‘All right,’ I said. ‘You can have your party.’

Anouk gave a gleeful wriggle. ‘Cool! D’you think it’ll snow?’

‘Well, it might.’

‘And could people come in fancy dress?’

‘If they wanted to, Nanou.’

‘And could we invite whoever we liked?’

‘Of course.’

‘Even Roux?’

I should have guessed. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘If he’s still here.’

I have not really spoken of Roux to Anouk. I have not mentioned that he is working for Thierry only a couple of blocks away. Lying by omission doesn’t quite count; and yet I’m sure that if she knew—

Last night I read the cards again. I don’t know why, but I took them out; still fragrant with my mother’s scent. I do this so seldom – I barely believe—

And yet, here I am, shuffling the cards with the expertise of many years. Laying them out in the Tree of Life pattern my mother favoured; seeing the images flicker by.

Outside the shop, the wind-chimes are still, but I can hear it even so: a resonance like that of a tuning-fork that makes my head ache and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Turn over the cards, one by one.

Their faces are more than familiar.

Death; the Lovers; the Hanged Man; Change.

The Fool; the Magus; the Tower.

I shuffle the cards and try again.

The Lovers. The Hanged Man. Change. Death.

Again, the same cards, in a different order, as if what pursues me has subtly altered.

The Magus; the Tower; the Fool.

The Fool has red hair, and is playing a flute. He reminds me somehow of the Pied Piper in his feathered hat and patchwork coat – gazing up into the sky, heedless of the dangerous ground. Has he opened the chasm at his feet himself, a trap for whoever might follow him? Or will he go recklessly over the edge?

I hardly slept at all after that. The wind and my dreams conspired to wake me, and on top of that Rosette was restless, less cooperative than at any time in the past six months, and I spent three hours trying to get her to sleep. Nothing worked: not hot chocolate in her special cup; not any of her favourite toys; not her monkey nightlight or her special blanket (an oatmeal-coloured disaster upon which she dotes); not even my mother’s lullaby.

I thought she seemed excited rather than upset, only wailing and hiccuping when I was about to leave, but otherwise perfectly happy for both of us to be wide awake.

Baby, signed Rosette.

‘It’s night-time, Rosette. Go to sleep.’

Go see baby, she signed again.

‘We can’t now. Tomorrow, maybe.’

Outside, the wind rattled the window-frames. Inside, a row of small objects – a domino, a pencil, a piece of chalk, two plastic animal figurines – skittered down from the mantelpiece on to the floor.

‘Please, Rosette. Not now. Go to sleep, and tomorrow, we’ll see.’