Peter’s trip to Toronto, and the art college. His meeting with Professor Massey.

And then taking off for Charlevoix. Baie-Saint-Paul. In search, it seemed, of the muse. The tenth muse. The untamed muse, who could both heal and kill. And her champion. No Man.

This the four of them went over and over. And over.

But it still wasn’t clear what they’d missed, if anything.

“Well,” said Clara. “We’ll have our answer tomorrow. The ship gets in to Tabaquen in the morning.”

She held out her hand, and from it dangled a large key.

“What’s that?” asked Beauvoir.

“The key to our cabin,” said Myrna.

“Is this a proposal?” he asked.

“We haven’t been at sea that long,” said Myrna, and heard a grunt of laughter from Gamache. “It’s an invitation. Our sofa turns into a bed.”

“But you’ll be using it,” Beauvoir pointed out.

“No, we’ll be in the bedroom.”

“Bedroom?”

“I believe they call it a stateroom,” said Myrna. “Feel free to use our shower, or the tub.”

“For a metaphoric bath?” Gamache asked Clara, who reddened.

Beauvoir’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed the key from her hand.

“And help yourself to what’s in the fridge,” said Myrna as they left, zigzagging back across the observation deck.

Beauvoir put the key in his pocket, next to the hare’s foot.

They talked a little longer, going back over some of the details. But still couldn’t see their way clear.

Gamache stood up. “I’m tired, and Clara’s right. We’ll arrive at the answer tomorrow.”

The two men got to the Captain’s Suite, having stopped at the Admiral’s to check on Chartrand and get their toiletries and clean clothing.

On opening the door to the Captain’s Suite, Beauvoir stopped.

“What is it?” Gamache asked. “Can you fit in?”

“The fleet could fit in,” said Beauvoir, and stepped aside so that the Chief could see.

The kitchen. The polished dining table. The picture windows. The armchairs. The closed mahogany door leading, presumably, to the stateroom where Clara and Myrna slept.

And then there was the sofa, opened to a large bed and made up with clean, crisp linens and pillows and a duvet.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” whispered Beauvoir. “I’d like to marry this room.”

“Not while I’m in it,” said Gamache, brushing past him.

They took turns taking hot, sloshing baths, not trusting themselves to keep their footing in the shower. When Beauvoir emerged, wearing one of the fluffy bathrobes, he found Gamache gripping the edge of the dining table, examining one of Peter’s paintings.

“The lips,” said Beauvoir, joining him. They frowned up at the men and the men frowned down at them.

After traveling on this same waterway for two days, Beauvoir could appreciate even more what Peter had been trying to capture.