbooks Agent Lacoste brought back. Tea?’
Beauvoir nodded and wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose she brought back any Sports Illustrated?’