“There was one other quality of the martlet,” said Gamache.
“Yes?”
“Do you know why it’s always drawn without feet?”
Finney remained silent.
“Because it’s on its way to heaven. According to legend a martlet never touches the earth, it flies all the time. I believe Charles Morrow wanted to give that to his children. He wanted them to soar. To find, if not heaven, then at least happiness. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,” said Gamache. “You quoted the poem ‘High Flight’ when we first talked.”
“Charles’s favorite. He was a naval aviator in the war. And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings. Beautiful.”
Finney looked around, at the lake, the forest, the mountains. He opened his mouth then closed it. Gamache waited. Finally he spoke.
“You’re very like your father, you know.”
The words went out into the world and joined the golden sunshine streaming through the gathering clouds and onto the water and the dock and warming their faces. The words joined the glittering waves and the bobbing insects and butterflies and birds and shimmering leaves.
Armand Gamache closed his eyes and walked deep into the shadows, deep into the longhouse where all his experiences and memories lived, where everyone he’d ever met and everything he’d ever done or thought or said waited. He walked right to the very back and there he found a room, closed but not locked. A room he’d never dared enter. From under the door there came not a stench, not darkness, not a moan of a terrible threat. But something much more frightening.
Light glowed from under that door.
Inside were his parents, he knew. Where young Armand had placed them. To be safe and sound. And perfect. Away from the accusations, the taunts, the knowing smiles.
All Armand’s life Honoré had lived in light. Unchallenged.
The rest of the world might whisper “Coward,” “Traitor,” and his son could smile. His father was safe, locked away.
Armand put out his hand, and touched the door.
The last room, the last door. The last territory to explore didn’t hold monstrous hate or bitterness or rancid resentments. It held love. Blinding, beautiful love.
Armand Gamache gave it the tiniest of pushes and the door swung open.