The Long Way Home(121)

She turned back to Gamache.

“But you’re all something. Professor Massey was nothing. Empty. Like the canvas. I found that terrifying.” She paused, remembering. “What happened to that painting? The only one of Professor Norman’s that survived?”

“The one at the back of Massey’s studio? The good one?”

“The great one,” said Ruth. “It was poetry.”

“The asbestos would never come out. It was destroyed.”

Ruth lowered her head, then raised it again. Her chin high, her eyes hard. She gave a curt nod and limped away, to stand beside Clara.

Noli timere, thought Gamache as he watched the two women. And Rosa.

* * *

The next morning Armand sat on the bench overlooking the village. Olivier and Gabri waved to him from the bistro. And he waved back.

He saw the pines sway in the slight breeze and smelled the musky forest and the roses and the lilies and the strong coffee in the mug beside him.

He tilted his head back and felt the warm sun on his face.

Beside him Henri slept, the ball in his mouth and his tongue lolling.

Snoring slightly.

And in Armand’s hands was the book, closed on his lap.

Clara joined him on the bench. They sat in silence, side by side. Then Clara leaned back, her body touching the words someone had freshly carved into the wood. Above Surprised by Joy.

A Brave Man in a Brave Country

She looked out, across to the mountains and the world beyond. And then her eyes returned, as they always would, to the calm little village in the valley.

Beside her on the bench Armand opened The Balm in Gilead to the bookmark, took a deep breath, and started forward.

Clara held the letter in her hand. From Peter. That had finally found its way to Three Pines.

And she opened it.