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When Myrna did, Reine-Marie used it to carefully pry up the lining of the inside cover. And there it was, as clear as the day it was written three hundred and fifty years earlier, unfaded by light and time. Unseen. Until now.

Anne Lamarque, 1672.

About the same time The Paston Treasure, the real one, had been painted.

Fiona popped her head back up into the loft and invited Harriet to have lunch with them.

“Sam really wants you to come. I haven’t told him about what we found. I’m waiting for you. We’re in the bistro. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Harriet was torn, though in truth it was not much of a tear. While she wanted to find out more about a book that had belonged to a witch, of all things, the fact was, that was history. And Harriet was looking to the future. Her future. If the immediate days ahead included Sam, well, history could wait. It wasn’t going anywhere. But she was.

“Sounds good.”

The rain was coming down heavier now and had brought with it a chill. It was only early June, and it was possible, rare but possible, to still get snow. The day had the sort of damp chill that settled even into young bones.

After ordering cheeseburgers with melted brie and fries, Harriet and Fiona told Sam about the discovery.

“Are you kidding?”

“No, it’s true.”

“So someone put that painting up there and made it look like the old painting? Then bricked it up with other stuff, including a book on witchcraft? Well, that’s just weird. This’s all your fault,” he said to Harriet.

“Mine?”

“You started it, with the talk of the hidden room.” He was clearly teasing her, and she responded. Laughing. Teasing back.

Sam playfully nudged her, then grabbed a spicy fry off her plate.

“Oh,” said Sam. “Sorry. Better be careful or the big tough cop’ll throw me in jail for stealing. Wouldn’t put it past him. Though that asshole seems to prefer picking on children.”

“Monsieur Gamache?” asked Harriet, surprised.

“You don’t know him like we do,” said Sam, looking at his sister.

“But you’re staying with him, them, aren’t you?” Harriet said to Fiona. She knew in broad strokes, as did everyone else, about Fiona’s past. But she also knew that the Gamaches had all but adopted her. “They’re friends of yours.”

“Of hers, yes,” said Sam. “But not me. He thinks I killed my mother and framed my own sister for it.”

“Sam!” said Fiona.

“Well, he does. He’s obsessed with me. He even told Fiona I wasn’t allowed in their house. How crazy is that? That scar he has? I think he walked into a tree and it’s made him soft in the head.”

He made a circular motion with his finger around his temple.

There was the scraping of a chair behind them and the clearing of a throat.

“I’m sorry.” The minister, Robert Mongeau, was standing by their table. “But what you’re saying is not only unkind, it’s untrue.”

His voice was soft, but his eyes were shrewd as he looked at Sam.

“Armand Gamache is a good man,” Mongeau continued. “A decent man. You could do worse than learn from him.”

“Oh, I’ve learned from him,” said Sam. “You want to know what? I learned not to trust anyone. I learned that cops are cruel. I learned to swallow my feelings, to hide my thoughts. To not tell the truth because it’ll bite you in the ass. I learned that the world is filled with terrible people, and the worst, the very worst, are the ones who should protect us. Who we turn to for help. That’s what I learned from Armand fucking Gamache.”

Sam took a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“He saved you from terrible abuse,” said Mongeau, gently.