‘So that a bunch of witches would celebrate? Come on,’ said Ruth with a snort. ‘Aren’t you making yourselves out to be more important than you are?’
‘Now, absolutely. The church hasn’t been interested in us for hundreds of years, except maybe as firewood, as you know.’
‘What do you mean? As I know?’
‘You’ve written about the old beliefs. Many times. It runs through your poems.’
‘You’re reading too much into them, Joan of Arc,’ said Ruth.
‘I was hanged for living alone,
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
and breasts.
Whenever there’s talk of demons
these come in handy.’
Jeanne quoted the poem, searching Ruth’s face.
‘Are you saying Ruth’s a witch?’ asked Gabri.
Jeanne tore her attention from the wizened old woman sitting bolt upright.
‘In the Wiccan beliefs most old women are the keepers of wisdom, of the medicines, of the stories. They’re the crones.’
‘Well, she does practice bitchcraft. Does that count?’ Gabri asked to roars of laughter and even Jeanne smiled.
‘There was a time when most people were pagans and celebrated the old ways. Yule and Eostar. The spring equinox. Easter. You do rituals?’ Jeanne asked Myrna.
‘Some. We celebrate the solstice and do some smudging. It’s a kind of hodgepodge of native and pagan beliefs.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Ruth. ‘I went to a couple. Ended up stinking of sage smoke for two days. People in the pharmacy thought I’d smoked up.’
‘Sometimes the magic works,’ said Myrna to Clara with a laugh.
‘Dinner,’ Peter called from the kitchen. When they arrived he’d put the casseroles and stews and vegetables on the island along with plates. Clara and Beauvoir went around lighting the candles scattered throughout the kitchen so that by the time they’d taken their places it was like sitting in a darkened planetarium, filled with points of light.
Their plates piled high with lamb stew and shepherd’s pie and fresh bread and smooth, fluffy mashed potatoes and baby beans, they tucked in, talking about gardens and the storm, about the Anglican Church Women and the condition of the roads.
‘I called Hazel to see if they could come tonight, but she said no,’ said Clara.
‘She almost always says no,’ said Myrna.
‘Is that true?’ asked Olivier. ‘I never noticed that.’
‘Neither had I,’ said Clara, helping herself to another spoonful of potatoes. ‘But now that I think of it, we wanted to take over dinners after Madeleine died but she wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Some people are like that,’ said Myrna. ‘Always happy to help others, but they have difficulty accepting it. Too bad really. She must be having a horrible time. Can’t imagine the pain she’s in.’
‘What excuse did she give for not coming tonight?’ Olivier asked.
‘Said Sophie’d sprained her ankle,’ said Clara with a scowl. There were guffaws around the table. She turned to Gamache to explain. ‘Sophie’s always sick or injured in some way, at least as long as I’ve known her.’
Gamache turned to Myrna. ‘What’s your thinking about that?’
‘Sophie? Easy. Attention-seeking. Jealous of Mom and Madeleine—’ She stopped, realizing what she was saying.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gamache. ‘We’d already figured that one out. Sophie’s also lost weight recently.’
‘Tons,’ said Gabri. ‘But she bobs up and down. Lost weight a few years ago too but put it all back.’
‘Does it run in the family?’ asked Gamache. ‘Does Hazel’s weight change?’
Again they looked at each other, except Ruth who stole a piece of bread from Olivier’s plate.
‘Hazel’s been the same as long as I remember,’ said Clara.
Gamache nodded and sipped his wine. ‘Marvelous dinner, Peter. Thank you.’ He raised his glass to Peter, who acknowledged the compliment.
‘I thought for sure we’d be having game hens,’ said Olivier to Peter. ‘Isn’t that your party dish this year?’
‘But you aren’t guests,’ said Peter. ‘We only do that for real people.’
‘I think you’ve been hanging around Ruth,’ said Olivier.
‘Actually, we were going to make Rock Cornish game hens but we thought with your babies, you might not want to eat them,’ Peter said to Ruth.
‘What do you mean?’ Ruth seemed genuinely perplexed and Gamache wondered whether she’d forgotten her ducklings weren’t human, weren’t her actual babies.
‘So you wouldn’t mind if we ate poultry?’ Peter asked. ‘Or even Brume Lake duck? We were going to barbecue some confit du canard.’
‘Rosa and Lilium aren’t chickens and they aren’t ducks,’ said Ruth.
‘They aren’t?’ said Clara. ‘What are they?’
‘I think they’re flying monkeys,’ said Gabri to Olivier, who snorted.
‘They’re Canada geese.’
‘Are you sure? They look pretty small, especially that Lilium,’ said Peter.
Everyone was hushed and if Clara had been closer she would have kicked him. Instead she kicked Beauvoir. Another example, he thought, of suppressed anglo rage. Can’t trust them, can’t kick them out, or back.
‘So? She’s always been small,’ said Ruth. ‘When they hatched she almost didn’t make it out of her shell. Rosa was already out and squawking, but I could see Lilium thrashing back and forth, her wings trying to crack the shell.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Jeanne.