From the back, at first I thought I knew her. The bright-red coat that matched her shoes. Coffee-cream hair tied back with a scarf. And were there bells on her print dress, and a jingling charm-bracelet around her wrist? And what was that – that faintest gleam in the wake of her, like something in a heat-haze?

The shop was shut for the funeral. In a moment, she would be gone. But I really wanted her to stay, and so I did something I shouldn’t, something Maman thinks I’ve forgotten about, something I haven’t done for a very long time. I forked my fingers behind her back and made a little sign in the air.

A breeze, vanilla-scented, nutmeg milk, dark roast of cocoa beans over a slow fire.

It isn’t magic. Really it isn’t. It’s just a trick, a game I play. There’s no such thing as real magic – and yet it works. Sometimes, it works.

Can you hear me? I said. Not in my voice, but a shadow-voice, very light, like dappled leaves.

She felt it then. I know she did. Turning, she stiffened; I made the door shine a little, ever so slightly, the colour of the sky. Played with it, pretty, like a mirror in the sun, shining it on and off her face.

Scent of woodsmoke in a cup; a dash of cream, sprinkle of sugar. Bitter orange, your favourite, 70 per cent darkest chocolate over thick-cut oranges from Seville. Try me. Taste me. Test me.

She turned around. I knew she would. Seemed surprised to see me, but smiled all the same. I saw her face – blue eyes, big smile, little bridge of freckles across the nose – and I liked her so much right away, the way I liked Roux when we first met—

And then she asked me who had died.

I couldn’t help it. Maybe it was because of the shoes; maybe that I knew Maman was standing behind the door. Either way it just came out, like the light on the door and the scent of smoke.

I said, ‘Vianne Rocher,’ a little too loud, and just as I’d said it, Maman came out. Maman in her black coat with Rosette in her arms and that look on her face, that look she gets when I misbehave, or when Rosette has one of her Accidents.

‘Annie!’

The lady with the red shoes looked from her to me, and back to my mother again.

‘Madame – Rocher?’

She recovered fast. ‘That was my – maiden name,’ she said. ‘Now it’s Madame Charbonneau. Yanne Charbonneau.’ She gave me that look again. ‘I’m afraid my daughter’s a bit of a joker,’ she told the lady. ‘I hope she hasn’t been annoying you?’

The lady laughed right down to the soles of her red shoes. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I was just admiring your beautiful shop.’

‘Not mine,’ said Maman. ‘I just work here.’