BooksBarbecue
Back The Lollipop Shoes
Chapters (96)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. The Lollipop Shoes
  4. Dedication
  5. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. PART TWO
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. PART THREE
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. PART FOUR
  29. 1
  30. 2
  31. 3
  32. 4
  33. 5
  34. 6
  35. 7
  36. 8
  37. 9
  38. PART FIVE
  39. 1
  40. 2
  41. 3
  42. 4
  43. 5
  44. 6
  45. 7
  46. 8
  47. 9
  48. 10
  49. 11
  50. 12
  51. PART SIX
  52. 1
  53. 2
  54. 3
  55. 4
  56. 5
  57. 6
  58. 7
  59. 8
  60. 9
  61. 10
  62. 11
  63. 12
  64. PART SEVEN
  65. 1
  66. 2
  67. 3
  68. 4
  69. 5
  70. 6
  71. 7
  72. 8
  73. 9
  74. PART EIGHT
  75. 1
  76. 2
  77. 3
  78. 4
  79. 5
  80. 6
  81. 7
  82. 8
  83. 9
  84. 10
  85. 11
  86. 12
  87. 13
  88. 14
  89. 15
  90. 16
  91. 17
  92. 18
  93. 19
  94. Epilogue
  95. About the Author
  96. Also by Joanne Harris

There are a number of popular myths about scrying. One is that you need special apparatus. You don’t. Just closing your eyes can be enough; although I rather like the images that come from watching a television set between stations, or the fractal patterns of my computer’s screensaver. It’s just a system like any other; a means of keeping the analytical left brain occupied with trivia, while the creative right brain looks for clues.

Then—

Just drift.

It’s a rather pleasant sensation; enhanced as the drug begins to take. It starts as a faint sense of dislocation; the air yawns around me, and although I do not avert my gaze from the screen I am aware that the room feels much larger than usual, the walls receding into the middle distance and booming, ballooning—

Breathing deeply, I think of Vianne.

Her face on the screen in front of me; sepia, like newsprint. Around me, a circle of lights, glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. They draw me in, like fireflies.

What’s your secret, Vianne?

What’s your secret, Anouk?

What do you need?

The Smoking Mirror seems to shimmer. Perhaps this is the effect of the drug; a visual metaphor made real. A face appears on the screen ahead: Anouk, as clear as a photograph. Then Rosette, a paintbrush in hand. A faded postcard of the Rhône. A silver bangle, far too small for an adult to wear, with a dangling charm in the shape of a cat.

Now there comes a rush of air; a smash of applause; a swooping of invisible wings. I feel very close to something important. And now I can see it – the hull of a boat. A long, low boat, slow as they come. And a line of script, carelessly scrawled—

Who? I ask. Who, damn it?

No answer from the luminous screen. Only the sound of water, the hisshhh and hum of engines under the waterline, resolving slowly back into the dim whine of the laptop, the scroll of the screensaver, the incipient headache.

Hubble bubble, toil and—

As I said, as a method, it’s often unsound.

And yet, I have learnt something, I think. Someone’s coming. Someone’s getting closer. Someone from the past. Someone who means trouble.

One more strike should do it, Vianne. One more weakness to identify. Then the piñata will release its contents, and its treasures and secrets, Vianne Rocher’s life – not to mention that very talented child – will finally belong to me.

8

image Missing

Wednesday, 28th November

THE FIRST LIFE I stole belonged to my mother. You always remember your first, you know; however inelegant the theft. Not that I thought of it as theft at the time; but I needed to escape, and my mother’s passport was lying unused, and her savings were wasting away in the bank—