A Great Reckoning (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #12)(22)

“Dear man,” she said.

“Oui,” said Armand.

It was the old, odd map they’d found in the wall of the bistro. Olivier had had it framed. Attached to the back was a card.

So you’ll always find your way home.

The card was signed by Olivier, Gabri, Clara, and Myrna, and Ruth had added in her scrawl at the bottom, When you inevitably fuck up, again.

Armand smiled and, taking a deep breath, he rocked himself out of the comfortable chair and put the picture on a side table before walking to the huge window.

His rooms were on the top floor of the academy, commanding a spectacular view through the wall of windows. At least it would be spectacular, had the blizzard not arrived and the night not fallen.

Now all he could see was his own reflection. The snowstorm had swallowed the town of Saint-Alphonse, lights and all.

Saint-Alphonse was one of the first places settled by the French centuries ago, because it was flat and fertile. But the very elements that made it so inviting in summer made it especially brutal in winter.

There was absolutely nothing to stop the wind and snow as they howled down from the mountains and along the riverbanks and burst out across the flatlands. The only thing that eventually stopped them was the town of Saint-Alphonse, which took it in the face.

Out of the darkness, a white fist thumped the thick glass window, as though to remind Gamache it was still out there. And not happy.

He didn’t flinch. But Gamache was aware that they were fortunate to be inside while it was outside.

There was a knock on the door and Jean-Guy entered.

“Since when have you knocked, mon beau?” asked Reine-Marie, getting up to greet her son-in-law.

“I wasn’t sure if anyone else had arrived,” he explained, his eyes scanning the room.

Jean-Guy suspected the other staff members knew of his relationship with the Gamaches, but the students probably didn’t yet. He had no intention of letting anyone see an act of friendship and intimacy.

Beauvoir’s sharp eyes took in his surroundings. Always alert for any threat. Like a gunman, or an open poetry book.

These were very different quarters from any other home the Gamaches had had.

This space in the academy was modern. Mid-century modern, he’d learned. With odd-shaped chairs with names that did not include La-Z-Boy, and did not look at all comfortable. At first he’d assumed the place had come furnished, someone else’s taste, and then he’d found out that the Gamaches had bought the stuff themselves.

He didn’t like it.

Walking across the thick shag area rug, he warmed his hands at the fireplace, then grabbed a Coke from the drinks table.

There was a knock on the door and the first of the guests arrived. Within twenty minutes they were all there. A group of carefully chosen cadets, and a group of equally carefully chosen professors.

They chatted, and helped themselves to food and drinks.

The initially stiff atmosphere softened with the help of the cheerful fireplace, the storm outside, the drinks, and the ease of their hosts, Commander and Madame Gamache.

*

Amelia Choquet wasn’t fooled.

She stood in a corner, wedged between a bookcase and the wall of windows. She could feel the cold glass against her sleeve, and every now and then there was a scratching from outside, as a particularly savage gust of snow hit the glass and slid down.

From there she surveyed the room.

And the room surveyed her. When one set of eyes stopped staring at her and looked away, another set jumped in. Like a visual tag team. Or cage match.

Amelia had shown up, expecting something else entirely. What she had not expected was a cocktail party.

Madame Gamache had greeted her at the door, leading her to the drinks table where Amelia poured herself a Canadian Club and ginger.

In her soft sweater and scarf, smelling of soap and roses, the Commander’s wife was as alien to Amelia as Amelia was to the rest of the room.

She could see it. She either revolted or frightened, or amused, the other cadets. And the professors simply dismissed her.

Except one. He was middle-aged, short and stubby, but not fat. Amelia could sense taut muscles beneath the casual sweater and wondered if he took steroids.

The man kept looking at her, but not with a critical eye. Not after that first sharp glance. It had evolved. She interested him. She could see it. Not, she thought, sexually. She had a pretty good radar for that.

This was something else. He was assessing her.

It was, from what she could see, a strange group. At first she’d thought those invited must be the most promising, the most intelligent, the natural leaders. Though that didn’t explain her presence.

But now, watching the other students more closely, she knew that wasn’t true. There were both men and women. Some clearly Anglos, most Francophones. Most white, but one was Asian and there was one black man. And one of the guests was in a wheelchair. She couldn’t tell if he was a student or a professor.

None of them seemed remarkable.

The Asian woman approached Amelia.

“Huifen.”

“What?”

“That’s my name. I’m a third-year cadet. You’re a freshman?”

She was looking at Amelia expectantly. This woman, thought Amelia, did not have good survival instincts.

“What?” demanded Amelia.

“Who are you?”

“None of your fucking business.”