A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12)(15)

“It says librairie,” said Myrna, giving it the French pronunciation. “‘Bookstore’ in French. As you very well know. Your French is perfect.”

“No need to insult me.”

“How is calling your French perfect an insult?”

“I think we’re going in circles here,” said Armand, getting up and starting to clear the table. Years ago, when he’d first heard exchanges like this, he’d been appalled. But as he got to know them all, he’d seen it for what it was. A sort of verbal pas de deux.

This was how they showed affection.

It still made him uncomfortable, but he suspected it was meant to. It was a form of guerrilla theater. Or maybe they just liked insulting each other.

Reaching for more dishes to take to the sink, he looked down at the map. In the candlelight it seemed to have changed.

This wasn’t just a doodle, made by some bored pioneer to while away the winter months. There was purpose to it.

But there was another slight change he was noticing now. One he might even be imagining.

The snowman, who appeared so jolly in daylight, seemed less joyous by candlelight. And more, what? Anxious? Was that it? Could a bonhomme be worried? And what would he be worried about?

A lot, thought Gamache, as he ran hot water into the sink and squirted detergent. A man made of snow would worry about the very thing the rest of the world looked forward to. The inevitable spring.

Yes, a snowman, however jolly, must have worry in his heart. As did the work of art. Or map. Or whatever it was they’d found in the wall.

Love and worry. They went hand in hand. Fellow travelers.

Going back to the table to get more dishes, he saw Ruth watching him.

“Do you see it?” she asked quietly as he bent for her bowl.

“I see an anxious snowman,” he said, and even as the words came out, he realized how ridiculous they were. And yet the old poet didn’t mock. She just nodded.

“Then you’re close.”

“I wonder why the map was made,” said Armand, looking at it again.

He didn’t expect an answer, nor did he get one.

“Whatever the reason, it’s not for sale,” said Olivier, looking at it wistfully. “I like it.”

While Armand and Myrna did the dishes, Olivier got dessert out of the fridge.

“Are you looking forward to the first day of school?” Olivier asked as he served up the chocolate mousse, made with a dash of Grand Marnier and topped with fresh whipped cream.

“I’m a little nervous,” Gamache admitted.

“Don’t worry, the other kids’ll like you,” said Myrna.

Gamache smiled and handed her a dish to dry.

“What’re you worried about, Armand?” Olivier asked.

What was he worried about? Gamache asked himself. Though he knew the answer. He was worried that in trying to clean up the mess at the academy, he’d only succeed in making it worse.

“I’m worried I’ll fail,” he said.

There was silence, broken only by the clinking of dishes in the sink, and the murmur of voices as Clara took Reine-Marie into her studio.

“I’m worried that I’ve undervalued what’s in the blanket box,” said Olivier, putting a dollop of whipped cream on a serving of mousse. “But what I’m really worried about is that I don’t know what I’m doing. That I’m a fraud.”

“I’m worried that the advice I gave to clients years ago, when I was a therapist, was wrong,” said Myrna. “I wake up in the middle of the night, afraid I’ve led someone astray. In the daylight I’m fine. Most of my fears come in the darkness.”

“Or by candlelight,” said Armand.

Myrna and Olivier looked at him, not sure what that meant.

“Do you really think you’ll fail?” Olivier asked, putting the coffee on to perk.

“I think I’ve made some extremely risky decisions,” said Armand. “Ones that could go either way.”

“When I’m afraid, I always ask myself, what’s the worst that can happen?” said Myrna.

Did he dare ask that? Armand wondered.

He’d have to resign and someone else would take over the academy. But that would be the very best outcome, if he failed.

The worst?

He was bringing Serge Leduc and Michel Brébeuf together. For a reason. But suppose it backfired? There would be a conflagration, he knew. And one that would consume not just him.

It was a very dangerous sequence of events he’d set in motion.

*

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Clara.

“What?” asked Reine-Marie.

They were in Clara’s studio, surrounded by canvases and brushes in old tin cans and the smell of oil and turpentine and coffee and banana peels. In the corner was a dog bed where Lucy, Clara’s golden, used to sleep as Clara painted, often into the night. Henri had followed them into the studio and was now fast asleep in the bed.

But what held Reine-Marie’s attention, what would grab and hold anyone’s, was the canvas on the easel. Close up it was a riot of color, of bold slashes in purple and red and green and blue. All the tiny dots on Clara’s hands were splashed there, large.

But take a step back and what appeared from the confusion was a woman’s face. Clearly Clara.