“Oh, Lord, shit, shit, shit. Oh, Jesus.”

“We’re up now,” said Reine-Marie in a soothing voice. “So you can relax, you old crone.”

Ruth turned piercing eyes on her. And laughed. As they broke through the cloud, Ruth’s talon-grip released.

“People weren’t meant to fly,” said Ruth, over the roar of the engines.

“But planes are, and as luck would have it, we’re in one. Now, we have an hour before landing, tell me more about your time in that Turkish prison. I take it you were a guard, not an inmate.”

Ruth laughed again, and color returned to her face. So afraid to fly, Ruth had come with Reine-Marie anyway. To keep her company. And, Reine-Marie suspected, to help find Peter.

Ruth gabbed away, nervous nonsense, while Reine-Marie placed her hand over Ruth’s, and kept it there for the entire flight of lunacy.

*   *   *

“Have you shown Chartrand those paintings?”

Gamache gestured toward the rolled-up canvases Clara carried with her all the time now, like a divining rod.

“No. I thought about it, but Peter could’ve shown them to him and chose not to. If he didn’t, then I don’t think I should.” She looked at Gamache closely. “Why? Do you think I should?”

Gamache thought about it. “I don’t know. I can’t honestly see how it could matter. I suppose I’m just curious.”

“About what?”

“About what Chartrand would make of them,” he admitted. “Aren’t you?”

“Curious isn’t the word,” said Clara with a grin. “More like afraid.”

“You think they’re that bad?”

“I think they’re strange.”

“And is that so bad?” he asked.

She thought about his question, bouncing the canvases in her hand. “I’m afraid people will see these and think Peter’s nuts.”

Gamache opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Go on,” she said. “Say what’s on your mind. Peter is nuts.”

“No,” he said. “No. I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Then what were you going to say?”

Far from feeling defensive, Clara found she really did want to know.

“Warrior Uteruses,” he said.

Clara stared at him. She could have spent the rest of her life guessing what Armand would say, and she’d never have come up with those two words.

“Warrior Uteruses?” she repeated. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“You did a series of sculptures a few years ago,” he reminded her. “They were uteruses, all different sizes. You decorated them with feathers and leather and fancy soaps and sticks and leaves and lace and all sorts of things. And you put them into an art show.”

“Yes,” Clara laughed. “Oddly enough I still have them all. I considered giving one to Peter’s mother as a Christmas present, but chickened out.” She laughed. “I guess while I can sculpt them, I don’t actually have one. A warrior uterus, I mean.”