...It was the wig. The wig was unmistakeable. And Sharpe supposed that there might have been some other someone bounding about with bright green hair, but it was unlikely. And he'd come to know her stride, her demeanour, her height -- with or without the heels. Living only briefly with her, he'd absorbed these details -- unknowingly capturing them in his memory in the same way he might learn the curvature of landscape or the pitch of a possible battlefield. Richard Sharpe had an eye for detail, but it usually took war to bring it into view. Here, in Luceti, his perception was allowed to run rampant. So he surprised himself when he recognized Effie at a glance and across the shelf-crowded library.

He ducked behind a rack of magazines. It wouldn't do, he supposed, to reveal why he was here. Miss Sage had agreed to tutor the soldier in his letters -- leaving room for more advanced learning than he currently possessed. It wasn't something he was ready to share with anyone, least of all Effie Trinket. Perhaps he could sneak out without her seeing.