Page 13 (1/2)

Amid all the brush strokes, all the elements, all the color and nuance in the portrait, it cale white dot

In her eyes

Clara Morrow had painted the moment despair became hope

François Marois stepped back half a pace and nodded gravely

"It’s remarkable Beautiful" He turned to Gamache then "Unless, of course, it’s a ruse"

"What do you mean?" asked Gamache

"Maybe it isn’t hope at all," said Marois, "but ht"

THREE

The nexton rubber boots and a sweater over her pajamas, she poured herself a coffee and sat in one of the Adirondack chairs in their back garden

The caterers had cleaned up and there was no evidence of the huge barbeque and dance the night before

She closed her eyes and could feel the young June sun on her upturned face and could hear birdcalls and the Rivière Bella Bella gurgling past at the end of the garden Below that was the thru in and over and around the peonies Getting lost

Bu around

It looked comical, ridiculous But then soin her hands and srass The lilacs and peonies and young, fragrant roses

This was the village that had lived beneath the covers when Clara was a child That was built behind the thin wooden door to her bedroonored her The phone rang, but not for her Where eyes slid over and past her and through her To so Where people butted in as though she was invisible, and interrupted her as though she hadn’t just spoken

But when as a child she closed her eyes and pulled the sheets over her head, Clara saw the pretty little village in the valley With the forests and flowers and kindly people

Where bu was a virtue

As far back as she could re, even more than she’d wanted the solo show It wasn’t riches, it wasn’t power, it wasn’t even love

Clara Morroanted to belong And now, at al it had she separated herself froht before ca her eye and nodding reassuringly The exciteuay and others The curator’s happy face The barbeque back in the village The food and drink and fireworks The live band and dancing The laughter

The relief