Jean-Guy grabbed a table inside. All the ones on the terrasse were already taken, but he wanted to be inside anyway. Where he could watch the servers.

He picked up the menu and looked at the image laminated on the cover. It was a simple line drawing of a woman. Dancing.

“What can I get you?” the server asked. Her voice was crisp, business-like, but her eyes had scanned him. Taking in the lean body, the dark hair and eyes. His ease.

Beauvoir was used to this, and used to returning the look. But now he found, while he absorbed the fact of her presence, it meant nothing to him. Far from feeling he’d lost something, he once again was reminded of all he’d found. In Annie.

“A ginger beer, s’il te plaît. Nonalcoholic.”

She brought him the drink.

“How long have you worked here?” He gave her a five-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change.

“Couple of years.”

“You an artist?”

“No. I’m studying architecture. I work here in the summers.”

“Is the owner around?”

“Why? Is something wrong?” She looked concerned.

“No, I just wanted to meet him.” Beauvoir held up the menu. “Interesting design.”

“He did it himself. He’s an artist.”

Beauvoir tried not to show his interest. “And is he here? I’d like to compliment him.”

She looked like she neither believed him, nor cared. “He’s away.”

“Oh. When will he be back?”

“A week, maybe two.”

“Do you know how I can find him?”

She shook her head. “He goes off somewhere down the coast painting every year.”

“In the busy season here?” Beauvoir asked. “Can’t he do it in winter?”

“Would you?”

She had a point.

*   *   *

They strolled through the cobblestone streets of Baie-Saint-Paul, Clara and Chartrand ahead, Myrna and Gamache a few paces behind.

“They’re quite friendly,” said Gamache, gesturing toward the two ahead.

“Yes,” said Myrna. She watched as Chartrand lowered his head so that he could better hear Clara. Clara was gesturing with Peter’s rolled-up paintings.

Talking about art, Myrna thought. And she realized it had been a long time since she’d seen Peter bend down, to better hear Clara. And since she’d heard them talk about art, or anything, in the intimate way Clara and Chartrand were now talking.

“I like him,” said Myrna.

Beside her, Gamache put his hands behind his back, and held them there, rocking slightly as he walked.

“Do you think the tenth muse exists?” he asked.

Now it was Myrna’s turn to walk in silence. Considering.

“I think muses exist,” she said. “I think something happens when an artist or writer or musician meets someone who inspires them.”

“That’s not the same thing, and you know it,” said Gamache. “I’m not talking about a person who inspires an artist. I’m asking you about the tenth muse. You didn’t answer my question.”