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Yes, she thought, looking at Abigail Robinson, they were sick of the plague. And here, among them, was the new carrier.

“The numbers of monkeys washing the potatoes slowly crept up over a period of months—”

“Oh, God,” said Ruth. “Are we still talking about monkeys? Let’s just agree that Peter Tork was the best and move on.”

“Then,” Gilbert continued, “one morning the hundredth monkey, by the scientists’ count, picked up a sweet potato and washed it. And that did it. Something broke. By nightfall all the monkeys on the island were washing their potatoes.”

“Are we sure that’s not a euphemism?” asked Ruth. “They are monkeys after all.”

“Why?” asked Armand, ignoring her, but unable to suppress a smile. “Was that monkey an alpha? A leader?”

“No, nothing special at all about her,” said Gilbert. “Interesting, isn’t it? Why it should suddenly take off like that. What difference that one monkey, the hundredth, made. What’s even more interesting is that they then discovered monkeys on other islands doing the same thing. None of them had washed their sweet potatoes before, but now they all were.”

“Oh, come on,” said Ruth. “That’s not possible. Are you saying the monkeys had ESP? They communicated by, what? Brain waves?”

Rosa snorted.

“I’m not saying it,” said Gilbert. “The anthropologists just reported it. They were as baffled as anyone else. It’s become known as the hundredth monkey effect. Whether it was a hundred monkeys or not, the point was that when a tipping point is reached, when a certain number of monkeys—”

“—or people,” said Stephen.

“—start doing the same thing—”

“—or believing the same thing,” said Stephen.

“Exactly,” said Vincent. “The idea explodes.”

“It takes on a life of its own,” said Armand, glancing at Abigail.

He wondered if, thanks to the event at the gym and the errant gunshots, that hundredth monkey had been reached. He also wondered if that had been the purpose of the shots.

He was deep in thought when Honoré, still wearing his bunny ears and dragging his toboggan, came up to him.

“Papa—” he began, but that was as far as he got.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Explosions filled the room.

Armand pulled Honoré to him, swiftly turning his back on the shots, bending over and enveloping the boy with his body.

Across the room, Jean-Guy grabbed Annie and Idola while Haniya Daoud dropped to her knees, bending over, covering her head with her hands. Making herself as small as possible.

Seconds later the shots stopped and, keeping Honoré behind him, Armand swung round. His sharp eyes scanned the room. Body tense, prepared to act, even as his mind said—

“They’re firecrackers, Armand.” Stephen was looking with concern at his godson. Reaching out a bony hand, he placed it on Armand’s chest. “It’s all right.”

Honoré was looking at his grandfather in shock. His bunny ears askew. His lower lip trembling.

“Oh, no.” Armand dropped to his knee, to be at eye level with the child. “No, no. It’s all right. I just . . .” Just what?

Just thought it was gunfire. But he didn’t say that.

The day before, at the event, he’d immediately recognized the firecrackers, but then he’d been alert and prepared for something to happen. Here, now, he’d been taken by surprise.

He held out his arms, and Honoré walked into them.

Across the room, he saw Jean-Guy looking shaken. Then his gaze went to Haniya Daoud being helped to her feet by Roslyn and Clara, and shaking off their hands.

No one else had reacted to the noise. Just them. Everyone else heard firecrackers. While they’d heard gunshots.