“Merci,” he said, taking the tea in one hand. His left he kept under the table, flexing it, trying to get the feeling back. He was chilled, more from shock he knew than from the rain. Beside him Beauvoir put two heaping spoons of honey into Gamache’s tea and stirred.

“I’ll be mother today,” Beauvoir said quietly, and the thought stirred something inside the younger man. Something to do with this kitchen. Beauvoir put the teaspoon down and watched Chef Véronique take the seat on Patenaude’s other side.

Beauvoir waited for the sting, the anger. But he felt only giddy amazement they were together in this warm kitchen, and he wasn’t kneeling in the mud, trying to force life back into a broken and beloved body. He looked over at Gamache, again. Just to make sure. Then he looked back at Chef Véronique and felt something. He felt sadness for her.

Whatever he’d felt for her before was nothing compared to what she felt for this man, this murderer.

Véronique took Patenaude’s trembling hand in her own. No reason to pretend any more. No reason to hide her feelings. “Ça va?” she asked.

It might have been a ridiculous question, given what had just happened. Of course he wasn’t all right. But he looked at her with a little surprise, and nodded.

Madame Dubois brought Beauvoir a cup of hot, strong tea and poured one for herself. But instead of joining them the elderly woman stepped back from the table. She tried to block out the other two and see just Véronique and Pierre. The two who’d kept her company in the wilderness. Who’d grown up and grown old here. One had fallen in love, the other had simply fallen.

Clementine Dubois had known Pierre Patenaude was full of rage when he’d arrived as a young man, more than twenty years earlier. He’d been so contained, his movements so precise, his manners so perfect. He hid it so well. But ironically it had been his decision to stay that had confirmed her suspicion. No one chose to live this deep in the woods for so long without reason. She knew Véronique’s. She knew her own. And now, finally, she knew his.

This was the first time Véronique and Pierre had held hands, she knew. And probably the last. Certainly the last time they’d all gather round this old pine table. And discuss their days.

She knew she should feel horrible about what Pierre had done, and she knew she would, in a few minutes. But for the moment she only felt anger. Not at Pierre, but at the Morrows and their reunion and at Julia Martin, for coming. And getting murdered. And ruining their small but perfect life by the lake.

Madame Dubois knew that was unreasonable and unkind, and certainly very selfish. But for just a moment she indulged herself, and her sorrow.

“Why did you kill Julia Martin?” Gamache asked. He could hear people moving about outside the swinging doors into the dining room. A Sûreté agent was stationed at the door, not to stop anyone from leaving the kitchen but to stop anyone from entering. He wanted a few quiet minutes with Patenaude and the others.

“I think you know why,” said Patenaude, not meeting his eye. Since looking into Chef Véronique’s eyes a minute earlier he’d been unable to raise his own. They’d been cast down, staggered by what he’d met in her gaze.

Tenderness.

And now she held his hand. How long had it been since someone had held his hand? He’d held other people’s hands, at celebrations when they sang “Gens Du Pays.” He’d comforted kids homesick and afraid. Or hurt. Like Colleen. He’d held her hand to comfort her when she’d found the body. A body he’d made.

But when was the last time someone had held his hand?

He cast his mind back until it hit the wall beyond which he could never look. Somewhere on the other side was his answer.

But now Véronique held his cold hand in her warm one. And slowly his trembling stopped.

“But we don’t know why, Pierre,” said Véronique. “Can you tell us?”

Clementine Dubois sat down opposite him then and the three again, and for the last time, entered their own world.

Pierre Patenaude opened and closed his mouth, dredging the words up from deep down.

“I was eighteen when my father died. A heart attack, but I know it wasn’t that. My mother and I had watched him work himself to death. We’d had money once, you know. He was the head of his own company. Big home, big cars. Private schools. But he’d made one mistake. He’d invested in a young man, a former employee. Someone he’d fired. I was there the day he’d fired the man. I was just a kid. My father had told me that everyone deserved a second chance. But not a third. He’d given this man a second chance, then fired him. But Dad liked this young man. Had kept in touch. Had even had him over for dinner after firing him. Perhaps he felt guilty, I don’t know.”