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Fred came next, trotting as fast as his old legs would take him, and Gracie, frantic to reach them, brought up the rear.

Stephen, with Reine-Marie on one side and Ruth on the other steadying him, said, “A chipmunk just ran into your house.”

“That’s not a chipmunk, you senile old man,” said Ruth. “That’s a badger. My God, you look awful. Are you sure you didn’t die?”

“If I did, and you’re here, this must be Hell.”

Ruth laughed while Rosa, waddling beside them, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Annie and Jean-Guy got Honoré and Idola settled while Roslyn and Daniel had the girls bathed, then changed into their flannel pajamas.

By the time the children came back down, the fire was lit, and the home was filled with the aroma of the cottage pies Gabri and Olivier had brought over.

The old pine table in the kitchen held a huge bouquet of fall flowers and foliage from Myrna. As well as her signature butter tarts.

Drinks were poured as Clara, Ruth, Myrna, Gabri, and Olivier brought everyone up to speed on the events in the village since the Gamaches had been gone.

Honoré fell asleep against Ruth, with Rosa nestled on his lap, while the girls sat with Myrna and Clara.

Gabri held Idola, gently rocking her in his arms.

“I want one,” he said quietly to Olivier.

“You are one,” said Olivier.

Claude Dussault put down their suitcases as Monique drew back the curtains and threw open a window.

Their small stone home in Saint-Paul-de-Vence hadn’t been lived in for months.

Dussault had been busy in Paris with the investigations into GHS. And answering questions into his own behavior.

Finally it was decided that he should, for the good of the Préfecture, step aside. Step down. Step back. Way back.

“Retire, Claude,” the Minister of the Interior had said. “Go plant roses. Enjoy your life.”

It was framed as a reward for decades of service. Though everyone knew it was a punishment. A consequence.

Still, neither Claude nor his wife regretted his actions. Though he did deeply regret that he couldn’t prevent the murder of Alexander Plessner or the attack on Stephen Horowitz.

“Here’s a postcard from Xavier Loiselle,” said Monique, checking the mail their housekeeper had put on the dining table. “He’s accepted the job you found him, but not the one in Paris.”

“Non?” said Claude as he opened more curtains and windows to air out the place.

Their home looked across the rolling hills of the Côte d’Azur, toward the Mediterranean, not quite visible in the distance.

“No. He’s with the Commissariat de Police in Nice. Just a few kilometers from us.”

“Huh. I wonder why.”

Monique looked at her husband and smiled. “I don’t.” She went back to the postcard. “Get this. He’s started saxophone lessons. And sounds like he’s smitten.”

“With the sax?”

Claude had opened the French doors to their stone terrasse and stepped out. He felt the sun on his face and breathed in the fresh air, scented with lemons from the grove just below them.

“With his teacher,” said Monique. “He’d like to bring her by one Sunday. Oh.”

“What is it?”