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knew André Castonguay, of the Galerie Castonguay, was there and Peter was dying to meet him. He’d also noticed the critics for the New York Times and Le Figaro. He glanced across the room and saw a photographer taking Clara’s picture.
    She looked away for a moment and caught his eye, shrugging. He lifted his wine in salute, and smiled.
    Should he go over and introduce himself to Castonguay? But there was such a crowd around him, Peter didn’t want to look pathetic. Hovering. Better to stay away, as though he didn’t care, didn’t need André Castonguay.
    Peter brought his attention back to the owner of a small gallery, who was explaining they’d love to do a show for Peter, but were all booked.
    Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rings around Castonguay part, and make way for Clara.
    *   *   *
    “You asked how I feel when I see this painting,” said Armand Gamache. The two men were looking at the portrait. “I feel calm. Comforted.”
    François Marois looked at him with amazement.
    “Comforted? But how? Happy maybe that you aren’t so angry yourself? Does her own immense rage make yours more acceptable? What does Madame Morrow call this painting?” Marois removed his glasses and leaned into the description stenciled on the wall.
    Then he stepped back, his face more perplexed than ever.
    “It’s called Still Life. I wonder why.”
    As the art dealer concentrated on the portrait Gamache noticed Olivier across the room. Staring at him. The Chief Inspector smiled a greeting and wasn’t surprised when Olivier turned away.
    He at least had his answer.
    Beside him Marois exhaled. “I see.”
    Gamache turned back to the art dealer. Marois was no longer surprised. His veneer of civility and sophistication had slipped, and a genuine smile broke through.
    “It’s in her eyes, isn’t it.”
    Gamache nodded.
    Then Marois cocked his head to one side, looking not at the portrait but into the crowd. Puzzled. He looked back to the painting, then again into the crowd.
    Gamache followed his gaze, and wasn’t surprised to see it resting on the elderly woman speaking with Jean Guy Beauvoir.
    Ruth Zardo.
    Beauvoir was looking vexed, annoyed, as one so often does around Ruth. But Ruth herself was looking quite pleased.
    “It’s her, isn’t it?” asked Marois, his voice excited and low as though not wanting to let anyone else in on their secret.
    Gamache nodded. “A neighbor of Clara’s in Three Pines.”
    Marois watched Ruth, fascinated. It was as though the painting had come alive. Then he and Gamache both turned back to the portrait.
    Clara had painted her as the forgotten and belligerent Virgin Mary. Worn down by age and rage, by resentments real and manufactured. By friendships soured. By entitlements denied and love withheld. But there was something else. A vague suggestion in those weary eyes. Not even seen really. More a promise. A rumor in the distance.
    Amid all the brush strokes, all the elements, all the color and nuance in the portrait, it came down to one tiny detail. A single white dot.
    In her eyes.
    Clara Morrow had painted the moment despair became hope.
    François Marois stepped back half a pace and nodded gravely.
    “It’s remarkable. Beautiful.” He turned to Gamache then. “Unless, of course, it’s a ruse.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Gamache.
    “Maybe it isn’t hope at all,” said Marois, “but merely a trick of the light.”

THREE
    The next morning Clara rose early. Putting on rubber boots and a sweater over her pajamas, she poured herself a coffee and sat in one of the Adirondack chairs in their back garden.
    The caterers had cleaned up and there was no evidence of the huge barbeque and dance the night before.
    She closed her eyes and could feel the young June sun on her upturned face and could hear birdcalls and the Rivière Bella Bella gurgling past at the end of the garden. Below that was the thrum of bumblebees climbing in and over and around the peonies. Getting