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There was nothing normal, nothing comforting, about it.

The long pine table, worn and patinaed by more than a century of gatherings, was ready for them. Cutlery out, linen napkins folded at each place. Glasses waiting for drinks. A cheery arrangement of late fall flowers sat in a vase in the middle of the table.

The stage was set. Armand and Jean-Guy just had to make sure they did not fall off it.

“Smells good, Armand,” said Lauzon.

The use of Gamache’s first name shocked Jean-Guy. Said so casually, as though the two men were friends, equals, and not enemies. He watched to see how hearing his name come out of the mouth of this vile man had affected the Chief. But he seemed not to notice, or perhaps he hadn’t heard.

Armand put on oven mitts covered in hearts and rainbows, a birthday gift from his granddaughters Florence and Zora, and placed the roasting pan on top of the stove.

“Our friend Rocky gave us the secret. She always puts a couple of sprigs of tarragon and half a lemon in the cavity.”

“I’ll remember that,” said the prisoner.

This was, thought Beauvoir, getting weirder and weirder. Clearly he and Armand weren’t the only ones putting on an act. Only Chief Inspector Tardiff seemed to be without a script. Or apparent role. She was staring openly. More than a little lost.

“My wife and I used to host colleagues,” Lauzon continued, “from both sides of the aisle, for Sunday lunch. It was a good way to establish a rapport and put people at their ease.” He paused and held Armand’s eyes. “And perhaps even make them say more than they intended, or was wise.” The former politician looked down at the handcuffs. “Tough to make gravy like this.”

“Désolé.” Armand turned to Jean-Guy. “Would you please take the restraints off our guest?”

As Lauzon held his hands out, he dropped his eyes to the angry red scars around Armand’s wrists, from the zip ties.

“How often in Parliament I’ve felt unnecessarily restrained from being able to pass legislation, especially on the environment. But I had no idea what real restraint felt like.”

He smiled slightly and rubbed his wrists. Somehow that smile, the action, those words, the surprisingly wistful tone snuck past Armand’s defenses and touched him. It was so unexpected, he wondered if the monthslong battle with the swarms of cicadas hadn’t drained him. Lowered his defenses.

If so, he’d better rebuild them fast. He could not allow this contemptable man, Black Wolf or not, into his head, and certainly nowhere near his heart. Bad enough he was in his home.

While the roast chicken rested under a tent of foil, Jean-Guy was put to work mashing the potatoes and Evelyn was asked to watch the Brussels sprouts, roasting in the oven amid sliced garlic and Parmesan and small dabs of red currant jelly.

“And maybe stir them a couple of times,” Armand suggested.

Raising her brows and picking up a wooden spoon, she bent over and looked through the oven window, her reflection superimposed on the caramelizing Brussels sprouts.

Really? What is happening?

Lauzon was making gravy, using the potato water and pan drippings and flour, while Armand opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Once done, he picked up a sharp carving knife and balanced it in his open palm. Then he closed his fingers around the handle.

Only Jean-Guy noticed the momentary white knuckles and thinning lips, and the sound, low and deep in his throat. Almost a snarl.

Armand claimed, believed, that Dom Philippe, the murdered Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, had been the Grey Wolf. The benign presence. The one you wanted on your side. The one who could defeat the other. But anyone who knew the fable knew that the Grey Wolf was standing in the kitchen, clutching a carving knife. Struggling to feed decency and not rage.

The familiar scents, the comfortable room, the jubilant sunshine streaming in only seemed to heighten the contrast between the physical world and the private thoughts. Between the apparent calm of the guests for Sunday lunch, and the inner turmoil.

“Jericho?” said Clara. “I know it well. I go down at least once a year. It’s where Snowflake Bentley lived.”

“Oh, of course,” said Reine-Marie. She metaphorically slapped her forehead. “That’s why it sounded familiar.”

“Who the hell was Snowflake Bentley?” demanded Ruth. She was into her second helping of the pasta traybake that Myrna had brought over, with roast tomatoes, the ubiquitous eggplant, and melted cheese.

Clara tore off another hunk of the crispy baguette. “Snowflake Bentley? You don’t know him?”

“Would I ask if I did? Okay, never mind. I’m already bored.”

“We should go down,” said Clara. “I haven’t been yet this year, and the museum shuts soon for the winter.”

“Ironic, for a place celebrating a man named Snowflake,” said Myrna. “But I’m game. When?”