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The last time she’d seen him was very different. She and her team from homicide had arrived in Three Pines, afraid of what they’d find.

What Inspector Lacoste found was Agent Choquet working on a badly wounded young man in the living room, another woman kneeling beside him, holding his hand and rocking back and forth. Whispering that it would be all right.

Chief Inspector Gamache was holding a bandage to Beauvoir’s bleeding head.

And a wild woman was standing in the middle of the room, clutching a tree branch.

“Oh, Isabelle. Thank God,” said Reine-Marie.

Lacoste scanned the room, making sure there were no threats, then turned to Gamache.

“Ambulances are on their way, patron,” said Lacoste. “Are you all right?”

Armand didn’t know how to answer that, so he said nothing. Isabelle understood. She went over and bent down beside the wounded man.

“I shot him,” whispered Choquet, trying to stem the bleeding.

Lacoste took her bloody hand and adjusted the pressure. “You were told to wait for backup.”

“Sorry. Next time.”

As Lacoste got up, she whispered, “Well done, Agent Choquet.”

Isabelle Lacoste had taken charge of the situation. Issuing orders, coordinating the collection of evidence. Placing the victims and witnesses in the kitchen, away from the shambles.

“John Fleming’s in the basement, Isabelle,” Gamache said to her quietly. “I killed him.”

It was a simple statement of fact that gave the man no pleasure. At all.

She’d gone into the basement and found the body. John Fleming was clearly dead. Still, as she’d approached him, Isabelle had slowed, then stopped.

The eyes, open, glassy, glaring, seemed to be inviting her closer. Trying to create an intimacy, into which he could place all the horrors of the world.

She did not back away. She did not blink. Isabelle Lacoste did the one thing she knew was a defense against this monster. Not prayer. Not singing.

Isabelle Lacoste smiled.

Then she stepped forward and closed those lunatic eyes for good.

Days later, she drove up to the lake house to debrief Beauvoir, Madame Gamache, and the Chief Inspector again. They’d been through it once, that night. But often the second time through was more useful, when the shock wore off.

She was just about to ask the first question when the Chief began to talk. His hands behind his back, his face forward, Armand told her what had happened. It felt a bit like he was relating a Grimms’ Tale, or a fable de La Fontaine.

A tale of demons and witches, hidden rooms and unexpected saviors.

Of Fate both cruel and kind.

Armand left his friends on the bistro terrasse and walked past their home, past the church. Up the hill, to greet the young woman he’d invited down.

Amelia Choquet had parked the Sûreté vehicle and was now standing on the grass verge, looking out past the village, to the forests and hills. To the endless expanse of what seemed wilderness but was not.

To find the wilderness, they had to look inward, not outward.

Amelia knew that. Had learned that on the streets. Here, now, she felt only peace.

“I’m glad you came,” said Armand.

They sat side by side on the bench in silence, warmed by the July sun.