He sat on a threadbare armchair, part of the stage set. The few times he’d actually been on a stage, it had surprised him how very shabby everything was. From a distance, from the audience, the actors could look like kings and queens, titans of business. But close up? The costumes were cheap, worn, often smelly. Their castles were falling apart.

The illusion shattered. That was the price of looking at things too closely.

As an investigator he’d spent his career examining things, examining people. Looking behind the façade, at what was really there. The worn and shabby and threadbare interiors.

But sometimes, sometimes, when he pulled back the illusion, what he found was something shiny, bright, far better than the stage set.

He looked at Antoinette. Middle-aged, clinging on perhaps a little too tightly to the illusion of youth. Her hair was dyed purple, her clothes could have been considered bohemian, had they not been so studied.

He genuinely liked Antoinette and admired her. Admired her even now, for standing up for what she believed in. And, after all, she didn’t know the full truth about Fleming.

“I’m here because we’re friends,” he said. “I don’t want this disagreement to come between us.”

“You didn’t even read the play, Armand,” Antoinette said, the anger draining from her voice. “How can you condemn it?”

“Perhaps the life of the writer shouldn’t matter,” he said, his own voice soft now. “But it does to me. In this case.”

“I’m not going to pull the play,” she said. “It might be crap now, with Brian in the lead—”

“Hey,” said Brian.

“I’m sorry, you’ll be fine, but you don’t have much time to rehearse, and when you came in late for rehearsal today I thought you’d also—”

“I’d never quit,” said Brian, looking shocked and upset. “How could you even think such a thing?”

Gamache wondered if Antoinette knew how lucky she was to have such a loyal partner. He also wondered about Brian, who could be so morally blinded by love.

“Honestly, Armand,” she said. “You’re behaving as though our very survival is at stake. It’s just a play.”

“If it’s just a play, then cancel it,” he said, and they were back where they’d started.

She stared at him. He stared at her. And Brian just looked unhappy.

“How did you come to have the Fleming play?” Gamache asked.

“I told you, Brian found it among my uncle’s papers,” she said.

“What was your uncle’s name?”

“Guillaume Couture.”

“Was he a theater director? An actor?” Armand asked.

“Not at all. As far as I know he never went to the theater. He built bridges. Little ones. Overpasses really. He was a quiet, gentle man.”

“Then why did he have the play? Did he know Fleming?”