I poured him another demitasse. His reserve – a reserve that seemed closer to sullenness than anything else – was starting to annoy me. He’d been in the chocolaterie for nearly half an hour. Unless I’d lost the knack, I thought, I ought to have known everything there was to know about him by now. And yet, there he was – trouble incarnate, and seemingly impervious to all my advances.

I began to feel increasingly impatient. There was something associated with this man, something that I needed to know. I could feel it, so close that it raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and yet—

Think, damn it.

A river. A bangle. A silver cat charm. No, I thought. That wasn’t quite right. A river. A boat. Anouk, Rosette—

‘You haven’t eaten your chocolate,’ I said. ‘You should try it, you know. It’s one of our specials.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He picked it up. The cactus sign of Xochipilli gleamed invitingly between his fingers. He lifted the truffle to his mouth; paused a moment, frowning, perhaps at the acrid scent of the chocolate, the dark, woodsy perfume of seduction—

Try me.

Test me.

Taste—

And then, just then as he was almost mine, there came a sound of voices at the door.

He dropped the chocolate and stood up.

The wind-chimes rang. The door opened.

‘Vianne,’ said Roux.

And now it was she who just stood and stared, the colour slipping from her face, her hands held out as if to avert some terrible collision.

Behind her, Thierry stood bewildered, sensing perhaps that something was wrong, but too self-absorbed to see the obvious. At her side, Rosette and Anouk, hand-in-hand, Rosette staring with fascination, Anouk’s face suddenly alight—

And Roux—

Taking everything in – the man, the child, the look of dismay, the ring on her finger – and now I could see his colours again, fading, dwindling, going back to that gas-jet blue of something turned down to its lowest flame.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just passing through. You know. My boat . . .’

He isn’t accustomed to lying, I thought. His pretence at lightness sounded forced, and his fists were clenched deep in his pockets.

Yanne just stared, her face a blank. No movement, no smile; just a mask, behind which I could glimpse the turbulence of her colours.

Anouk saved it. ‘Roux!’ she yelled.

That broke the tension. Yanne stepped forward, the smile on her face now part-fear, part-fake, part something else that I didn’t quite recognize.

‘Thierry, this is an old friend.’ She was flushing now, quite prettily, and the pitch of her voice might well have been excitement at meeting an old acquaintance (though her colours told me otherwise), and her eyes were bright and anxious. ‘Roux, from Marseille – Thierry, my – hm—’

The unspoken word hung between them like a bomb.

‘Pleased to meet you – Roux.’