The curling stone thundered down the rough ice and hit the rock at the far end with a huge bang that moments later bounced off the hills surrounding Lac Brume. It was a bitterly cold morning, the coldest of the winter so far and the mercury still falling. By midday their flesh would freeze in seconds. The sun, teasing them with light but no warmth, hit the snow and magnified, blinding anyone not wearing dark glasses.

Billy Williams had cleared the curling surface on Lac Brume for them, and now he, Beauvoir, Lemieux and Gamache watched tiny Émilie Longpré straighten up, her breath coming out in jagged puffs.

Not long, thought Gamache. We’ll have to get her in soon before she freezes. Before we all do.

‘Your turn,’ she said to Beauvoir, who’d been watching her with polite attention. Curling was not to be taken seriously. As Beauvoir crouched and stared at the other end of the ice, twenty-five feet away, he could see where this was going. He’d astonish them with his natural ability. Soon he’d be fighting off pleas to join the Canadian Olympic curling team. He’d turn them down, of course, too embarrassed to be associated with such a ridiculous pastime. Though maybe, when he could no longer do any real sports, he’d consider joining the Olympic curling team.

Clara slipped into the claw-foot tub. She was still pissed off at Peter for dumpster diving, but was beginning to feel better. She slid down into the hot scented water, her toes playing with lumps of herbal bath, a Christmas gift from Peter’s mother. She knew she should call to thank her, but that could wait. His mother insisted on calling her Clare and up until this year had given her cooking gifts. Books, pans, an apron once. Clara hated cooking and suspected Peter’s mother knew it.

Clara swished her hands back and forth and let her mind wander to her favorite fantasy. The director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York knocking on her door. His car would have stalled out in the bitterly cold temperatures, and he’d need help.

Clara could see it all. He’d come into the house and she’d make him a cup of tea, but when she turned to give it to him he’d have disappeared. Into her studio. She’d find him there, staring.

No. Weeping.

He’d be weeping at the beauty, the pain, the brilliance of her art.

‘Who did these?’ he’d ask, not bothering to wipe the tears away.

She’d say nothing, just let him realize the great artist was before him, humble and beautiful. He’d declare her the greatest artist of her generation, or any other. The most gifted, astonishing, brilliant artist that ever lived, anywhere, any time.