As he watched he saw first Clara’s then Peter’s smile fade until they both looked almost unhappy. Certainly uncomfortable. Clara fidgeted in her chair. It had taken the Morrows less time than it took the S?reté officers that morning to sense something wrong. Not surprising, thought Gamache. The Morrows were artists and presumably more in tune with their feelings.
The carvings emanated delight, joy. But beneath that was something else. A minor key, a dark note.
“What is it?” Gamache asked.
“There’s something wrong with them,” said Clara. “Something’s off.”
“Can you tell me what?”
Peter and Clara continued to stare at the pieces, then looked at each other. Finally they looked at Gamache.
“Sorry,” said Peter. “Sometimes with art it can be subliminal, unintended by the artist even. A proportion slightly off. A color that jars.”
“I can tell you though,” said Clara, “they’re great works of art.”
“How can you tell?” asked Gamache.
“Because they provoke a strong emotion. All great art does.”
Clara considered the carvings again. Was there too much joy? Was that the problem? Was too much beauty and delight and hope disquieting?
She thought not, hoped not. No, it was something else about these works.
“That reminds me,” said Peter. “Don’t you have a meeting with Denis Fortin in a few minutes?”
“Oh, damn, damn, damn,” said Clara, springing up from the table.
“I won’t keep you,” said Gamache, rewrapping the sculptures.
“I have a thought,” she said, joining Gamache at the door. “Monsieur Fortin might know more about sculpture than us. Hard to know less, really. Can I show one to him?”
“It’s a good idea,” said Gamache. “A very good idea. Where’re you meeting him?”
“In the bistro in five minutes.”
Gamache took one of the towels out of his satchel and handed it to Clara.
“This is great,” she said as they walked down the path to the road. “I’ll just tell him I made it.”
“Would you have liked to?”
Clara remembered the blossoming horror in her chest as she’d looked at the carvings.
“No,” she said.