A Great Reckoning by Louise Penny Page B

stool in front of the easel.
    â€œWhy not?” Reine-Marie asked, though she seemed to be speaking to Canvas Clara.
    â€œBecause it means staring at yourself for hours on end. Have you ever seen a self-portrait where the person didn’t look just a little insane? Now I know why. You might start off smiling, or looking intelligent or thoughtful. But the longer you stare, the more you see. All the emotions and thoughts and memories. All the stuff we hide. A portrait reveals the inner life, the secret life of the person. That’s what painters try to capture. But it’s one thing to hunt it down in someone else, and a whole other thing to turn the gun on ourselves.”
    Only then did Reine-Marie notice the mirror leaning against the armchair. And Clara reflected in it.
    â€œYou start seeing things,” said Clara. “Strange things.”
    â€œYou sound like Ruth,” said Reine-Marie, trying to lighten the mood. “She seems to see something in that map that no one else can.”
    She’d sat down on the sofa, feeling the springs where no spring should be. The portrait, which had appeared stern when she’d first seen it, now seemed to have an expression of curiosity.
    It was an odd effect. How the mood of the portrait appeared to mirror the mood of the actual woman. Clara too was looking curious. And amused.
    â€œShe saw W. B. Yeats at one of her poetry readings last year,” Clara remembered. “And this past Christmas she saw the face of Christ in the turkey. That was at your place.”
    Reine-Marie remembered it well. The fuss Ruth had made, trying to get them to not carve the bird. Not because she believed the Butterball was divine, but because it could be auctioned on eBay.
    â€œI think ‘strange’ and Ruth are fused,” said Clara.
    Reine-Marie took her point. The woman, after all, had a duck.
    Now the portrait’s expression changed again.
    â€œWhat’re you worried about?” Reine-Marie asked.
    â€œI’m worried that what I see might actually exist.” She gestured at the mirror.
    â€œThe portrait’s brilliant, Clara.”
    â€œYou don’t have to say that.” Clara smiled. “I was just joking.”
    â€œI’m not. It really is. It’s far different than anything else you’ve done. The other portraits are inspired, but this?”
    Reine-Marie looked again at the canvas, and the strong, vulnerable, amused, afraid middle-aged woman there.
    â€œThis is genius.”
    â€œ Merci . And you?”
    â€œ Moi ?”
    Clara laughed, imitating her. “ Moi ? Oui, madame. Toi . What’re you worried about?”
    â€œThe usual things. I worry about Annie and the baby, and how Daniel and the grandchildren are doing in Paris. I’m worried about what Armand is doing,” Reine-Marie admitted.
    â€œAs head of the Sûreté Academy?” asked Clara. “After what he’s been through, it’ll be a breeze. He’s facing spitballs and paper cuts, that’s all. He’ll be fine.”
    But of course Reine-Marie saw more than Clara. She’d seen the visit to the Gaspé. And she’d seen the expression on Armand’s face.
    *   *   *
    While they’d been at dinner, the front had moved in, bringing thick flurries. Not a blizzard, but constant heavy flakes that would need shoveling in the morning.
    At the door, after putting on all his outerwear, Olivier shoved the map into his jacket and zipped up.
    After saying good night to Clara, the friends walked through the large flakes, along one of the paths dug across the village green, their feet sinking into the new snow. Gabri walked beside Ruth and held Rosa, cradling the duck to his chest.
    â€œYou’d make a good eiderdown, wouldn’t you?” he whispered into what he assumed were her ears. “She’s getting heavy. No wonder ducks waddle.”
    Trailing behind, Myrna whispered to