“Professor,” said Gamache, with a cordial nod. “I’m not sure you’ve met my wife, Reine-Marie.”

“Madame,” said the professor.

“We’ve been discussing taking courses at either McGill or the Université de Montréal,” said Armand. “I know Reine-Marie has been anxious to talk with you about that.”

“Oh, really?” Rosenblatt turned to her.

Taking her cue, Reine-Marie started chatting with Rosenblatt about McGill, while Armand walked over to Jean-Guy.

“Interesting group,” said Jean-Guy, surveying the gathering. “Was it your idea to invite everyone?”

“Not at all,” said Armand. “I’m as surprised as you.”

“That’s too bad,” said Clara, returning from the phone call.

“What is?” asked Jean-Guy.

“I invited Antoinette and Brian, but Brian’s in Montréal at a meeting of the Geological Survey and she just called to ask for a rain check. I think she wants a quiet evening to herself. Les Filles de Caleb is on, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Armand. “We’re taping it. For Reine-Marie, of course.”

“Of course,” said Clara. “I’m taping it too.”

It was a repeat of the old Québécois drama that had gripped the nation years ago, and was even more of a hit now. Few strayed far from the television on nights it was on.

“It’s been a difficult time for Antoinette,” said Armand. “Is she still getting grief from members of her play group?”

“I don’t think they call it a play group,” said Clara, laughing. “But the answer is yes. They’re still pissed at her for choosing the Fleming play without telling them. A lot of bad blood there now, I’m afraid.”

John Fleming, Gamache knew, had a habit of creating blood, most of it very bad.

“A shame she didn’t come tonight. This is nice,” he said, looking around the gathering. “Been a while.”

“I haven’t been in the mood for entertaining,” said Clara.

“So what brought this on?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Seeing the Lepages this afternoon,” said Clara. “They were so sad, and so alone. It made me miss this.”

She looked around her living room. The hubbub of conversation had increased, as guests mingled and chatted. Isabelle Lacoste had arrived and was offering around a platter of cheeses. But instead of crackers the cheese sat on top of thin slices of apple. It was actually, Clara had to admit, inspired and delicious.

“I came home and decided I’d had enough of my own grief. I wanted to move on.”

“Is such a thing a choice?” asked Gamache.

“In a way,” said Clara. “I think I might’ve gotten stuck. I haven’t even been able to paint. Nothing.” She waved toward her studio. “But after seeing the size of their loss, mine suddenly seemed manageable. And this”—she looked around the room—“is how I decided to manage it. With friends. I called up Evie and invited them, but she said they couldn’t.”