Beauvoir had sprinted the last few yards. He looked, then wordlessly turned and ran back up the hill, where he could call for help.

“Peter, Peter,” Clara shouted.

Her bloody hands found his, and held them, while Gamache tried to stanch the wound.

Peter’s eyes were wide and filled with panic. His lips were turning pale. Paler. As was his face.

“Peter,” Clara whispered, staring into his eyes.

“Clara,” he sighed. “I’m so sorry…”

“Shhhh. Shhhh. Help is coming.”

“I wanted to come home,” he said, gripping her hands. “I wrote…”

“Shhh,” she said, and saw his eyes flicker.

She bent low, until she was down beside him, whispering in his ear, looking into his eyes. “You’re at the top of the hill in Three Pines,” she spoke softly. “Can you see the village green? Can you smell the forest? The grass?”

He nodded slightly, his eyes softening.

“You’re walking down the hill now. There’s Ruth. And Rosa.”

“Rosa,” Peter whispered. “She came home?”

“She came home, to Ruth. Like you’ve come home. To me. There’s Olivier and Gabri, waving to you from the bistro. But don’t go in yet, Peter. You see our home?”

Peter’s eyes had a faraway look, the panic gone.

“Come up the walkway, Peter. Come into the garden. Sit beside me in our chairs. I’ve poured you a beer. I’m holding your hand. You can smell the roses. And the lilies.”

“Clara?” said Gamache gently.

“You can see the woods, and hear the Rivière Bella Bella,” said Clara, her voice faltering.

Her warm face was touching his cold cheek, as she whispered, “You’re home.”

Chapter 41

FORTY-ONE

They held Peter Morrow’s funeral in Three Pines. Friends and family gathered in St. Thomas’s chapel and sang, and sobbed, and grieved and celebrated.

Clara tried to give the eulogy, but couldn’t speak. Her words stuck at the lump in her throat. And so Myrna took over, holding her hand while Clara stood beside her.

And then they sang some more. And finally they took Peter’s ashes around the village, sprinkling a bit here. A bit there. Some in the river, some by the bistro, some beneath the three great pines.

The rest were spread in Peter and Clara’s garden. So that Peter would bloom each spring, in the roses and lilies and lavender. And the gnarled old lilac.

Marcel Chartrand had come to the funeral. And stood at the back. But had left before the reception.

“It’s a long way home,” he explained to Gamache, when asked why he was leaving so soon.

“Perhaps not,” said Armand. He was standing with Jean-Guy and Henri, while Reine-Marie and Annie were across the hall, with Clara.

“Come back again, in a year or so,” Gamache suggested. “It would be nice to see you.”

Chartrand shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m a bad memory.”