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Glancing across the river, my gaze fell on the snow-misted outline of Habitat ’67. Built for World Expo, the complex is a pile of geometric cubes that challenges the delicate art of balance. Born more of imagination than architectural pragmatism, Habitat’s walkways and patios are a delight in summer, an invitation to hypothermia in winter.

Andrew Ryan lived in Habitat.

A multitude of questions sidetracked my concentration.

Where was Ryan? What was he feeling? What was I feeling? What had he meant? The need to talk. Agreed. But about what? Commitment? Compromise? Conclusion?

I pushed the questions aside. Ryan was working an operation and not thinking or feeling anything having to do with me.

At de la Commune, we entered a futuristic gray stone building, all corners and angles. High up, a banner draped one tower. ICI NAQUIT MONTRÉAL. “Where Montreal Was Born.”

“What is this place?” Anne stomped snow onto the green tile floor.

“Pointe-à-Callière, Montreal’s Museum of Archaeology and History.”

A man’s face rose from below a circular desk at the far end of the lobby. It was gaunt and pale, and needed a shave.

“Sorry.” Rising, the man pointed to a sign. He was wearing an army surplus overcoat, and holding a boot in one hand. “The museum is closed.”

“I have an appointment with Dr. Mousseau.”

Surprise. “Your name, please?”

“Tempe Brennan.”

The man punched a number, spoke a few words, then cradled the receiver.

“Dr. Mousseau is in the crypt. Do you know the way?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Crossing the lobby, I led Anne past a small theater, down a set of iron stairs, and into a long, narrow, softly lit hall, its walls and floor made completely of stone.

“I feel like Alice tunnel-chasing the hatter,” said Anne.

“This point of land was the site of Montreal’s first settlement. The exhibit demonstrates how the city has grown and changed over the past three centuries.”

Anne flapped her gloves at a truncated wall rising from the floor. “The original foundations?”

“No, but old.” I pointed to the far end of the hall. “That walkway lies directly below place d’Youville, near where we parked. What’s now street was once a sewage dump, before that a river.”

“Tempe?” The voice rang hollowly off rock and mortar. “Est-ce toi, Tempe?”

“C’est moi.”

“Ici.” Over here.

“Who’s Mousseau?” Anne whispered.

“The staff archaeologist.”

“I’ll bet the woman’s got buttons.”

“More buttons than a political primary.”

Monique Mousseau was working at one of several dozen glass cases lining the corridors spidering off from the main chamber. At her side, a metal cart held a camera, a magnifying glass, a laptop, a loose-leaf binder, and several books.

Seeing us, Mousseau reshelved an object, closed and locked the cabinet, dropped Harry Potter glasses to her chest, and hurried toward us.

“Bonjour, Tempe. Comment ça va?”

Mousseau kissed each of my cheeks, then stepped back and beamed up at me, hands still clasping my upper arms.

“You’re good, my friend?”

“I’m good,” I replied in English, then introduced Anne.

“A very great pleasure to meet you.” Mousseau cranked Anne’s arm as one would a pump handle.

“Likewise.” Anne stepped back, overwhelmed by the tiny cyclone working her limb.

The two women looked like members of different species. Anne was tall and blonde. Mousseau stood four foot eleven and had curly black hair. Anne was swathed in pink angora. The archaeologist wore a khaki boy’s shirt, black jeans, and lumberjack boots. An enormous wad of keys dangled from one belt loop.

“Thanks for agreeing to see us so late on a snowy Friday,” I said.

“Is it snowing?” Mousseau released Anne and swiveled to me, bouncing like someone jiggered on speed.

I’d met Monique Mousseau a decade back, soon after my first sortie to Montreal. I’d worked with her often over the years, and understood that her energy did not come from a chemical high. The woman’s extraordinary vigor came from love of life and vocation. Give Mousseau a trowel and she’d dig up New England.

“Gangbusters,” I said.

“How wonderful. I’ve been underground so long today I’ve lost touch with the outside world. How does it look?”

“Very white.”

Mousseau’s laugh echoed louder than a sound someone her size should. “So. Tell me about these buttons.”

I described the skeletons and the basement.

“Fascinating.” Every utterance owned an exclamation point. “Let’s take a look.”

I dug out and handed her the Ziploc.

Mousseau slid the Harry Potters onto her nose and examined the buttons, turning the baggie over and over in her hands. A full minute passed. Then another.

Mousseau’s face took on a puzzled expression.

Anne and I looked at each other.

Mousseau raised round lenses toward me.

“May I remove them?”

“Of course.”

Unzipping the baggie, Mousseau shook the buttons onto her palm, crossed to the cart, and studied each with the magnifying glass. Using a fingertip, she rolled the buttons, observed, righted them, and observed some more. With each move the perplexed expression deepened.