“No,” said Clara. “That’s the weird thing. She refuses to cancel it. I think Brian is now playing all the parts. She just can’t accept reality.”

“Seems to be going around,” said Armand.

“You mean Laurent?” asked Olivier. “Now there was someone whose understanding of reality was fluid.”

“Remember when he claimed there was a dinosaur in the pond?” said Gabri, laughing.

“He almost had you convinced,” said Olivier.

“Or the time he saw the three pines walking around?” asked Myrna.

“They walk all the time,” said Ruth, shoving in between Gabri and Olivier.

“Fueled by gin,” said Clara. “Funny how that works.”

“Speaking of which, there’s no gin. Someone must’ve drunk it all. Get some more,” she said to Myrna.

“Get your own—”

“Church,” Clara interrupted Myrna.

“We’re at a child’s funeral,” Olivier said to Ruth. “There is no alcohol.”

“If there ever was an occasion to drink, this is it,” said Ruth.

She was holding Rosa in much the same way Evelyn Lepage had held Laurent. To her chest. Protectively.

“He was a strange little kid,” said Ruth. “I liked him.”

And there was Laurent Lepage’s real eulogy. Stories of his stories. Of the funny little kid with the stick, causing havoc. Creating chaos and monsters and aliens and guns and bombs and walking trees.

That was the boy they were burying.

“How many times did we look out at the village green and see Laurent hiding behind the bench, firing his ‘rifle’ at invaders,” asked Clara as they left the church and wandered down the dirt road into the village.

“Lobbing pine cones like they were grenades,” said Gabri.

“Bambambam.” Olivier held an imaginary machine gun and made the sounds they’d heard as Laurent engaged the enemy.

Clara tossed an imaginary grenade. “Brrrrccch.” As it exploded.

“He was always prepared to defend the village,” said Reine-Marie.

“He was,” said Olivier.

Gamache remembered the pine cone seeds found in Laurent’s pocket. He’d been on a mission to save the world. Armed to the teeth. When he died.

“I actually thought his death was no accident,” Armand confided to Myrna as the others walked ahead, across the village green. “I thought it might be murder.”

Myrna stopped and looked at him.

“Really? Why?”

They sat on the bench in the afternoon sun.

“I’m wondering the same thing. Is it possible I’ve been around murder so long I see it when it doesn’t exist?”

“Creating monsters,” said Myrna. “Like Laurent.”

“Yes. Jean-Guy thinks part of me wanted it to be murder. To amuse myself.”

“I’m sure he didn’t put it that way.”

“No. It’s how I’m putting it.”

“And how are you answering that question?”

“I suppose there might be some truth in it. Not that I’m bored, and certainly not that homicide amuses me. It revolts me. But…”

“Go on.”