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And now they sat in the courtroom. The early April, late-morning sun struggling through the grimy windows.

Homer ran his hands, shaking a little, through his short gray hair and then jerked when there was a sound off to their left. A door opening.

He reached out and grabbed Armand’s arm as a passenger on a suddenly doomed aircraft would reach for the person in the next seat.

Gamache turned with him, as did everyone else, and watched as Carl Tracey, in handcuffs, was led in.

Homer rose to his feet and stood stock-still, face immobile, hands clenched at his sides. Eyes fastened on his former son-in-law. Willing Tracey, daring him, to look in his direction.

But Tracey did not.

Homer stared, in a pose so contained, so dignified, so stoic it both amazed Gamache and bruised his heart.

Armand had also gotten to his feet, to stand with Homer. And now the others joined them, as the bailiff announced, “Silence. All rise, please. The Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Caroline Pelletier presiding.”

The judge, in long black robes, entered. With a signal, everyone in the courtroom sat back down. Except Godin.

“Homer,” whispered Gamache, getting back up and touching, slightly tugging, his arm. The man, roused from a sort of trance, sat.

But continued to glare at Tracey.

The rustling stopped as Judge Pelletier got herself organized. And then there was silence. One that went on. And on.

Gamache’s face revealed nothing, but he grew wary. Alert. This protracted pause was unusual.

He knew the judge. She was strict. No-nonsense. Not chummy or clubby. She brooked no informality and no bending of the rules or the interpretation of the law.

She was, in his opinion, a great jurist.

But now she was looking down at her papers, shuffling them a bit, instead of doing what she should have been doing, which was to have the charges read and ask the defendant how he pleads.

It was rote. Routine. Something they went through all the time. Clear, simple.

Tracey would be remanded for trial. Led away. And that would be it.

Except …

Out of the corner of his eye, Gamache could see Beauvoir stirring. The prosecuting attorney was staring intently at the judge.

Beauvoir turned in his seat and mouthed, “What’s up?”

Something was up. Something was wrong.

Judge Caroline Pelletier looked out at the courtroom.

Her heart sank when she saw the women ranged behind Chief Inspector Gamache.

She knew who they were and why they were there.

She intentionally skimmed past the man beside Monsieur Gamache. She assumed it was the victim’s father.

Judge Pelletier did not want to catch his eye.

Instead her gaze moved to the defense table and rested on the man sitting next to his lawyer.

The defendant, Carl Tracey.

Judge Pelletier had been up most of the night, going over and over the file. The evidence.