After plugging in the lights on the Christmas tree, Thérèse joined her husband.

“Wish I’d thought to bring gifts,” she said, gazing at the tree. “Armand, you look pensive.”

Gamache had followed her gaze and was looking under the tree. Something had twigged, some little thought to do with trees, or Christmas, or presents. Something triggered by what Thérèse just said, but the direct question had chased it away. He furrowed his brow and continued to look at the cheerful Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Bare underneath. Barren of gifts.

“Armand?”

He shook his head and met her gaze. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

Jérôme turned to Gilles. “You must be exhausted.”

Jérôme looked exhausted himself.

Gilles nodded. “Been a while since I climbed a tree.”

“Do you really hear them talk?” Jérôme asked.

The woodsman studied the rotund man across from him. The man who’d stayed at the base of the white pine in the bitter cold, calling encouragement, when he could have left. He nodded.

“What do they say?” Jérôme asked.

“I don’t think you want to know what they’re saying,” said Gilles with a smile. “Besides, mostly I just hear sounds. Whispers. Other stuff.”

The Brunels looked at him, waiting for more. Gamache held his coffee, and listened. He knew the story.

“Have you always been able to hear them?” Thérèse finally asked.

In the corner, Agent Nichol looked up from the puzzle.

Gilles shook his head. “I was a lumberjack. I cut down hundreds of trees with my chain saw. One day, as I cut into an old-growth oak, I heard it cry.”

Silence met the remark. Gilles stared into the fireplace, and the burning wood.

“At first I ignored it. Thought I was hearing things. Then it spread, and I could hear not just my tree, but all the trees crying.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“It was horrible,” he whispered.

“What did you do?” Jérôme asked.

“What could I do? I stopped cutting and I made my team stop.” He looked at his huge, worn hands. “They thought I was mad, of course. I’d have thought the same thing, if I hadn’t heard it myself.”

Gilles looked directly at Jérôme as he spoke.

“I could live in denial for a while, but once I knew, I could never un-know. You know?”

Jérôme nodded. He did know.

“Gilles now makes the most wonderful furniture, from found wood,” said Gamache. “Reine-Marie and I have a couple of pieces.”

Gilles smiled. “Doesn’t pay the bills, though.”

“Speaking of payment—” Gamache began.

Gilles looked at the Chief Inspector. “Don’t say any more.”

“Désolé,” said Gamache. “I shouldn’t have said that much.”

“I was glad to help. I can stay if you’d like. That way I’ll be here if you need help.”

“Thank you,” said Gamache, getting to his feet. “We’ll call if we need you.”

“Well, I’ll come tomorrow morning. You’ll find me in the bistro if you need me.”

With his coat on and his large hand on the doorknob, Gilles looked at the four of them.

“There’s a reason thieves steal at night, you know.”

“Are you calling us thieves?” asked Thérèse with some amusement.

“Aren’t you?”

Armand closed the door and looked at his colleagues.

“We have some decisions to make, mes amis.”

*   *   *

Jérôme Brunel drew the curtains and walked back to his seat by the fire.

It was almost midnight and, while bone-tired, they’d gotten their second, or third, wind. More coffee had been made, another maple log was tossed on the fire, Henri had been walked and now slept curled up by the hearth.

“Bon,” said Gamache, leaning forward and looking into their faces. “What do we do now?”

“We’re not ready to connect,” said Jérôme.

“What you mean is, you’re not ready,” Nichol said. “What’re you waiting for?”

“We won’t get a second chance,” Jérôme snapped. “When I operated on a patient I didn’t think, Well, if I screw up I can always try again. No. One shot, that’s it. We have to make sure we’re prepared.”