Reine-Marie always thought of her as “young Isabelle.” Not, she hoped, in a patronizing, or matronizing, way, but because she’d been so young when Armand had found and recruited and trained her.

But now there were lines in Isabelle’s face, and gray just starting in her hair. It seemed to happen overnight. They’d met her fiancé, and been at her wedding, and attended the baptism of her two babies. She’d been young Agent Lacoste for so long, and now, suddenly it seemed, she was Chief Inspector Lacoste.

And Armand was retired. Early retirement, certainly, but retirement.

Reine-Marie glanced out the window again. They were in their amber years.

Or perhaps not.

Reine-Marie shifted her attention to Armand, sitting back in his wing chair in the bistro, sipping his microbrewery beer. Relaxed, comfortable, amused. His six-foot frame had filled out. He wasn’t heavy, but he was solid. The pillar in the storm.

But there was no storm, Reine-Marie reminded herself. They could, finally, stop being pillars and just be people. Armand and Reine-Marie. Two more villagers. That was all. That was enough.

For her.

And for him?

Armand’s hair was grayer than ever, and curling just around his ears and at his collar. It was longer, slightly, than when he was at the Sûreté. More from not noticing than not caring.

Here in Three Pines they noticed the migration of the geese, and the prickly chestnuts ripening on the trees, and the bobbing black-eyed Susans in bloom. They noticed the barrel of apples outside Monsieur Béliveau’s general store, free for the taking. They noticed the fresh harvest at the farmers market and the new arrivals at Myrna’s New and Used Bookstore. They noticed Olivier’s daily specials at the bistro.

Reine-Marie noticed that Armand was happy. And healthy.

And Armand noticed that Reine-Marie was happy and healthy too, here, in the little village in the valley. Three Pines couldn’t hide them from the woes of the world, but it could help heal the wounds.

The scar at Armand’s temple plowed across the other lines on his forehead. Some of the furrows were created by stress and worry and sadness. But most, like the ones showing now, were deep with amusement.

“I thought you were going to tell me what you really thought of him as a person,” said Reine-Marie. “All those flaws you witnessed after years of working together.” Reine-Marie leaned closer, in conspiracy. “Come on, Isabelle, tell me.”

Out on the green, Lacoste’s two children were fighting with Jean-Guy Beauvoir for the ball. The grown man appeared to be sincerely, and increasingly desperately, trying to control the play. Lacoste smiled. Even against kids, Inspector Beauvoir did not like to lose.