‘They were laughing at you, you know. Deep and crisp and even,’ CC sang in a mocking voice, off key and childish. ‘And your clothes. Are you sick? I think you’re mentally unstable.’

‘Now CC,’ came a man’s voice so meek and weak it barely penetrated the flurries.

‘She’s your daughter. Look at her. Fat and ugly and lazy. Like you. Are you crazy, Crie? Is that it? Is it? Is it?’

The crowd was frozen in place as though hiding from a monster, silently pleading, please, please, someone stop her. Someone else.

‘And you’ve opened your Christmas gift, you selfish child.’

‘But you told me I—’ came the tiny response.

‘Me, me, me. That’s all I hear from you. And have you even thanked me?’

‘Thank you for the chocolates, Mommy.’ The voice and the girl were so diminished as to be almost non-existent.

‘Too late. It doesn’t count if I have to beg.’ The end of the sentence was barely audible as CC clicked down the path as though walking on claws.

The congregation stood speechless. Beside Clara Gabri started humming, low and slow, then, barely audible, came the words to the old carol: ‘Sorr’wing, sighing, bleeding, dying. Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.’

They’d evaded the monster. Instead, it had devoured a frightened child.

SEVEN

‘Joyeux Noël, tout le monde,’ Em beamed, opening the door to greet her guests a few minutes later. Her year-old shepherd Henri raced out the door and leaped on everyone before being bribed back with a piece of Christmas cake. The chaos and happy turmoil helped banish the unease after CC’s outburst. It seemed the entire village arrived at once, bounding up the steps of Em’s wide veranda, shaking snow from their hats and coats.

Émilie’s home was a sprawling old clapboard cottage across the green from the Morrow place. Olivier paused just outside the circle of light from her porch, balancing his poached salmon on its platter.