“At that.”
He didn’t tell them that shortly before his death, Michel Brébeuf had made a similar gesture. Pointing above the doorway of his room in the academy, to the frame that could be mistaken for a rose, but was not.
Armand put his hand in his pocket and felt the linen and traced the letters with his finger while the others stared above the door of the church at a stylized stained-glass rose they’d seen hundreds of times before.
They looked and they looked.
And finally—
“My God,” whispered Reine-Marie. “It’s not just a rose window. It’s a compass rose.” She turned back to the soldier. “He’s pointing at a compass.”
They walked closer to it, until Armand told them, “It’s really best seen from the front. That’s one of the reasons no one noticed before. We were all too close. I only noticed during the baptism, when I stood here.”
He stepped onto the dais and they joined him.
The bright June sun was streaming in through the hundreds of tiny panes of glass, stained shades of red and pink and green. It hit the old pine floor of the chapel right in the center of the aisle, creating the cheerful, intricate design of a multipetaled rose. With almost unnoticeable spikes.
The four directions.
“But it’s tilted,” said Annie.
“It’s not tilted,” said Jean-Guy. “It’s pointed.”
“It’s indicating a direction,” said Reine-Marie. She looked at Armand. “We should follow.”
“We should. But not today,” said Armand, taking little Honoré in his arms.
*
The next morning a group set out cross-country. Jacques held the old map, the original, while Armand oriented a compass salvaged from the box of items brought home from the war.
The four cadets were there, as were Clara, Myrna, Olivier, and Gabri. Ruth had decided to stay home.
“I think she’s embroidering the name on a pillow,” Nathaniel explained to Clara.
“What did you go with? Rose Cottage or Pit of Despair?”
“Another FINE Mess,” said Amelia, and Clara laughed.
The troop crossed streams and hiked through forests and fields. They paused at Larsen’s Rock, where a cow was once stranded, and rescued.
They climbed over a stone wall and stopped for a drink of water at the intersection of two dirt lanes, where a snowman had celebrated a victory by Le Club de Hockey Canadien.
“Did you notice he’s not just celebrating?” said Huifen, imitating the snowman. “He’s pointing.”
And sure enough, he was. In the direction they were heading.
“You haven’t yet accepted a posting,” Commander Gamache said to Jacques, as they continued their walk through a meadow of tall wildflowers.
“No. I’ve been speaking with Inspector Beauvoir and I think I’ll take some time away before deciding what to do next.”
“Any ideas?”
“The Inspector and I’ve discussed options. I’m thinking of volunteering in Haiti. And you, sir?”
“Me?”
“In your commencement address, you ended by saying it would be an honor to serve with us. What did you mean by that?”
Armand glanced down at the compass, making sure they were heading in the right direction. The others were fanned out behind. Enjoying the flowers and the bright young green of the trees and the buzz of newborn bees.
Gamache turned to Jacques and smiled. “You’ll see.”
Armand looked behind him and, spotting Amelia, he waved her forward.
“Here,” he said. “You take it.”
He handed her the compass.
“But I don’t know how to use it.”
“I’ll teach you.”
And he did. Nathaniel and Huifen joined the other two and Armand fell back to walk beside Reine-Marie, letting the four young people lead.
They’d win no races, getting lost a few times before Amelia got her bearings. But finally they arrived, where they all knew they were headed anyway.
To the pyramid on the map. That was not a pyramid at all, but a roof truss.
Their journey ended in the cemetery, now filled with daylilies and wild rugosa roses.
It was Nathaniel who found it.
He knelt beside a headstone, his arms scratched and bleeding from pulling the roses away.
“Look.”
There, etched into the granite, was another compass rose. And a flag.
“A control,” said Huifen quietly. “For an orienteer to find.”
“The last one,” said Jacques.
It was over. They’d finally found Antony Turcotte.
The young people rubbed the lichen and dirt from the face of the stone.
“That can’t be right,” said Nathaniel, sitting back on his heels.
“What is it?” asked Gamache.
Nathaniel got to his feet, shaking his head, while the other cadets remained on their knees in front of the grave.
“We were wrong,” said Jacques.
“It’s not the right one?” asked Beauvoir.
“Right grave,” said Amelia, also getting to her feet. “Wrong person.”
There, below the rose and the flag, was the name.
Marie Valois
Died September 5, 1919
Loving Mother of Pierre, Joseph, and Norman
Notre-Dame-de-Doleur
“Not the father,” said Reine-Marie, looking down at the stone. “The mother. Our Lady of Grief.”
*
They sat under the Cinzano umbrellas on the bistro’s terrasse, lemonades and beers in front of them.
After returning to Three Pines, the cadets had taken off, back to the records office. With a new name. And a new mission. And when they had found what they needed, they’d returned.
And now they sat, dossiers in front of them, knees jiggling, just waiting for Clara and Myrna to arrive.
*
Myrna knew where to find Clara. Where she always was these days.
In her studio, painting.
“They’re back,” said Myrna.
“Almost finished.”
“Take your time,” Myrna suggested. She wandered into the kitchen, picking up a cookie.
“There,” said Clara, getting off the stool and stepping back. “I think it’s finally done. What do you think?”
Myrna had been dreading this moment, this question.
She turned to look. And the cookie stopped mid-bite.
“But it’s not you at all.”
A woman’s face filled the whole frame. Staring straight ahead. Facing the world. Meeting it head on. She was pierced and tattooed. She was scarred. And she was scared.
“It’s the cadet,” said Myrna. “Amelia.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s more than that,” said Myrna, stepping toward the portrait, then looking at her friend. “It’s the boy, the soldier.”
Clara nodded.
She had painted robust youth. Made frail and vulnerable by fear. By the stupidity and cruelty and decisions of old men.
The boy was afraid to die. And Amelia was afraid to live.
But there was something else in that stare. In those eyes.
Forgiveness.
*
It was hot and the cadets chugged their lemonades.
Huifen looked down at her notebook.
In two weeks she’d be joining the S?reté detachment in Gaspé, as their most junior agent. But for now she had this, her last assignment and first investigation, to wrap up.
“Marie Turcotte married Frederick Valois in 1893. They lived in Montréal and had three sons. Pierre, the oldest, then twins Joseph and Norman.”
Reine-Marie had placed the old photograph on the table beside the map. As Huifen spoke, they looked at Joe and Norm in their uniforms, grinning into the camera and hugging their mother, Clara’s home in the background.
Another photograph lay on Reine-Marie’s lap. She’d come across it in the archives that afternoon, when they’d returned from the gravesite.
“Turcotte?” said Jean-Guy. “Antony Turcotte was her brother? Her father?”
“We’re coming to that,” said Nathaniel.
“According to the Bureau of Records, Monsieur Valois was a mapmaker,” said Amelia, picking up the story. “Not a particularly good one, but serviceable. Good enough to keep food on the table. He made maps mostly for mining companies. Until one day he walked off a cliff.”
“Was he…?” Reine-Marie asked.
“Killed?” said Jacques. “Yes. The next piece of information we found was a record of Marie Valois renting here.”
“My place?” asked Clara.