“Unique.”
“Maybe. But there’s nothing wrong with unique, is there?”
They looked at each other. The girl who was trying so hard to be different, and the boy who was trying so hard to be the same.
“I guess not,” he conceded, without conviction.
“Monsieur Toponymie was surprised by the name,” Amelia admitted. “But there’re other weird ones around. Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, for instance.”
“There’s really a town called that?”
“Oui. Complete with an exclamation mark after each ‘Ha.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“No, but you sound like you are. Ha ha.”
He caught the faintest upturn at the corners of her mouth. It looked like victory.
“Makes the people in Notre-Dame-de-Doleur seem pretty lucky, doesn’t it?” she said. “It could’ve been worse.”
“It was worse. Roof Trusses.”
But he was impressed that she’d pursued it. Not giving up, where the others had. Where he had.
But did it matter? Even if this was where the village once stood, it wasn’t there anymore.
They sat side by side and looked through the slowly fogging windows.
“It’s gone,” he said.
“You’re missing the point. It might be gone, but it was here once. And I bet some people stayed behind. They always do. Let’s go.”
She got out of the car before he could point out that no one had stayed behind. At least, no one living.
And then he understood what Amelia meant. And what Madame Zardo had meant.
They were six feet under. The remaining villagers were remains.
Notre-Dame-de-Doleur, née Roof Trusses, had become a ghost town.
It took them almost an hour, and they were soaked through and chilled to the bone, but finally they found the cemetery. It had been overcome by the forest, especially lush in that area. The gravestones had sunk and toppled over, but most could still be read. Whoever had made them had etched the names deep into the local granite.
Amelia and Nathaniel barely noticed that the sleet had turned to full-on snow until after they’d examined every gravestone they could find.
Then they turned to each other, the huge spring flakes falling between them.
There was near silence, except for the familiar tapping as the snow landed. On them. On the trees. On the ground.
And they noticed another sound now. A plopping. Plunking. Plinking.
A timpani.
The forest was playing music for them.
An hour later, they walked into the bistro and handed two metal buckets to Olivier.
He looked into them warily, then smiled. “Sap buckets. Where’d you get these?” He placed them on the floor and admired them. “You don’t see originals like this much anymore. And they’re full.”
“We emptied most of the other buckets into these two,” Nathaniel explained.
“Seemed a shame to waste the sap,” said Amelia. “They were in the woods by Roof Trusses.”
“You found it?”
They nodded.
Behind Olivier, over by the fire, Ruth lifted her hand, and when the cadets waved at her, she extended her finger in greeting.
“Does she know what that means?” Nathaniel whispered to Olivier.
He laughed. “She sure does. Do you?”
“Well, it means—”
“It means she likes you,” said Olivier.
Jacques and Huifen were also there. They sat at what they now considered their table in the bistro, with hot chocolates and the map, and nodded to the younger cadets.
But Amelia and Nathaniel walked right by them with just a friendly “Bonjour.” And joined Ruth.
“I’d ask you to sit,” said Ruth, “but I don’t want you to.”
Nathaniel lifted his hand and slowly unfolded his finger. He’d never given anyone the finger. Had wanted to, many, many times. But never had. And the first time he flipped someone off, it was an old woman.
It didn’t seem a good reason to be proud of himself, and yet he was. Between the waves of terror.
Rosa, nesting in Ruth’s lap, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
And Ruth laughed.
“Oh, what the hell. Sit down, but don’t order anything.”
They took off their wet jackets and hung them on nails by the fire, then moved their chairs a bit closer to the warmth. Ruth leaned toward the cadets and examined them. Soaked through, chilled to the marrow. But happy.
“You found Roof Trusses,” she said, and they nodded. “But did you find the grave?”
*
Clara and Myrna followed Reine-Marie into the historical society in Saint-Rémy. The secretary there confirmed that there’d been a very successful retrospective on the region’s involvement in the Great War.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where all the material is?” asked Reine-Marie.
“We gave it to you, didn’t we?” said the elderly Québécoise volunteer.
“You gave me a lot of boxes,” Reine-Marie confirmed. “And I’ve been through most of them, but I can’t find a single item relating to the First World War.”
“Are you sure?”
The woman clearly suspected Reine-Marie had either lost or stolen the items. Reine-Marie was feeling slightly defensive when she realized she’d almost certainly given that very same look to researchers who claimed not to have something she believed was in the material they’d been given.
She looked at the courteous, suspicious face. And smiled.
“I know it sounds unbelievable, but I really did look and it really isn’t there.”
“Hmmm.” The woman sat back in her plastic chair. “Now where could it be?”
While she pondered, and Reine-Marie waited, Clara and Myrna passed the time by wandering the permanent exhibit in the large room that opened up behind the volunteer desk. It was filled with clothing, and photographs, and maps.
“Look, this one’s signed,” said Clara. “Turcotte.”
“And dated. 1919.”
It clearly showed Saint-Rémy, a bustling lumber town, and Williamsburg, and it even had Roof Trusses. Not yet rebaptized Notre-Dame-de-Doleur.
But it did not have Three Pines.
“Why?” asked Clara.
But Myrna had no answers. Instead she’d wandered over to a mannequin wearing a lace wedding dress. The mannequin’s waist was about the size of Myrna’s forearm.
“People were smaller then,” she explained to Clara. “Lack of nutrition.”
“Lack of croissants.”
“How did they survive?” asked Myrna, shaking her head.
“The pioneer spirit,” said Clara.
“Got it,” Reine-Marie called from the front desk. “We’re off.”
“Where to?” asked Clara and Myrna, hurrying to catch up.
“The Legion. The show was there, and the secretary thinks the things might’ve been boxed up and put in the basement, and they forgot about them.”
“Ironic,” said Myrna.
*
Commander Gamache spent most of the day in his office at the academy. The door closed, if not actually locked.
But the message was clear.
Stay away.
Beauvoir could not.
For the umpteenth time that day, Jean-Guy Beauvoir stood outside the closed door and stared at it.
“He’s inside?” he asked the Commander’s assistant, sitting at her desk, for the umpteenth time.
“Oui. Has been all day,” said Madame Marcoux.
“What’s he doing?”
She looked at Beauvoir, incredulous and amused. He knew she wouldn’t tell him, even if she could. But he had to ask.
He leaned closer to the door, but couldn’t hear anything.
Now the amusement disappeared from Madame Marcoux’s eyes, to be replaced by disapproval.
“He asked not to be disturbed. Have you found out who killed Professor Leduc?” she asked.
“Not yet, but—”
“Then maybe you should be doing that, don’t you think?”
It wasn’t a question.
Finally, at the end of the day, Jean-Guy returned, hoping to find the assistant gone, but she was still there.
Beauvoir smiled at her, walked right by, tapped. And entered. As she stood and called, “Stop.”
Armand Gamache looked up sharply, his hand instinctively going to the lid of his laptop.
And as he looked at Jean-Guy Beauvoir, he slowly closed it. In a gesture that felt more like a slap to the face than any hand ever could.