dropped them and smiled at her. “How does coffee and liqueur in the Great Room sound?”
She searched his face. “Would you like to go for a walk? I’ll arrange for the coffees.”
“Merci, mon coeur.”
“Je t’attends.”
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Armand Gamache whispered to himself as he walked with measured pace in the dark. The sweet aroma of night-scented stock kept him company, as did the stars and moon and the light across the lake. The family in the forest. The family of his fantasies. Father, mother, happy, thriving children.
No sorrow, no loss, no sharp rap on the door at night.
As he watched the light flickered out, and all was in darkness across the way. The family at sleep, at peace.
Honoré Gamache. Was it so wrong? Was he wrong to feel this way? And what would he say to Daniel in the morning?
He stared into space, thinking about that for a few minutes, then slowly he became aware of something in the woods. Glowing. He looked around to see if there was anyone else there, another witness. But the terrasse and the gardens were empty.
Curious, Gamache walked toward it, the grass soft beneath his feet. He glanced back and saw the bright and cheerful lights of the Manoir and the people moving about the rooms. Then he turned back to the woods.
They were dark. But they weren’t silent. Creatures moved about in there. Twigs snapped and things dropped from the trees and thumped softly to the ground. Gamache wasn’t afraid of the dark, but like most sensible Canadians he was a little afraid of the forest.
But the white thing glowed and called, and like Ulysses with the sirens, he was compelled forward.
It was sitting on the very edge of the woods. He walked up, surprised to find it was large and solid and a perfect square, like a massive sugar cube. It came up to his hip and when he reached out to touch it he withdrew his hand in surprise. It was cold, almost clammy. Reaching out again, more firmly this time, he rested his large hand on the top of the box, and smiled.
It was marble. He’d been afraid of a cube of marble, he chuckled at himself. Very humbling. Standing back, Gamache stared at it. The white stone glowed as though it had captured what little moonlight came its way. It was just a cube of marble, he told himself. Not a bear, or a cougar. Nothing to worry about, certainly nothing to spook him. But it did. It reminded him of something.
“Peter’s perpetually purple pimple popped.”
Gamache froze.
“Peter’s perpetually purple pimple popped.”
There it was again.
He turned round and saw a figure standing in the middle of the lawn. A slight haze hung about her and a bright red dot glowed near her nose.
Julia Martin was out for her secret cigarette. Gamache cleared his throat noisily and brushed his hand along a bush. Instantly the red dot fell to the ground and disappeared under an elegant foot.
“Good evening,” she called merrily, though Gamache doubted she could possibly have known who was there.
“Bonsoir, madame,” said Gamache, bowing slightly as he came up beside her. She was slender and was wearing a simple, elegant evening dress. Hair and nails and make-up were done, even in the wilderness. She wafted a slim hand in front of her face, to disperse the pungent tobacco smell.
“Bugs,” she said. “Blackflies. The only trouble with the east coast.”
“You have no blackflies out west?” he asked.
“Well, not many in Vancouver. Some deerflies on the golf courses. Drive you crazy.”
This Gamache could believe, having been tormented by deerflies himself.
“Fortunately smoke keeps the bugs away,” he said, smiling. She hesitated, then chuckled. She had an easy manner and an easy laugh. She touched his arm in a familiar gesture, though they weren’t all that familiar. But it wasn’t invasive, simply habit. As he’d watched her in the past few days he’d noticed she touched everyone. And she smiled at everything.
“You caught me, monsieur. Sneaking a cigarette. Really, quite pathetic.”
“Your family wouldn’t approve?”
“At my age I’ve long since stopped caring what others think.”
“C’est vrai? I wish I could.”
“Well, perhaps I do just a little,” she confided. “It’s a while since I’ve been with my family.” She looked toward the Manoir and he followed her gaze. Inside, her brother Thomas was leaning over and speaking to their mother while Sandra and Marianna looked on, not speaking and unaware anyone was watching them.
“When the invitation arrived I almost didn’t