It took me the best part of the morning to put all the scenery in place. Just before twelve Nico came in with Alice – they seem to be inseparable now – and stayed to admire the window. He bought another box of his macaroons, while Alice watched wide-eyed as I piped the repairs and improvements to the house’s façade with a thin-nozzled icing-sugar bag.

‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Alice. ‘It’s better than the Galeries Lafayette.’

I have to admit it’s a splendid confection. Part-house, part-cake, with sugar fluting around the windows, sugar gargoyles on the roof, sugar pillars around the doors and a neat little cap of snow on each window-ledge and on the bevelled chimney-tops.

At lunchtime, I called Vianne in to look.

‘D’you like it?’ I said. ‘It’s not finished yet, but – what do you think?’

For a while, she said nothing at all. But her colours had already told me everything I needed to know, flaring so bright they almost filled the room. And were there tears in her eyes? Yes. I thought perhaps there were.

‘Fabulous,’ she said at last. ‘Just – fabulous.’

I feigned modesty. ‘Oh, you know . . .’

‘I mean it, Zozie. You’ve helped me so much.’ I thought she looked troubled. As well she might; the sign of Ehecatl is a powerful one – speaking of journeys, change, the wind – and she must sense it working around her, maybe even in her now (my mendiants are special in so many ways), its chemistries mingling with her own, changing, becoming volatile—

‘And I don’t even pay you a decent wage,’ she said.

‘Pay me in kind,’ I suggested, grinning. ‘All the chocolates I can eat.’

Vianne shook her head, frowning, seeming to listen for something outside; but the fog had swallowed any sound. ‘I owe you so much,’ she went on at last. ‘And I’ve never done a thing for you—’

She stopped, as if she’d heard a noise, or had an idea so arresting that it temporarily robbed her of speech. That’ll be the mendiants again; her favourites; reminding her of happier times . . .

‘I know,’ she said, her face brightening. ‘You could move in here. Move in with us. There’s Madame Poussin’s old rooms. No one’s using them just now. It isn’t much, but it’s better than a bed-and-breakfast. You could stay with us, eat with us – the kids would love it – we don’t need the space – and at Christmas, when we move out . . .’

Her face fell, but just a little.

‘I’d be in the way,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘You wouldn’t. I promise. We’d work all hours. You’d be doing us a favour.’

‘What about Thierry?’ I said.