I smiled at that. But she was in earnest; and I should have known that if I didn’t address the problem, she would. And so I promised we’d give it a try. Just this once, I’d play the game. And we’d been so good for the past six months; no cards, no charms, no rituals. I missed it; and so did Anouk. What harm could come of a simple game?

We’d been living in Les Laveuses for nearly a week, and things were beginning to get better for us. We’d already made some friends in the village; I’d grown very fond of Framboise and Paul. We were comfortable in the flat above the crêperie. With Rosette’s birth we had more or less missed Christmas, but the New Year was approaching, full of the promise of new beginnings. The air was still cold, but it was clear and frosty, and the sky was a vibrant, piercing blue. Rosette continued to worry me; but we were slowly learning her ways, and with the help of the eye-dropper, we were able to give her the nourishment she needed.

Then Père Leblanc caught up with us. He arrived with a woman he said was a nurse, but whose questions, repeated to me by Anouk, led me to suspect that perhaps she was some kind of social worker. I was out when they called – Paul had driven me to Angers to pick up some nappies and milk for Rosette – but Anouk was there, and Rosette was in her crib upstairs. And they’d brought a basket of groceries for us, and they were so kind and interested – asking after me, implying we were friends – that my trusting Anouk, in her innocence, told them far more than was wise.

She told them about Lansquenet-sous-Tannes and about our travels along the Garonne with the river-gypsies. She told them about the chocolate shop, and the festival we had organized. She told them about Yule and Saturnalia, and the Oak King and the Holly King, and the two great winds that divide the year. When they expressed interest in the red good-luck sachets over the door and the saucers of bread and salt on the step, she spoke of fairies, and little gods, and animal totems, and candlelit rituals, and drawing down the moon, and singing to the wind, and Tarot cards, and cat babies—

Cat babies?

‘Oh yes,’ replied my summer child. ‘Rosette’s a cat baby, which is why she likes milk. And that’s why she cries like a cat all night. But it’s all right. She just needs a totem. We’re still waiting for it to arrive.’

I can only imagine what they made of that. Secrets and rites; unbaptized infants; children left with strangers, or worse—