It reminded Jean-Guy of Three Pines. Of the travelers who came upon the village unexpectedly. They sat in the bistro, having stopped just to relieve themselves and get something to eat. They drank their café au laits and ate their pain au chocolat, and consulted their maps. Never once looking up, and around.

And then they left, climbing out of the lifeboat and back into the ocean. And they swam away. In search of the job, the person, the big house that would save them.

But every now and then someone did look up. And around. And saw that they’d arrived. They’d made it to shore.

Jean-Guy had sat in the bistro, or on the bench, or the porch of the Gamaches’ home with Annie and seen that look on new faces, on a few faces. Not many, but it was unmistakable and unforgettable when it happened. It wasn’t joy, it wasn’t happiness. Not yet. It was relief.

He recognized it because he himself had washed ashore. Here.

Jean-Guy opened his eyes and sat up straight.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache stared out the bistro window at the B and B. Gabri had quietly told him about seeing Delorme and Fraser in the library there, with the Fleming play.

“I’ve never seen anyone read like that before,” he said. “She was so focused and he was like her watchdog. A pit bull.”

“Sean Delorme?” asked Gamache.

“I know,” said Gabri. “That’s why I thought you should know. He wasn’t at all happy that I’d seen them.”

Gamache was keenly aware of the clock on the mantelpiece behind him, ticking down. And Michael Rosenblatt, in the corner. Cornered.

Someone had told the CSIS agents about the significance of the play and Gamache could guess who.

Armand looked out over the village and with a great effort cleared his mind and heard again the voices of the villagers reading the Fleming play. Armand stood very still, in the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes closed.

“Jesus,” he whispered after a couple of minutes. “Could it be?”

*   *   *

Mary Fraser looked up from the script, the blood rushing from her face, then rushing back.

She felt faint, light-headed.

“What is it?” asked Delorme.

“Jesus,” she mumbled. “I’m an idiot.”

She lifted the script off her lap as though offering it to Delorme, but kept it for herself.

“Fleming was here, in this village.”

“We know that,” said Delorme.

“The play is set here,” she said, excited. “We missed it because Three Pines has changed, not a lot, but enough so that it wasn’t immediately recognizable.”

*   *   *

Jean-Guy was reaching for the phone when it rang. Before he could say “Allô,” Gamache said, “The play is set in Three Pines.”