‘The bird looks terrified, but that might be just my imagination.’
‘We have a bird feeder on our balcony,’ said Gamache, straightening up. ‘We have our morning coffee out there in good weather. Every bird who comes to it looks terrified.’
‘Well, you and Madame Gamache are very frightening people,’ said Lacoste.
‘I know she is.’ He smiled. ‘Petrifies me.’
‘Poor man.’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t think we can read too much into the facial expression of the dead bird,’ said Gamache.
‘Good thing we still have tea leaves and entrails,’ said Lacoste.
‘That’s what Madame Gamache always says.’
His smile faded as he looked down at the bird curled at his feet, a dark stain on the white salt, its eye staring black, blank. He wondered what it had last seen.
Hazel Smyth closed the yearbook and smoothed its faux leather cover, hugging it to her chest, as though that might staunch the wound, stop whatever it was that was flowing out of her. Hazel could feel it. Could feel herself weakening. The solid, angular book bit into her soft breasts as she pressed harder and harder, no longer hugging but gripping it now, thrusting the yearbook with all their young dreams deeper and deeper into her chest. Relieved by the physical pain, she wished the edges sharper so they’d actually cut instead of simply bruise. This was pain she could understand. The other was terrifying. It was black and empty and hollow and stretched on forever.
How long could she live without Madeleine?
The full horror of her loss was just coming into view.
With Mad she’d found a life full of kindness and thoughtfulness. She was a different person with Mad. Carefree, relaxed, lighthearted. She actually voiced her opinions. Actually had opinions. And Madeleine had listened. Hadn’t always agreed, but had always listened. From the outside theirs must have been an unremarkable, even dull life. But from the inside it was a kaleidoscope.
And slowly Hazel had fallen in love with Madeleine. Not in a physical way. She had no desire to sleep with Mad, or even kiss her. Though sometimes when Mad sat on the sofa at night with her book and Hazel was in her wing chair with her knitting, Hazel could see herself getting up, walking to the sofa and putting Madeleine’s head on her breast. Just where the yearbook was now. Hazel stroked the book and imagined the lovely head lying there instead.
‘Madame Smyth.’ Inspector Beauvoir interrupted Hazel’s daydream. The head on her chest became cold and hard. Became a book. And home became cold and empty. Once again Hazel lost Madeleine. ‘May I see the book?’