How the Light Gets In
“Plus ça change…” said Gamache, joining her.
“The more it changes, the more it stays the same,” Thérèse finished the quote, then thought about it. “Do you believe it?”
“No,” he said.
“You’re an optimist, monsieur.” She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Neither do I.”
“Café?” he asked, and went to the kitchen to pour them both a coffee. Thérèse followed him and leaned against the marble counter.
“I feel out of sorts without my phone and emails and laptop,” she admitted, her arms around her body, like an addict in withdrawal.
“Me too,” he said, passing her a mug of coffee.
“When you’ve come here for murder investigations, how did you connect?”
“Not much we could do except tap into the telephone lines and boost them.”
“But that’s still dial-up,” said Thérèse. “Better than nothing, though. I know you also use hubs and mobile satellite dishes when you’re in remote areas. Do they work here?”
He shook his head. “Not very reliable. The valley’s too deep.”
“Or the mountains too high,” said Thérèse with a smile. “Perspective.”
Gamache opened the fridge and found bacon and eggs. Thérèse brought a loaf out of the bread box and began slicing it while the Chief put bacon into a cast-iron skillet.
It sizzled and popped, while Gamache poked it and moved the slices around.
“Morning.” Jérôme entered the kitchen. “I smelled bacon.”
“Almost ready,” said Gamache from the stove. He cracked the eggs into the frying pan while Jérôme put preserves on the table.
A few minutes later they all sat in front of plates of bacon, eggs over easy and toast.
Through the back window, over the sink, Gamache could see Emilie’s garden and the forest beyond covered in snow so bright it looked more blue and pink than white. A more perfect place to hide would be impossible to find. A safer safe house did not exist.
They were safe, the Chief knew, but they were also stuck.
Like the Quints, he thought, as he took a sip of rich, hot coffee. While the rest of the world had been in the depths of the Depression, they’d been scooped up, taken away, and made safe. They were given everything they wanted. Except their freedom.
Gamache looked at his companions, eating bacon and eggs, and spreading homemade jam on homemade bread.
They too had everything they could want. Except their freedom.
“Jérôme?” he began, his voice uncertain.
“Oui, mon ami.”
“I have a medical question for you.” The thought of the Quints reminded him of his conversation the night before with Myrna.
Jérôme lowered his fork and gave Gamache his full attention.
“Go on.”
“Twins,” said Gamache. “Do they generally share the same amniotic sac?”
“In the womb? Identical twins do. Fraternal twins don’t. They have their own egg and their own sac.”
He was clearly curious, but didn’t ask why.
“Why?” But Thérèse did. “A happy announcement for you and Reine-Marie?”
Gamache laughed. “As wonderful as having twins at this stage in life would be, no. I’m actually interested in multiple births.”
“How many?” asked Jérôme.
“Five.”
“Five? Must’ve been IVF,” he said. “Fertility drugs. Multiple eggs so almost certainly not identical.”
“No, no, these are identical. Or were. And there was no IVF at the time.”
Thérèse stared at him. “Are you talking about the Ouellet Quintuplets?”
Gamache nodded. “There were five of them, of course. From a single egg. They split off into twos in the womb and shared amniotic sacs. Except one.”
“What a thorough investigator you are, Armand,” said Jérôme. “You go all the way back to the womb.”
“Well, no one suspects a fetus,” said Gamache. “That’s their great advantage.”
“Though there are a few disadvantages.” Jérôme paused to gather his thoughts. “The Ouellet Quints. We studied them in medical school. It was a phenomenon. Not simply a multiple birth, and identical at that, but the fact all five survived. Remarkable man, Dr. Bernard. I heard him lecture once, when he was a very old man. Still sharp, and still very proud of those girls.”