“Shame,” said Thérèse, sitting at the kitchen table watching. “Might’ve knocked some sense into him. Why in the world would you confront Inspector Beauvoir? Especially now?”

“It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

“Honestly, Thérèse, can it matter at this stage?”

“Does he know what you’re doing? What we’re doing?”

“He doesn’t even know what he’s doing,” Gamache said. “He’s no threat.”

Thérèse Brunel was about to say something, but seeing his face, the bruise and the expression, she decided not to.

Nichol was upstairs, sleeping. They’d already eaten, but saved some for Gamache. He carried a tray with soup and a fresh baguette, pâté and cheeses into the living room and set it in front of the fire. Jérôme and Thérèse joined him there.

“Should we wake her up?” Gamache asked.

“Agent Nichol?” asked Jérôme, with some alarm. “We only just got her down. Let’s enjoy the peace.”

It was odd, thought Gamache as he ate the lentil soup, that no one thought to call Nichol by her first name. Yvette. She was Nichol or Agent Nichol.

Not a person, certainly not a woman. An agent, and that was all.

When dinner and the dishes were done, they took their tea back to the living room. Where normally they’d have had a glass of wine with their dinner, or a cognac after, none of them considered it.

Not that night.

Jérôme looked at his watch. “Almost nine. I think I’ll try to get some sleep. Thérèse?”

“I’ll be up in a moment.”

They watched Jérôme haul himself up the stairs, then Thérèse turned to Armand.

“Why did you go to Beauvoir?”

Gamache sighed. “I had to try, one more time.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “You mean one last time. You think you won’t get another chance.”

They sat quietly for a moment. Thérèse kneaded Henri’s ears while the shepherd moaned and grinned.

“You did the right thing,” she said. “No regrets.”

“And you? Any regrets?”

“I regret bringing Jérôme into this.”

“I brought him in,” said Gamache. “Not you.”

“But I could’ve said no.”

“I don’t think any of us believed it would come to this.”

Superintendent Brunel looked around the living room, with its faded slipcovers and comfortable armchairs and sofas. The books and vinyl records and old magazines. The fireplace, and the windows looking to the dark back garden in one direction and the village green in the other.

She could see the three huge pine trees, Christmas lights bobbing in the slight breeze.

“If it had to come to this, this’s a pretty good place to wait for it.”

Gamache smiled. “True. But of course, we’re not waiting. We’re taking the fight to them. Or Jérôme is. I’m just the muscle.”

“Of course you are, mon beau,” she said in her most patronizing tone.

Gamache watched her for a moment. “Is Jérôme all right?”

“You mean, is he ready?” asked Thérèse.

“Oui.”

“He won’t let us down. He knows it all depends on him.”

“And on Agent Nichol,” Gamache pointed out.

“Oui.” But it was said without conviction.

Even drowning people, Gamache realized, when tossed a life preserver by Nichol, hesitated. He couldn’t blame them. He did too.

He hadn’t forgotten seeing her in the B and B when she had no business being there. No business, that is, of theirs. But there was clearly another agenda she was following.

No. Armand Gamache had not forgotten that.

After Thérèse Brunel had gone upstairs, Gamache put another log on the fire, made a fresh pot of coffee, and took Henri for a walk.

Henri bounced ahead, trying to catch the snowballs Gamache was throwing to him. It was a perfect winter night. Not too cold. No wind. The snow was still falling, but more gently now. It would stop before midnight, Gamache thought.

He tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and felt the huge flakes hit his tongue. Not too hard. Not too soft.

Just right.

He closed his eyes and felt them hit his nose, his eyelids, his wounded cheek. Like tiny kisses. Like the ones Annie and Daniel used to give him, when they were babies. And the ones he gave them.