World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 7

“Fiona Arsenault.”

The name was read out, and a woman, older than most of the other graduates, walked across the stage to accept her degree.

Armand and Reine-Marie beamed and clapped, while Jean-Guy recorded the moment. The video showed a tall, slender young woman with long, loose blond hair walking with poise across the stage.

She looked like every other student graduating that day from the École Polytechnique. But anyone watching closely might notice a difference, and quite a significant one.

Behind Fiona on the stage, it was possible to see Nathalie Provost clapping, albeit barely, but none of the faculty were. They just sat there. Watching.

That could be put down to the fact that Fiona Arsenault had not actually attended classes at the École Polytechnique and was only allowed to accept her engineering degree that day because Armand Gamache had interceded on her behalf.

He’d asked the board of governors, the Chancellor, the President, and, most important, the survivors and families of the victims of the shootings years before Fiona had been born for their approval.

It was given. Though reluctantly. And the École had only approved because the families and survivors had.

Fiona Arsenault put out her hand to shake the Chancellor’s, as the grads had been instructed. There was a moment, a pause. He took it, briefly, and gave her the scroll. Then moved the tassel on her hat from one side to the other. The signal that she was now a graduate.

Finally, he gave her the little box. She stared down at it, then thanked him. Inside the box was a symbol that would tell anyone familiar with the code that she was an engineer.

Before leaving the stage, Fiona looked out at the audience. Scanning. Her eyes stopped at the Gamaches. She smiled. But then moved on. And found who she was really looking for.

Her brother, Sam.

Reine-Marie squeezed Armand’s hand but said nothing.

The ceremony continued, ending with Nathalie Provost approaching the podium.

The audience, as one, rose to their feet. The applause was sustained and heartfelt. When it died down, she spoke. About that terrible day, a little. But mostly about the consequences. The fight, ongoing, against misogyny. Against all hate crimes. The fight, ongoing, for gun control.

But mostly Nathalie Provost talked about hope. About perseverance. About change.

About courage. About the future.

Then, picking up the bouquet of white roses, she named the young women murdered that day in 1989. There were sobs scattered around the auditorium. As though sinkholes had opened.

And then, Nathalie Provost announced another name. A woman she described as the future. A reason for hope, for optimism. The woman engineering student who had been awarded that year’s Order of the White Rose scholarship, for graduate work.

This’s it, this’s it, this’s it. Shit.

Standing in the wings, Harriet felt her hands grow numb, her legs become weak. She felt herself leave her body and thought she might pass out. Waves of panic washed over her. Blinding her. She looked behind her, into the darkness, for the exit.

Run! Run! Get out.

She gasped for breath. Her heart pounded, her face flushed.

And then she heard her name. Heard the applause. She wanted to scream, to scream. To run. Run!

Now Madame Provost was looking offstage, at her.

Harriet took a deep breath. Then another.

Reine-Marie looked at Myrna. Her face was alert, staring at the side of the stage. Others were beginning to as well. There was a slight murmur.

Myrna started to rise, then sat back down.

Harriet closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped off the cliff and onto the stage.

There was ringing in her ears that was probably applause but sounded like an assault. The lights were blinding. She focused on Madame Provost, who stared, then walked toward her.

Nathalie put her arm protectively around Harriet’s waist and whispered, “Ça va bien aller.”

Myrna was crying. Great tears of joy.

Not because of the scholarship, but because Harriet was walking across the stage. She’d made it this far. She’d made it so far.

Myrna knew how close Harriet had come to turning down the scholarship. Because she could not face this moment.

But here she was, facing it.

Myrna rose to her feet, followed closely by Armand and Reine-Marie, Jean-Guy. Clara and Olivier and Gabri. And then the rest of the auditorium.

Ruth Zardo was not there. She’d stayed behind saying someone had to look after the village. They expected to return to cinders. Still, worth it.

Myrna wiped her sleeve across her eyes so she could better see the girl she’d helped raise. Who’d stayed with her for weeks every summer.

When Harriet had first visited, it was all Myrna could do to get her out the door. And now, here she was.

Harriet accepted the bouquet, and turned to face the standing ovation, and knew she was a fraud. The scholarship was created in honor of the young women who’d dared and who’d died. She was as far from them as it was possible to be. Barely the same species.

She thanked Madame Provost, then turned and walked stiffly off the stage, not saying another word.

Harriet Landers knew if she was the future, they were all fucked.

“She’s coming back with us,” said Clara, at the reception after. “Right? The party’s all organized.”

“For a few days, yes,” said Myrna. She was holding hands with Billy Williams, who’d taken the day off from spreading compost to be there.

“Does she get to keep the robes?” asked Gabri. “Do you think she’d let me buy them off her?”

“Why in the world would you—” began his partner, Olivier, then stopped. Not wanting to know the answer.

Armand and Reine-Marie were across the room, talking with the Chancellor. Then, seeing Fiona Arsenault standing alone, they excused themselves and walked over to her.

Jean-Guy had left a few minutes earlier, but not before reassuring Armand that Sam Arsenault had left the building as soon as the ceremony was over.

“I saw him off. I suspect he wants to meet you even less than you want to meet him.”

Armand knew that was not true but left it at that.

“Merci,” he said. “Did you speak with him?”

“Briefly. He won’t be back.”

Gamache nodded. He didn’t want, or need, to know more. The fact was, he’d kept tabs on the young man and was far more aware of his movements, his life, than Jean-Guy. He’d expected Sam to be there that day, and he was.

What Armand had not expected was to feel that frisson, that sharp spike of anxiety, when their eyes had met. Now he turned his mind from that young man to his sister.

Reine-Marie hugged Fiona, while Armand stood back and watched. Smiling.

He’d never have thought, never have guessed, on that cold November day so many years ago, in that horror of a house, that this could ever happen. Once again, he reflected on the folly of assumptions.

“Merci, Monsieur Gamache,” said Fiona, looking down at the scroll and small box in her hands. “I know this was because of you.” She turned to Reine-Marie. “You both.”

“You put in the work,” said Armand, looking her straight in the eye. “I’m proud of you.”

And he was. Not many could turn their lives around. After what happened.

“You’re coming down to Three Pines with us, right?” said Reine-Marie. “We have your room all ready.”

“Can’t wait.” Fiona looked at the small box, then held it out to Armand. “Would you?”

His smile widened, and without a word he opened the box and brought out the thin iron ring. It was simple, unadorned except for the marks where it had been pounded into shape. Not a ring anyone would choose at a jeweler’s. But it could not be bought, it had to be earned.

He slipped it onto the little finger of Fiona’s right hand. She looked down at it, shaking her head slightly. “I’d never have dreamed—”

“Bonjour.”

Armand stiffened and his smile froze.

“Sam!” Fiona brushed between the Gamaches to embrace her brother. “Thank you for coming.”

“Are you kidding? Miss this? Never. I’m so proud of you. First person in our family to go to university, never mind graduate. You definitely got the brains.”

“While you got the rugged good looks,” she said with a laugh.

It was a running joke between the siblings. Though, as Reine-Marie watched, she recognized it was true. She’d met this young man only once before and had liked him. She suspected most people would.

Except her husband. It went beyond not liking, into a territory she’d rarely seen with Armand. She’d asked him once about it, about Sam Arsenault, but he’d just frowned and shrugged and said he couldn’t explain it.

She thought he meant that he wouldn’t explain it.

Still, she didn’t press. It didn’t matter. The young man had no place in their lives. Unlike his sister.

Sam embraced Fiona again, holding her tight. “I’ve missed you. Missed this.” Then he turned to the other two. “Madame Gamache. Chief Inspector.”

“Sam.”

There was no question of a handshake.

Armand held the young man’s eyes. While he’d kept tabs on Sam Arsenault, he hadn’t actually seen him in years. The boy had grown into a man. He was tall. Almost as tall as Armand. He’d filled out, grown fit.

But his eyes had not changed. They were remarkable. Clear, bright, a bluey green. They sparked with intelligence and warmth and good humor.

But, Armand knew, if he held them long enough, really looked, he’d eventually see it. The flecks on the irises. The dark spots where the real Samuel Arsenault hid.

But what Armand would always recognize was intangible, invisible. If he were blindfolded and Sam Arsenault walked into the room, Armand would know it.

“Excusez-moi,” he said, breaking eye contact.

He and Reine-Marie began to walk away when Sam called after them. “I’ll see you there.”

Armand stopped, paused, then turned. “Where?”

“Didn’t Fiona tell you? I’m coming down to Three Pines too. I’ve made a reservation at the B&B.” He smiled at Gamache. “It’s gonna be fun.”

“You all right?” Nathalie Provost asked a few minutes later. “You look tense.”

Armand’s smile was tight. “I was coming over to ask how you were feeling,” he said, deflecting the question. “It was a beautiful ceremony. But emotional, I know.”

“Oui. Always is. In a good way too.”

“Thank you for what you did for Fiona. I know it added an extra stress.”

Nathalie didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the young man standing with Fiona Arsenault. She wasn’t the only one watching him. Almost all the female grads, and their sisters, and their mothers, and more than a few of the men had at least glanced over. Some were openly staring.

“Who’s that?” Nathalie asked.

“Her brother,” said Reine-Marie. “Sam.”

Nathalie nodded, examining him. “Attractive.”

Though she looked anything but attracted. Her brows were drawn together. And she’d taken half a step back.

She feels it too, thought Armand. He wondered if those who’d experienced death recognized the boatman.

“Auntie Myrna, who’s that?”

Harriet was standing with her back against the wall, beside the bright red Sortie sign and the door. As close to out as in could be. She was openly staring at the most beautiful young man she’d ever seen. His gleaming brown hair, auburn really with its natural highlights, was slightly longer than fashionable, though however he chose to wear it would be de facto fashionable.

His clothing was casual, though appropriate to the occasion, and fit him well.

But a green garbage bag would have looked good on him. Though Harriet thought it was a shame to cover up that body at all. She spent a moment imagining …

She’d noticed that the young man had looked over at her aunt and nodded. He clearly knew her. So she must know him.

“His name’s Sam Arsenault,” said Myrna.

Harriet grabbed her hand and started forward. “Come on, introduce me.”

But Auntie Myrna didn’t move, and after a few tugs Harriet realized it was futile.

“Why not?”

“We don’t have time. We need to get back to the village before Ruth sacks the place. She’s already stolen half a dozen books from the store this week.”

It was clear this was an excuse. That her aunt, for whatever reason, didn’t want to approach the man.

Harriet would have argued, but she was sidetracked by the mention of the elderly poet. It conjured up so many images, so many feelings.

So many summer evenings sitting on the dilapidated front porch of the ramshackle house, Ruth in her rocker, her cane across her lap. In another era it would have been a shotgun, thought Harriet. And she’d have had a corncob pipe.

Rosa, the mad duck, would hop up and settle on Harriet’s lap. Exhausted after a day of terrorizing the villagers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” one of them muttered, though it wasn’t always clear which one.

Harriet loved listening to the old poet and the duck while sipping lemonade and watching life in Three Pines come to a rest. Across the village green, she’d see light through the mullioned windows of the bistro. And above the bookshop, another light in the loft where her aunt lived.

On those summer evenings, Ruth often talked about the history of the village. Some of what she said was documented, though much had been passed down verbally. Some of the stories had the mist of myth about them.

There’d been people living there long before the huge pine trees were planted. Before Champlain “discovered” the territory.

“What he discovered,” said Ruth, “was that there were people already here. Of course, the Abenaki and Iroquois should have slaughtered them. An opportunity missed.”

Harriet had laughed, then noticed that Ruth was not actually joking.

Mostly, though, Ruth listened as Harriet talked about her dreams, her perceptions. Her demons.

“A poem begins,” Ruth had said one evening, as they watched Monsieur and Madame Gamache walk hand in hand, while their young dog Henri played on the village green, “as a lump in the throat.”

Harriet understood. She woke every day with a lump in her throat. Sometimes it felt more like a bone.

Except when she was there, in the peaceful little village.

“Okay,” she said now to her Auntie Myrna. “Let’s go.” They started for the door, but Harriet hesitated and looked back. “I need to thank Madame Provost.”

She paused, clearly hoping Auntie Myrna would tell her it wasn’t necessary.

“I’ll wait,” said Myrna and watched her niece, still clutching the bouquet of roses, go around the room, talking to strangers, despite the bone caught in her throat.

But Myrna’s eyes kept being dragged back to the handsome young man. And every time they did, he was staring at her.

“Are you all right?” Billy asked, putting his hand in hers.

Myrna smiled. She could never express why, but when she looked at this grizzled man, in his ill-fitting suit and unshavable face and untamable hair, who was about as far from an intellectual as possible, she felt safe and content and at peace.

She was happy before meeting him. But she was happier now. “I am.”

But that didn’t last long. Armand and Reine-Marie joined them moments later.

“He’s coming down to Three Pines,” Armand whispered.

He didn’t have to say who.

“Hardye?”

“Oui, patron.”

Agent Moel joined the Chief Inspector in the hallway.

“I’m going to the local detachment. Inspector Chernin’s coming with me. You’re in charge.” He glanced toward the Arsenault children in the living room. “How are they?”

She considered. “Numb. Disconnected. I’m hoping to stop them from completely disassociating. It’s a balance. I think right now they need to know they’re safe. Can you imagine? The abuse is traumatic enough, but to be pimped out by your own mother? And now to be told she’s dead?”

Armand shook his head. Every day he faced the unimaginable. But this was worse than most. “At least they have each other.”

“Oui.”

He looked at Agent Moel. “What is it?”

“There’s a strong, almost unnatural bond between them.”

“Unnatural?”

“Not, I think, in that way. It’s a sort of fusion. I’ve seen it before in deeply traumatized children. They lose themselves in someone else. Hiding there until they can heal.”

“Is it mutual?” Gamache asked and saw her smile.

“Now that’s an interesting question. Why do you ask?”

“It just seems…”

She nodded. “The boy.”

“Yes.”

“If what you think happened to them actually did—”

“It did. There’s video,” said Gamache.

“Christ,” she muttered. “Then, being the youngest, he’d be the most damaged. His personality sealed up tight. And we both know what happens to things left too long in the dark. And yet…” She considered them again. “He’s the one who cried. The girl still hasn’t.”

They both knew that was a bad sign. A warning sign.