Chapters (96)
Rosette’s hair is still baby-fine, like milkweed and marigolds, rubbed thin at the back where her head rests against the pillow at night. Four years old in less than two weeks, and she still has the look of a much younger child: arms and legs like little pipes, eyes too large for her small face. My Cat Baby, I used to call her, back in the days when it was still a joke.
My Cat Baby. My changeling.
Under the blanket, Anouk moved again, tucking her face into my shoulder and her hands into my armpit.
‘You’re cold,’ I said.
She shook her head.
‘How about a cup of hot chocolate?’
She shook her head, more violently. I found myself marvelling at the way these little things can tear at the heart – the forgotten kiss, the discarded toy, the unwanted story, the look of annoyance where once there would have been a smile . . .
Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows. My summer child, grown stranger as the year turns, and it struck me how long it had been since she had let me hold her this way, and I wished it could be longer, but the clock on the wall said six-fifteen—
‘Get into my bed, Nanou. It’s warmer there, and the ceiling won’t drip.’
‘What about Thierry?’ she said.
‘We’ll talk about it later, Nanou.’
‘Rosette doesn’t want him,’ said Anouk.
‘How on earth can you know that?’
Anouk shrugged. ‘I just know.’
I sighed and kissed the top of her head. Again, that sheepy-vanilla scent – and with it, something stronger and more adult, which I finally identified as frankincense. Zozie burns it in her rooms. I know Anouk spends a lot of time there, talking and trying on her clothes. It’s good for her to have someone like Zozie; an adult – not me – in whom to confide.
‘You ought to give Thierry a chance. I know he’s not perfect, but he really likes you—’
‘You don’t really want him either,’ she said. ‘You don’t even miss him when he’s not there. You’re not in love.’
‘Now don’t start that,’ I said, exasperated. ‘There are lots of different ways of loving. I love you; and I love Rosette; and just because what I feel for Thierry isn’t the same, it doesn’t mean that I—’
But Anouk wasn’t listening. She struggled out from under the blanket, shaking herself free of my arms. I know what this is about, I thought. She liked Thierry well enough before Roux came back, and when he’s gone—
‘I know what’s best. I’m doing this for you, Nanou.’
Anouk shrugged, looking very like Roux.
‘Trust me. We’re going to be fine.’
‘Whatever,’ she said, and went upstairs.
10
