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Armand put out his hand to stop her slicing the bread. “Let’s sit.”

He told her about the ticket to the exhibition that Jean-Guy had found, tucked into the copy of Ruth’s poetry book.

“I think the person who was asking Patricia Godin about the Stone letter left it there.”

“When? Why?”

They were legitimate questions, and she deserved the answers. If he was asking her to go all the way to England, she needed to know why.

“I think he left the ticket in the book when he killed her. I think it was put there for us to find.”

“That’s a lot of thinking, Armand. Are you sure it isn’t guessing?”

He smiled. “Yes, maybe. But if the ticket was left on purpose, we need to follow up. The Paston Treasure, the real one, is at the Norwich Castle Museum. I need you to go there and see what the curators can tell us. And”—he paused—“can you use your maiden name?”

“But if what you’re saying about the ticket is true, wouldn’t we just be doing what the murderer wants?”

She’d hit on his big worry. “Yes. But we can’t ignore it.”

“You can, though, just call the Norwich Castle Museum. Or ask one of your colleagues in the UK to check it out. Why does Reine-Marie Cloutier, not Gamache, have to go?” Then she studied him more closely. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He stared at her for so long, she began to color. Then he picked up her hands and held them, twisting her simple, thin wedding ring. They’d both had to have them resized as their fingers had grown thicker, along with the rest of them.

He smiled, thinking again of the First Nations blessing at their wedding. The priest had been less than happy doing it but had finally agreed to have someone else read it.

And so Stephen Horowitz, Armand’s godfather, had gotten up and recited,

Now you will feel no rain,

for each of you will be shelter for the other.

Now you will feel no cold,

for each of you will be warmth for the other.

Now there is no more loneliness.

There was a cold rain falling. Armand could feel it. And yes, he wanted to shelter Reine-Marie Gamache, née Cloutier, from it.

Armand told her. Almost everything. He didn’t yet tell her about “By the Waters of Babylon,” and the abomination he thought was behind this. Not until he confirmed it.

Reine-Marie listened, taking it in.

“You want me to go away in case someone wants to harm us?”

As usual, she went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Well, yes. Partly. But I really do need information about The Paston Treasure, and I need the visit to be discreet. Unofficial. And in person. You have credentials as a senior archivist and historian.”

“You really expect me to run away?” She was glaring at him now. Rarely in their marriage had they had arguments, and most of those were over family. Their children. But this was different. It was about them as a couple.

“It’s not—” he began before being cut off.

“I’m not finished. I’m a grown woman, Armand, not a child. This’s my home. You’re my husband. I won’t run away, and I sure as hell won’t leave you behind to face whatever this is.”

She pulled her hands from his.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to treat you like a child. And you’re right. I’m your husband, but I’m also a senior Sûreté officer with responsibilities far beyond my own family. I need to focus completely on what’s happening, and the reality is, I can’t do that and worry about you. I know you say I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I’m begging you. Please. Go to England. Find out what you can. We both know there’s no substitute for standing in front of a work of art. Being there in person. The Paston Treasure is obviously central to what’s happening. We need to find out why.” He held her eyes. “Please, Reine-Marie.”