“If that’s the criteria, then let me lecture you.”

Everyone turned to a dark corner, where there was just the suggestion of an outline. Of an odd woman, with mismatched clothing.

“She’s a natural,” said Suzanne in a whisper, still heard amid the din outside. “Producing art like it’s a bodily function. I managed to forgive that. And you know why?”

No one answered.

“God forgive me, not for Lillian’s sake but my own. I’d held on to that hurt, coddled it, fed it, grew it. Until it had all but consumed me. But finally I wanted something even more than I wanted my pain.”

The storm seemed to have slipped out of the valley and was slowly lumbering away, to another destination.

“A quiet place,” said Chief Inspector Gamache, “in the bright sunshine.”

Suzanne smiled and nodded. “Peace.”

THIRTY

The next morning dawned overcast but fresh, the rain and heavy humidity of the day before had vanished. As the morning progressed breaks appeared in the clouds.

“Chiaroscuro,” said Thierry Pineault, falling into step beside Gamache as he took his morning walk. Leaves and small branches were scattered around the village green and front gardens, but no trees were down from the storm.

“Pardon?”

“The sky.” Pineault pointed. “A contrast of dark and light.”

Gamache smiled.

They strolled together in silence. As they walked they noticed Ruth leaving her home, shutting her little gate and limping along a well-worn path to the bench. Giving a cursory wipe of her hand on the wet wood she sat, staring into the distance.

“Poor Ruth,” said Pineault. “Sitting all day on that bench feeding the birds.”

“Poor birds,” said Gamache and Pineault laughed. As they watched, Brian came out of the B and B. He waved to the Chief Justice, nodded to Gamache, then walked across the green to sit beside Ruth.

“Does he have a death wish?” asked Gamache. “Or is he drawn to wounded things?”

“Neither. He’s drawn to healing things.”

“He’d fit in well here,” said the Chief Inspector, looking around the village.

“You like it here, don’t you,” said Thierry, watching the large man beside him.

“I do.”

The two men stopped and watched Brian and Ruth sitting side-by-side, apparently in their own worlds.

“You must be very proud of him,” said Gamache. “It’s incredible that a boy with such a background could get clean and sober.”

“I’m happy for him,” said Thierry. “But not proud. Not my place to be proud of him.”

“I think you’re being modest, sir. Not every sponsor has such success, I imagine.”

“His sponsor?” said Thierry. “I’m not his sponsor.”

“Then what are you?” Gamache asked, trying not to show his surprise. He looked from the Chief Justice to the pierced young man on the bench.

“I’m his sponsee. He’s my sponsor.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Gamache.

“Brian’s my sponsor. He’s eight years sober, I’m only two.”

Gamache looked from the elegant Thierry Pineault, in gray flannels and light cashmere sweater, to the skinhead.

“I know what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector, and you’re right. Brian is pretty tolerant of me. He gets a lot of grief from his friends when he’s seen with me in public. My suits and ties and all. Very embarrassing,” Thierry smiled.

“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking,” said Gamache. “But close enough.”

“You didn’t really think I sponsored him, did you?”

“Well I certainly didn’t think it was the other way around,” said Gamache. “Isn’t there—”

“Anyone else?” asked Thierry P. “Lots of others, but I have my reasons for choosing Brian. I’m very grateful he agreed to sponsor me. He saved my life.”

“In that case, I’m grateful to him as well,” said Gamache. “My apologies.”

“Is that an amend, Chief Inspector?” Thierry asked with a grin.

“It is.”

“Then I accept.”

They continued their walk. It was worse than Gamache had feared. He’d wondered who the Chief Justice’s sponsor might be. Someone in AA, obviously. Another alcoholic, with great influence over a greatly influential man. But it never occurred to Gamache that Thierry Pineault would choose a Nazi skinhead as a sponsor.