We made close to forty boxes today. Fifteen of truffles (still selling well), but also a batch of coconut squares, some sour cherry gobstoppers, some bitter-coated orange peel, some violet creams and a hundred or so Lunes de miel, those little discs of chocolate made to look like the waxing moon, with her profile etched in white against the dark face.

It’s such a delight to choose a box; to linger over the shape – will it be heart-shaped, round or square? To select the chocolates with care; to see them nestled between the folds of crunchy mulberry-coloured paper; to smell the mingled perfumes of cream, caramel, vanilla and dark rum; to choose a ribbon; pick out a wrapping; to add flowers or paper hearts; to hear the silky whisssh of rice paper against the lid—

I’ve missed it so much since Rosette was born. The heat of the copper on the stove. The scent of melting couverture. The ceramic moulds, their shapes as familiar and well-loved as a family’s Christmas ornaments, passed down over generations. This star; this square; this circle. Each object has significance; each action, so many times repeated, contains a world of memories.

I have no photographs. No albums, no keepsakes, except for the few things in my mother’s box: the cards, some papers, the little cat charm. My memories are kept elsewhere. I can remember every scar, every scratch on a wooden spoon or a copper pan. This flat-sided spoon is my favourite; Roux carved it from a single piece of wood, and it fits my hand perfectly. This red spatula – it’s only plastic, but I’ve had it since I was a child – was a gift from a greengrocer in Prague; this small enamel pan with the chipped rim is the one I always used for Anouk’s hot chocolate, in the days when we could no more have forgotten that twice-daily ritual than curé Reynaud could have missed Communion.

The slab that I use for tempering is cross-hatched with tiny blemishes. I can read them better than the lines on my own hand, although I refrain from doing so. I’d rather not see the future there. The present is already more than enough.

‘Is there a chocolatière in the house?’

Thierry’s voice is unmistakable; big, bluff and friendly. I heard him from the kitchen (I was making liqueurs, the most awkward of my chocolates to make). A jangle of bells; a stamping of feet – a silence as he looked around.

I came out of the kitchen, wiping melted chocolate on my apron.

‘Thierry!’ I said, and gave him a hug, hands splayed out to spare his suit.

He grinned. ‘My God. You’ve really made some changes to this place.’

‘Do you like it?’