“Thomas calls you Spot,” said Gamache.

“Has most of my life.” Peter held out his hands. Reine-Marie and Gamache bent over, as though preparing to kiss a ring. But instead of a ring they found dots. Spots.

“Paint,” said Reine-Marie, straightening up. “Turpentine’ll get that out.”

“Really?” asked Peter with mock astonishment, then smiled. “These are new. From this morning in the studio. But I’ve had them on my hands, my face, my clothing, my hair, all my life. When I was a kid Thomas noticed and started calling me Spot.”

“Nothing gets by Thomas, I’m guessing,” said Gamache.

“He’s the original recycler,” agreed Peter. “He collects conversations and events then uses them years later, against you. Recycle, retaliate, repulse. Nothing’s ever wasted with our Thomas.”

“So that explains Spot,” said Reine-Marie. “But what about your sister Marianna? Why is she Magilla?”

“Oh, some TV show she used to watch as a kid. Magilla Gorilla. She was fixated on it. Father used to get home from work right in the middle of the show and insist we all greet him at the door, like a big happy family. Marianna was always in the basement, watching TV. He’d have to yell at her. Every night she’d stomp up those stairs, crying.”

“So Thomas called her Magilla, after a gorilla?” Gamache was beginning to get a sense of the man. Peter nodded.

“And what did you call him?”

“Thomas. I was always the creative one in the family.”

They sat enjoying the slight breeze at the dock. Peter listened as Clara talked again about Fortin visiting her studio this past spring and seeing the portrait of their friend Ruth Zardo, the old and withered poet. Embittered and embattled and brilliant. For some reason Peter couldn’t hope to understand Clara had painted her as the Madonna. Not, of course, the dewy virgin. But an old and forgotten woman, alone and frightened and facing her final years.

It was the most beautiful work Peter had ever seen, and he’d stood in front of masterpieces. But never had he seen anything more extraordinary than in Clara’s small back studio, cramped with rejected pieces and magazines and curled and crisp orange rinds, next to his pristine, professional, disciplined space.

But while he’d once again taken a common item and gotten so close it was unrecognizable then painted it as an abstract and called it The Curtain, or Blade of Grass, or Transport, Clara had squirrelled away in her little space and captured the divine in the face of their wizened, shrivelled, vicious old neighbor. Veined old hands clutched a faded blue robe to her withered neck. Her face was full of misery and disappointment, rage and despair. Except her eyes. It wasn’t obvious. Just a hint, a suggestion.

It was there, in the tiniest dot in her eye. In the entire, huge canvas, Clara had painted a single dot, a spot. And in that spot she’d placed hope.

It was exquisite.

He was happy for her. Really.

A shriek broke into their reflections and in an instant all were on their feet turning toward the Manoir. Armand Gamache started forward just as a small figure shot out of the garden.

Bean.

The child raced screaming toward them down the lawn getting more hysterical with each panicked step, the swim towel snapping behind. And someone was chasing the child. As they came closer Gamache recognized the young gardener.

Peter and Clara, Gamache and Reine-Marie ran onto the lawn and put their arms out to stop Bean, who seemed strangely intent on avoiding them, but Peter caught the fugitive.

“Let me down,” Bean wailed and struggled in his arms, as though Peter was the threat. Wild-eyed, the child looked back at the Manoir.

The lawn was filled with people, the Morrows, the Finneys and some of the staff following the now trotting gardener.

“Who are you running from, Bean?” Gamache quickly knelt down and took the child’s trembling hands. “Look at me, now,” he said kindly but firmly, and Bean did. “Has someone hurt you?”

He knew he had until the others joined them to get an honest answer from Bean, and they were almost there. His eyes never left the frightened child.

Bean held out an arm. Welts were appearing on the tender skin.

“What have you done to my grandchild?”

It was too late. They’d arrived and Gamache looked up into the accusing face of Irene Finney. She was a formidable woman, Gamache knew. He admired, respected, trusted strong women. He’d been raised by one, and had married one. But he knew strength wasn’t hardness, and a formidable woman and a bully were two different things. Which was she?