* * *
He and Gamache had come down the hill, Beauvoir limping and the chief stumbling a few times.
Their bodies were screaming to stop, to rest. But they kept moving, desperate to get back to the village. To their families. To Isabelle.
Reine-Marie and Annie ran up the road to meet them.
“Oh, thank God,” Reine-Marie whispered, clutching Armand to her, as he held her tightly, resting his broken cheek on her head. Smelling the scent of old garden roses. And Honoré.
Neither wanted to let go, but he had to. He had to see Isabelle.
“You’re hurt,” said Annie, drawing back from Jean-Guy and touching his leg, wrapped in a temporary bandage.
“So are you,” said Reine-Marie, when she stepped back.
The entire front of Armand’s white shirt was red, and sticking to his chest. As though, in the terrible sequence of events, some transmogrification had occurred and sweat had been turned into blood.
“It’s not mine,” he said.
She reached out and touched his bleeding face. Then she kissed his split and weeping lips.
“Isabelle?” Armand asked.
“They’re with her now.”
“She’s alive?” said Jean-Guy, holding Annie to him.
Reine-Marie nodded, then looked at Armand. And he could see the truth in her eyes.
Alive. But—
“The others?”
“Olivier was hit in the arm, but Gabri got to him. The paramedics say he’ll be fine. There’re lots of cuts from glass and wood, but nothing life-threatening. Only Isabelle.”
Gamache and Beauvoir walked swiftly toward the bistro, breaking into a run as they got closer.
Ambulances and emergency response vehicles were parked all around the village green. As they approached, a gurney came out the door of the bistro, piled with equipment. And in there, like a nest, was Isabelle.
Ruth walked beside her. She hadn’t left Isabelle’s side since crawling through the flying debris. To hold the young woman’s hand. And whisper to her. That she was not alone.
Clara followed, still clutching the fireplace brush, with Myrna right behind her, holding Rosa.
They were almost at the ambulance when Gamache and Beauvoir arrived.
Lacoste’s eyes were closed now, and her face was white, ashen.
Ashes. Ashes. We all fall down.
Armand touched her cheek. It was still warm.
The senior paramedic was working quickly to attend to Isabelle. He looked up briefly and, seeing Gamache, he drew back for a moment. He did not see the head of the Sûreté. What he saw was a man covered almost entirely, head to toe, in blood.
“Gamache, Sûreté,” said Armand. “May I come?”
“Only one,” said the paramedic. “Maybe her grandmother…”
Ruth drew back, her thin lips even thinner. Her rheumy eyes even more watery.
“But she’s your child, Armand,” she said quietly, so that only Armand could hear. And placed Isabelle’s hand in his. “Always has been.”
“Merci,” he said, and climbed in quickly.
“We’ll follow,” Reine-Marie shouted as the door closed and the ambulance raced off.
Armand positioned himself at Isabelle’s head, making sure he wasn’t in the way. As the paramedics worked, he whispered in her ear.
“You are loved. You are brave, and kind. You saved us all. Thank you, Isabelle. You are loved. Your children love you. Your husband and parents love you…”
All the way to the hospital.
You’re brave and strong.
You’re not alone.
You are loved.
You are loved.
Her lips moved, once. He leaned close, but couldn’t make out what she was trying to say. Though he could guess.
“I’ll tell them,” he whispered. “And they love you too.”
* * *
When Gamache arrived at the hospital from his meeting with the Premier, he found Isabelle’s husband sitting by her bed.
Breathing tubes were doing their job and machines monitored her heart and brain functions.
He was reading out loud, while music played. Ginette Reno. “Un peu plus haut, un peu plus loin.”
“There’s been some change, Armand,” said Robert, getting up. On seeing Gamache’s alarm, he hurried on. “For the better. Look.”
The brain waves seemed stronger. Broader. More rhythmic.
“She’s responding to things,” he said, taking her hand and looking down so that Gamache couldn’t see his eyes. “The doctors say reading to her might help. Just the sound of a familiar voice, I think.” He pointed to the book on the bed. “The children gave it to me to bring. She asked about it, that night.”
“Go get a cold drink and sandwich,” said Armand. “Get some fresh air. I’ll sit with her.”
When Robert left, Armand took the seat that had not been cold since this all happened a week earlier. Then he reached out and held her hand. And whispered in her ear.
“You are magnificent. Strong and brave. You saved our lives, Isabelle. You’re safe, and you are loved. Your family loves you. We love you. You are magnificent…”
While in the background, Ginette Reno sang, “Un peu plus haut.”
A little higher.
“Un peu plus loin.”
A little further.
Then he picked up the book and started reading out loud to Isabelle. About a little wooden boy and the conscience that would make him human.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Before I, or you, go any further, I do want to warn that if you haven’t yet read the book, you might want to do that first. I believe these acknowledgments contain some spoilers, as I describe some of the things that are true, and some that are partly based on fact, and some that are completely made up (as is the nature of fiction, of course).
How I wish I could say that my next statement isn’t true, but it is.
My husband, Michael, died on September 18, 2016. I’d returned from a shortened book tour, and within days it was clear he was failing. Some have suggested he waited for me. I don’t know if that’s true, I don’t know if I want it to be true.
When the time came, Michael passed away peacefully. At home. Surrounded, as he was in life, by love.
I talked about his dementia in the acknowledgments of the previous book, A Great Reckoning, and many of you wrote to tell me about your own experiences with the disease. With loss. I want to thank you, sincerely and profoundly, for trusting me with those most intimate of feelings.
It is both heartbreaking and heartening to realize that Michael and I were far from alone.
* * *
Glass Houses was written as Michael failed, and after he died. Writing became my safe harbor, my escape in the dark hours of the morning. I could slip into Three Pines and for a few precious hours each day enter the world of Gamache, Clara, Myrna et al.
The writing and the book would not have been possible without my assistant, and great friend, Lise Desrosiers. Thank you, dear Lise. This book is dedicated to you for a reason.
Thanks as well to Lise’s husband, and our friend, Del Page. To our great friends, Kirk and Walter, who kept in touch every day. For years. And who came even closer as Michael failed. That’s true friendship.
Boundless thanks to Kim and Rose and Daniel, Michael’s caregivers. And Dr. Giannangelo. And to all the friends, astonishingly too numerous to name, who have been there for us, through the worst of times. And the best.
Thank you for supporting and, at times, carrying us.
I want to thank my amazing editors, Hope Dellon, of Minotaur Books/St. Martin’s Press in the U.S., and Lucy Malagoni, of Little, Brown in the U.K., who have made this, and all the books, better with their insightful notes.
Thanks to my U.S. publisher, Andy Martin, and the whole Minotaur team. Hope Dellon, of course, Sarah Melnyk, Paul Hochman, Martin Quinn, Sally Richardson, and Jennifer Enderlin of SMP, and Don Weisberg of Macmillan.
&nb
sp; Thank you, too, to my agent, Teresa Chris, who always asks how I am before asking how the book is. For an agent, that is extraordinary!
Linda Lyall has been with Michael and me, managing the website and designing the newsletter and doing a million things I don’t even know about since before Still Life was even published. Thank you, Linda!
All these people I have just named have become so much more than colleagues. We have become true friends. Many traveled to Michael’s funeral.
I want to thank my brother Rob, who hurried to Knowlton from Edmonton as soon as he heard the news about Michael. He held me in his strong arms and I knew it would be okay. I would be okay. Thank you to his wife, Audi, and their children, Kim, Adam, and Sarah, who loved their Uncle Michael.
Thank you to Mary, my sister-in-law, who interrupted a vacation to hurry down with her daughter Roslyn as soon as she heard. Thanks to Doug, to Brian and Charlie.
* * *
And now, as promised, a short explanation of what is fact in the book, and what is fiction. I will, without doubt, leave out some details, but the main issue surrounds the cobrador.
I first heard about the cobrador del frac many years ago, from our great friend Richard Oliver, who was with the Financial Times in Madrid.
The cobrador del frac exists. Dressed in top hat and tails, he follows debtors. Shaming them into paying. It was so extraordinary, I tucked that information and that image away for years. Waiting for the time when it was right to use it. Glass Houses was the time.
But—what came next is fiction. The history of the cobrador. The plague, the island, the cloaked figures acting as a conscience to those without one. Forcing payment of a moral debt. I made all that up, for the sake of the story.
I think that’s the big thing that isn’t real. And I know if you have doubts about some issues, you will do the research yourself. That’s half the fun, isn’t it?
Some might argue that Three Pines itself isn’t real, and they’d be right, but limited in their view. The village does not exist, physically. But I think of it as existing in ways that are far more important and powerful. Three Pines is a state of mind. When we choose tolerance over hate. Kindness over cruelty. Goodness over bullying. When we choose to be hopeful, not cynical. Then we live in Three Pines.
I don’t always make those choices, but I do know when I’m in the wilderness, and when I’m in the bistro. I know where I want to be, and I know how to get there. And so do you—otherwise you would not still be with me, reading this.
The final thanks is to you, my friend. For your company. The world is brighter for your presence.
All shall be well.
ALSO BY LOUISE PENNY
A Great Reckoning
The Nature of the Beast
The Long Way Home
How the Light Gets In
The Beautiful Mystery
A Trick of the Light
Bury Your Dead
The Brutal Telling
A Rule Against Murder
The Cruelest Month
A Fatal Grace
Still Life
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LOUISE PENNY is the author of the #1 New York Times and Globe and Mail bestselling series of Chief Inspector Armand Gamache novels. She has won numerous awards, including a CWA Dagger and the Agatha Award (six times), and was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. In 2017, she received the Order of Canada for her contributions to Canadian culture. Louise lives in a small village south of Montréal. Visit her on Facebook or at www.louisepenny.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Author’s Note
Also by Louise Penny
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GLASS HOUSES. Copyright © 2017 by Three Pines Creations, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Excerpt from “Halfway Down” from When We Were Very Young by A. A. Milne, copyright © 1924 by Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright renewed 1952 by A. A. Milne. Used by permission of Dutton Children’s Books, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Excerpt from “Waiting” from Morning in the Burned House: New Poems by Margaret Atwood. Copyright © 1995 by Margaret Atwood. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved. In Canada: Copyright © 1995 by O. W. Toad. Reprinted by permission of McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited.
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: ice © Dburke / Alamy Stock Photo; water © Lobster20 / Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Penny, Louise, author.
Title: Glass houses: a novel / Louise Penny.
Description: First edition.|New York: Minotaur Books, [2017]|Series: A Chief Inspector Gamache novel; 13
Identifiers: LCCN 2017021224|ISBN 9781250066190 (hardcover)|ISBN 9781250164889 (international, sold outside the U.S., subject to rights availability)|ISBN 9781466873681 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Gamache, Armand (Fictitious character)—Fiction.|Police—Québec (Province)—Fiction.|Murder—Investigation—Fiction.|GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.P464 G58 2017|DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017021224
eISBN 9781466873681
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First Edition: August 2017
Louise Penny, Glass Houses
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