‘It’s not that you got it from the dump, but that you lied about it,’ Clara lied. It was that he’d gotten the goddamned thing from the dump. Once again, he’d given her garbage for Christmas. It hadn’t mattered when they couldn’t afford anything else. She’d make him something, because she was good with her hands, and he’d dumpster dive, because he wasn’t, then they’d both pretend to like their gifts.

But this was different. They could afford it now, and still he’d chosen to shop at the dump.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, knowing it wasn’t enough but not knowing what was.

‘Forget it,’ she said.

He was smart enough to know that wouldn’t be very smart.

Gamache sat beside Beauvoir. He’d made up another hot water bottle, though the fever had broken. Gamache could only find one hot water bottle and wondered what had happened to the other. Now he sat, sometimes watching Jean Guy and sometimes reading the heavy book in his lap.

He’d read Isaiah just to be sure then turned to the Psalms. He’d called their parish priest when he’d gotten back to the B. & B. and Father Néron had given him the reference.

‘It was good to see you Christmas Eve, Armand,’ Father Néron had said. Gamache waited for it. ‘And meet your granddaughter. She looks like Reine-Marie, lucky child.’ Gamache waited. ‘It’s so good to see a family together. Too bad you’ll be in Hell and won’t be able to spend eternity with them.’ Ta da.

‘Fortunately, mon père, they’ll be in Hell too.’

Père Néron had laughed. ‘Suppose I’m right and you’re endangering your mortal soul by not coming to church every week?’ he asked.

‘Then I’ll miss your cheerful company for eternity, Marcel.’

‘What can I do for you?’

Gamache had told him.

‘Not Isaiah. That’s Psalm 46. Not sure which verse. One of my favorites, actually, but not very popular with the bosses.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, think about it, Armand. If all anyone had to do to get close to God was be still they wouldn’t need me.’

‘Suppose the passage is right?’ Gamache asked.

‘Then you and I will meet for eternity after all. I hope it is.’

Now Gamache read the psalm, looking at Beauvoir every now and then over his half-moon glasses. Why had Mother lied and told him it was from Isaiah? She must have known the truth. And even more compelling, why had she misquoted the passage and written on the wall Be Calm, and know that I am God?

‘Am I that sick?’

Gamache looked up and saw Beauvoir staring at him, clear-eyed and smiling.

‘Your body isn’t, young man. It’s your soul I lament.’