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“The what?” asked Ruth, who’d sensed pain and had gone over to bask in and, with luck, magnify it. “The Oddly Report? What’s that?”

“The one major art journal that’s never reviewed my work. Wouldn’t you know it? It’s the biggest, the most prestigious. Most people just call it Odd.”

“And obviously the smartest,” said Ruth.

“Now I’m glad they’ve ignored me,” said Clara, snapping off the lights.

But, having reexamined the miniatures, she was both heartened and confused. They were, she felt, actually very good. Exceptional, even. Why couldn’t others see what she saw?

She joined her friends, crowded around the kitchen window, while Ruth limped into the living room and stood behind the one person not watching the Bella Bella.

Homer Godin was staring out a window in the other direction. Into the forest.

Ruth’s reflection, like an apparition, hovered in the window just over his shoulder. The rain coursed down both their faces.

“She’s out there somewhere.” Homer’s words fogged the windowpane. He didn’t turn around, but his eyes in the reflection met Ruth’s. “Please. Can you help me?”

In the background, the CBC was broadcasting continuous updates on the flooding.

Reports were coming in from all over Ontario, Québec, the Maritimes, while Vivienne’s father stared at Rosa’s mother.

She reached out and touched his arm.

Homer closed his eyes tight. “Oh, please. Help.”

Armand checked the wall of sandbags.

Floodlights had been set up on either side of the river. One pointing upriver, the other pointing down. So that the villagers could see what was happening. From where he stood, he could also see the lights in Clara’s back garden.

The rain mixed with snow was teeming down, and he hunched deeper into his coat as a gust of wind lashed water into his face.

Every half hour since getting back, he went out to check the height of the river. It was, Ruth had made clear, his assignment. The least he could do.

“You don’t think you can just swan in here and relax by the fire after we spent all day building the goddamned wall?” said Ruth.

Rosa, in her arms, bristled. She didn’t like swans.

“Clearly the Sûreté doesn’t think you’re much use, or you wouldn’t be back here. And don’t get me started on what they’re saying on Twitter, the dumb-asses. Not that I disagree.”

“Ruth!” said Reine-Marie.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“All truth with malice in it,” said Armand.

“But still the truth,” said Ruth.

Reine-Marie walked Armand to the door. “That was from Moby-Dick, wasn’t it?”

Rosa turned and looked at Ruth, who whispered reassuringly, “Dick. Not duck.”

“Yes,” said Armand. “Someone quoted from the book today. Now it’s lodged in my mind.”

“Well, there’s a coincidence,” Ruth said to Clara. “You were talking about it, too.”

“What were you hearing? I was talking about my art, not a book.”

“You were talking about your critics, and the big one that got away,” said Ruth. “Your white whale.”