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“Chief Inspector?” said the critic.

“Armand.”

“Of the Sûreté? Sounds like some old Nelson Eddy/Jeanette MacDonald movie. Gamache of the Sûreté.”

Armand smiled. “That was the Mounties. No horse, I’m afraid.”

“And yet quite a lot of horseshit,” said Ruth, joining them.

Dominica’s eyes flickered to the duck in Ruth’s arms, then back up to the elderly woman’s face. Choosing to ignore the fowl, she said, “I didn’t mention before that I like your poetry.”

“Thank you. Her name’s Rosa.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, said Rosa.

“Poetry,” Reine-Marie whispered in Ruth’s ear. “Not poultry.”

“Oh.” She turned back to Dominica, looking her up and down. “Are you related to the maid?”

Reine-Marie dropped her eyes, and Armand gazed around as though he’d never met the old woman before.

“Maid?” asked Dominica.

When Ruth began to point toward Myrna, who was talking with Clara by the fireplace, Reine-Marie jumped in. “How could you possibly know about Nelson Eddy?”

“I love classic cinema,” explained Dominica. “When the art form was just beginning.”

“And you’d consider Rose-Marie a classic?” asked Ruth. “I suspected you had no taste. That’s why I thought you’d like Clara’s art.”

Dominica laughed. “But I like your poetry. And your poultry.”

“An aberration. The exception that proves the rule.”

“Not a rule,” the critic pointed out. “An opinion.”

Dominica Oddly hadn’t yet decided if the people who chose to live in this small Canadian hamlet were wonderful and creative or simply inbred.

“Beer?” asked Gabri, bringing a bottle over to Dominica. She’d left the group and was looking around.

“Thank you. Is the duck okay? She looks strange.”

“Oh, the duck’s okay. It’s the fuck who’s strange.”

Dominica laughed. “But a great poet.”

“And Clara’s a great artist.”

To that, Dominica just raised her bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”

Across the room, Clara was trying to keep the smile on her face and the bile down as she watched the young woman, who’d just destroyed her career and was now drinking her beer and eating her food. She wouldn’t be surprised if she found this young woman sleeping in her bed.

The wolf, not at her door but in her home. In her life. And tearing it apart. With a smile.

Jean-Guy and Isabelle joined them in time for dinner.

Jean-Guy had spied Ruth and began walking toward her when Armand headed him off.

“Don’t.”