A Trick of the Light

Where other women ... were lovely, Annie Gamache was alive. Late, too late, Jean Guy Beauvoir had come to appreciate how very important it was, how very attractive it was, how very rare it was, to be fully alive.

Despite himself, Beauvoir laughed. "There is strong shadow where there is much light." ... But most he loved a happy human face.

What people mistook for safety was in fact captivity.

He knew time could heal. But it could also do more damage. A forest fire, spread over time, would consume everything.

Books were everywhere in their large apartment. Histories, biographies, novels, studies on Quebec antiques, poetry. Placed in orderly bookcases. Just about every table had at least one book on it, and oftern several magazines. And the weekend newspapers were scattered on the coffee table in the living room, in front of the fireplace. If a visitor was the observant type, and made it further into the apartment to Gamache's study, he might see the story the books in there told.

She wasn’t afraid to be wrong. And that, the Chief knew, was a great strength.

Light is every bit as challenging as dark. We can discover a great deal about ourselves by looking at beauty.

As far as the official mapmakers were concerned Three Pines didn’t exist. It had never been surveyed. Never plotted. No GPS or sat nav system, no matter how sophisticated, would ever find the little village. It only appeared as though by accident over the edge of the hill. Suddenly. It could not be found unless you were lost.

Beauvoir was quiet, watching the Chief, taking in the gleam in his eye, the enthusiasm as he described what he'd found. Not the physical landscape, but the emotional. The intellectual. Many might have thought the Chief Inspector was a hunter. He tracked down killers. But Jean Guy knew he wasn't that. Chief Inspector Gama he was an explorer by nature. He was never happier than when he was pushing the boundaries, exploring the internal terrain. Areas even the person themselves hadn't explored. Had never examined. Probably because it was too scary.

It was one thing to forgive, it was another to climb back into the cage with that bear, even if it was wearing a tutu and smiling.

relationship never starts with a fist to the face, or an insult. If it did there’d be no second date. It always starts gently. Kindly. The other person draws you in. To trust them. To need them. And then they slowly turn. Little by little, increasing the heat. Until you’re trapped.

but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.

Sobriety isn't for cowards, Chief Inspector. Whatever you might think of an alcoholic, to get sober, really sober demands great honesty, and that demands great courage. Stopping drinking's the easy part. Then we have to face ourselves. Our demons. How many people are willing to do that?

The Chief believed if you sift through evil, at the very bottom you’ll find good. He believed that evil has its limits. Beauvoir didn’t. He believed that if you sift through good, you’ll find evil. Without borders, without brakes, without limit.

Despite himself, Beauvoir laughed. “There is strong shadow where there is much light.

You’re lying on your deathbed. You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?

And this was what a couple of that age looked like. If they were lucky.

Gamache had asked not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wanted to see if Peter would lie to him. He had. And if he’d lie about that, what else had he lied about?

Like the street his gallery was on, Fortin had an attractive front, hiding quite a foul interior. He was opportunistic. He fed on the talent of others. Got rich on the talent of others. While most of the artists themselves barely scraped by, and took all the risks.

They’d crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn’t. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs. And they knew something the rest didn’t. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was.

But Annie hates children.” “Well, she’s not very good with them, but I don’t think she hates them. She adores Florence and Zora.” “She has to,” said Beauvoir. “They’re family. She’s probably depending on them, in her old age. She’ll be bitter Auntie Annie, with the stale chocolates and the doorknob collection. And they’ll have to look after her. So she can’t drop them on their heads now.

You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?” Myrna

to Clara’s party? And why did she accept? ELEVEN “Honestly, you’re the worst investigator in history,” said Dominique. “At least I was asking questions,” snapped Ruth. “Only because I couldn’t get a word in.” Myrna and Clara had joined the other two women in the bistro and were now sitting in front of a fire, lit more for effect than necessity. “She asked André Castonguay how big his dick was.” “I did not. I asked how big a dick he was. There’s a difference.” Ruth brought up her thumb and forefinger to indicate about two inches. Despite herself, Clara smirked. She’d often wanted to ask gallery owners the same question.

Her voice changed slightly as she remembered, “But most he loved a happy human face.

Armand Gamache knew no good ever came from putting up walls. What people mistook for safety was in fact captivity. And few things thrived in captivity.

Below that was the thrum of bumblebees climbing in and over and around the peonies. Getting lost. Bumbling around. It looked comical, ridiculous. But then so much did, unless you knew.

No, I don’t. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He’s a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He’s a very good draftsman.