The Cruelest Month
‘What excuse did she give for not coming tonight?’ Olivier asked.
‘Said Sophie’d sprained her ankle,’ said Clara with a scowl. There were guffaws around the table. She turned to Gamache to explain. ‘Sophie’s always sick or injured in some way, at least as long as I’ve known her.’
Gamache turned to Myrna. ‘What’s your thinking about that?’
‘Sophie? Easy. Attention-seeking. Jealous of Mom and Madeleine—’ She stopped, realizing what she was saying.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gamache. ‘We’d already figured that one out. Sophie’s also lost weight recently.’
‘Tons,’ said Gabri. ‘But she bobs up and down. Lost weight a few years ago too but put it all back.’
‘Does it run in the family?’ asked Gamache. ‘Does Hazel’s weight change?’
Again they looked at each other, except Ruth who stole a piece of bread from Olivier’s plate.
‘Hazel’s been the same as long as I remember,’ said Clara.
Gamache nodded and sipped his wine. ‘Marvelous dinner, Peter. Thank you.’ He raised his glass to Peter, who acknowledged the compliment.
‘I thought for sure we’d be having game hens,’ said Olivier to Peter. ‘Isn’t that your party dish this year?’
‘But you aren’t guests,’ said Peter. ‘We only do that for real people.’
‘I think you’ve been hanging around Ruth,’ said Olivier.
‘Actually, we were going to make Rock Cornish game hens but we thought with your babies, you might not want to eat them,’ Peter said to Ruth.
‘What do you mean?’ Ruth seemed genuinely perplexed and Gamache wondered whether she’d forgotten her ducklings weren’t human, weren’t her actual babies.
‘So you wouldn’t mind if we ate poultry?’ Peter asked. ‘Or even Brume Lake duck? We were going to barbecue some confit du canard.’
‘Rosa and Lilium aren’t chickens and they aren’t ducks,’ said Ruth.
‘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.