Don’t get me wrong. I never loved Scott. Almost, perhaps – but not quite enough. But Anouk doesn’t need to know that; nor does she need to know the more sordid details of what happened at St Michael’s-on-the-Green. Instead I gave her the sanitized version; made her laugh; painted a picture of Scott McKenzie that would have cast Michelangelo’s David into the shade. Then told her the rest in language she understands: the graffiti; the gossip; the spite and the dirt.

Small miseries – at least at first. Clothes stolen, books ripped, locker plundered, gossip spread. I was used to that, of course. Petty annoyances that I could hardly be bothered to avenge. Besides, I was almost in love; and there was a certain vicious pleasure to be had in the knowledge that, for the first time, other girls envied me: looked at me, wondered what on earth it was that a boy like Scott McKenzie found to admire in the Girl Who Was It.

I made a fine tale of it for Anouk. I drew her a list of small vengeances – just naughty enough to make us alike, yet harmless enough to spare her tender heart. The truth is less winsome; but then of course the truth usually is.

‘They asked for it,’ I told Anouk. ‘You only gave them what they deserved. It wasn’t your fault.’

Her face was still pale. ‘If Maman knew . . .’

‘Don’t tell her,’ I said. ‘Besides, where’s the harm? It’s not as if you hurt anyone. Although,’ I added, looking thoughtful, ‘if you don’t learn to use those skills of yours, then maybe one day, by accident—’

‘Maman says it’s just a game. That it isn’t real. That it’s all just my imagination playing tricks.’

I looked at her. ‘Do you think that’s true?’

She muttered something, not meeting my eyes, and levelled her gaze at my shoes instead.

‘Nanou,’ I said.

‘Maman doesn’t lie.’

‘Everyone lies.’

‘Even you?’

I grinned. ‘I’m not everyone. Am I, Nanou?’ I kicked my foot at a slight angle, throwing out light from a jewelled red heel. I imagined its counterpart in her eyes, a tiny reflection in ruby and gold. ‘Don’t worry, Nanou. I know how you feel. What you need is a System, that’s all.’

‘A System?’ she said.

And now she told me, hesitantly at first, but with a growing eagerness that warmed my heart. They’d had their own System once, I saw: a motley collection of tales, tricks and glamours; medicine bags to keep out the spirits; songs to quiet the winter wind to keep it from blowing them away.

‘But why would the wind blow you away?’

Anouk shrugged. ‘It just does.’

‘What song did you sing?’