Free A Great Reckoning by Louise Penny Page A

two days, and while it freaked her out, the goal wasn’t to enjoy it. It was to end the pain.
    One more, she suspected, and there would be no going back. There was nowhere to go back to anyway. And no forward.
    And then, as the snow began to fall, the letter had arrived.
    Inviting her to the Sûreté Academy for the winter term. And saying that she had a full scholarship. For her knowledge of Latin. It was all paid for.
    â€œ Futuis me,” she muttered, sitting on the side of her bed. Clutching the letter and staring into space.
    She’d put the letter in her pocket and carried it with her as she cleaned and scrubbed. Not daring to read it again, in case she’d got it wrong. But finally, in the men’s shower, she’d brought it out, and read it. Sinking onto her knees, she’d wept into the drain.
    *   *   *
    And now here she was. Late January. Sitting in a classroom, shoving the stud up and down in her tongue, clicking it against her teeth. Arms tight across her chest. Staring at the professor under half-closed lids.
    Feigning boredom, but taking it all in. Every word, every action. Everything.
    The keen young man beside her, with bright red hair and a gay vibe even the blackboard could feel, tsked at her.
    â€œJealous of my stud?” she hissed in English.
    When he turned a violent red, she wondered what he was more ashamed of. Being gay or being an Anglo.
    She liked him. He was different, though clearly fighting hard not to be.
    â€œPay attention,” she said, pointing to the front of the class, and saw him huff in annoyance.
    The commander of the academy himself was teaching this course, though it was far from clear what the course was about.
    Not target practice, that much was obvious. They hadn’t yet got their hands on a gun, though Commander Gamache had made some passing reference to the “aimed word.”
    â€œI didn’t feel the aimed word hit,” he’d said when a student had asked when they’d get some weapons. The professor’s voice was deep and quiet and calm. “And go in like a soft bullet.”
    He’d smiled at them and then turned and wrote a phrase on the blackboard.
    That had been the first day. And every day after that he’d written a new phrase, erasing the previous one. Except that first. It had stayed at the top of the chalkboard, and was still there.
    Amelia wondered if this man with the graying hair and thoughtful eyes had any idea that he’d quoted a poem by her favorite poet.
    I was hanged for living alone,
    for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin.
    Amelia could quote the whole thing. Had lain in bed, memorizing it. And when the wretched landlady had surprised her by suddenly opening the door that first night, Amelia had shoved the book under the bed.
    Not food. Not dope. Not some stolen wallet.
    Something far more precious, and dangerous.
    The poetry book had joined the others hidden under there. Books in Latin and Greek. Poetry books and philosophy books. She’d taught herself the dead languages, and memorized poetry. Among the filth. Shutting out the sounds of sex, the mutterings and shouts and screams of other boarders. The flushing toilets and obscenities and stench.
    All erased by poetry.
    Oh yes, and breasts,
    and a sweet pear hidden in my body.
    Whenever there’s talk of demons
    these come in handy.
    The landlady was afraid of rats and cops.
    But what she really should have been afraid of was words, ideas. Amelia knew that. And she knew that that was why drugs were so dangerous. Because they blew the mind. Not the heart. But the mind. And the heart followed. And the soul followed that.
    Amelia leaned forward and, while the professor’s back was turned, she hurriedly wrote down that day’s phrase.
    It is the chiefest point of happiness , she scribbled quickly, before the Commander could see, that a man is willing to be what he is.
    Amelia stared at the words and then,