It wasn’t obvious to Gamache. He stepped back from the work, then he saw what she meant. The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in.

‘I do it for Peter,’ she said quietly. At first Gamache thought he might have misheard, but she continued as though speaking to herself. ‘He’s like a dog, like Lucy. He’s very loyal. He puts everything he has into one thing. One interest, one hobby, one friend, one love. I’m his love and it scares the shit out of me.’ She turned now to look into Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes. ‘He’s poured all his love into me. I’m his vessel. But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die? What would he do?’

‘So all your art is exploring that theme?’

‘Mostly it’s about imperfection and impermanence. There’s a crack in everything.’

‘That’s how the light gets in,’ said Gamache. He thought of CC who’d written so much about light and enlightenment and illumination, and thought it came from perfection. But she couldn’t hold a candle to this bright woman beside him.

‘Peter doesn’t get it. Probably never will.’

‘Have you ever painted Ruth?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, frankly, if anyone’s cracked…’ He laughed and Clara joined him.

‘No, and you know why? I’m afraid to. I think she could be my masterpiece, and I’m afraid to try.’

‘In case you can’t do it?’

‘Got it in one. There’s also something scary about Ruth. I’m not sure I want to look that deeply into her.’

‘You will,’ he said, and she believed him. Gamache looked at her silently, his deep brown eyes calm and peaceful. She knew then all the horrible things he’d seen with those eyes. Murdered and mutilated women, children, husbands, wives. He saw violent death every day. She looked down at his hands, large and expressive, and knew then all the horrible things they’d had to do. Handle the bodies of people dead before their time. Fight for his own life and others. And perhaps the worst of all, those fingers had formed loose fists and knocked on the doors of loved ones. To break the news. To break their hearts.

Gamache walked over to the next wall and saw the most astonishing works of art. The vessels in this case were trees. Clara had painted them tall and gourd-shaped, voluptuous and ripe. And melting, as though their own internal heat was too much for them. They were luminous. Literally luminous. The colors were milken, like Venice at dawn, all warm and washed and venerable.