“I was at your solo show, you know, at the Musée d’art contemporain a year or so ago. I thought what you did with portraits was brilliant. You reinvented the form. Reinvigorated it. Gave it depth and a kind of joyful spirit missing in most works today.”

“Thank you,” said Clara.

“You obviously know that art has power,” he said. “It can be freeing, but it can also be a weapon, especially when combined with something equally powerful, like war. Art’s been used to inspire all sorts of things. Public statues of brave soldiers. Paintings of heroic sacrifice. But it’s also been used to put the fear of God into enemies.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Clara asked.

“Because you’ve been kind to me and I can see that not being told anything is making a terrible situation even worse. I can’t show you the gun or talk about it really, and I doubt it would help even if I could, but there is something you might be interested in, might even be able to help with.”

He brought out his iPhone, tapped the screen, then handed it to her.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at the photograph.

“An etching. It’s on the side of the gun.”

Myrna got up and moved to the other side of her friend for a better look. Professor Rosenblatt brushed his finger along the screen and the image changed to show another view of the etching.

Both women stared at the serpent with seven heads, writhing and bucking. A woman on its back. She was even more terrifying than the monster. Hair flowing, back straight, she stared at Clara and Myrna and Professor Rosenblatt. Seeing not just them, but the village behind them and the whirlwind about them. But she herself was calm in the maelstrom. Confident.

A cold drop tapped the top of Clara’s head, startling her. Then another. One fell on the screen, distorting the woman’s face, making it even more grotesque.

“The Whore of Babylon,” said Myrna, and Professor Rosenblatt nodded.

The women looked at each other while Professor Rosenblatt took back the device and slipped it into his pocket, out of the rain. Out of sight.

“From the Book of Revelation,” said Clara.

They were both aware of the reference. And the symbolism.

It was a warning of catastrophe. Deliberate and inescapable. And complete.

“We should get inside,” said Professor Rosenblatt.

The rain was falling more heavily, in great big drops that splattered on the road, and on their backs, and on their heads as they hunched over and ran for it. The trees corkscrewed in the wind and they saw Reine-Marie with Henri racing to get home before the deluge.

The three of them hurried into Myrna’s bookstore. Once inside she got towels to dry themselves off, stoked the woodstove, and poured tea, hot and strong.

Rain now beat against the windows. Rattling them.