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Back The Lollipop Shoes
Chapters (96)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. The Lollipop Shoes
  4. Dedication
  5. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  6. PART ONE
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. PART TWO
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. PART THREE
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. PART FOUR
  29. 1
  30. 2
  31. 3
  32. 4
  33. 5
  34. 6
  35. 7
  36. 8
  37. 9
  38. PART FIVE
  39. 1
  40. 2
  41. 3
  42. 4
  43. 5
  44. 6
  45. 7
  46. 8
  47. 9
  48. 10
  49. 11
  50. 12
  51. PART SIX
  52. 1
  53. 2
  54. 3
  55. 4
  56. 5
  57. 6
  58. 7
  59. 8
  60. 9
  61. 10
  62. 11
  63. 12
  64. PART SEVEN
  65. 1
  66. 2
  67. 3
  68. 4
  69. 5
  70. 6
  71. 7
  72. 8
  73. 9
  74. PART EIGHT
  75. 1
  76. 2
  77. 3
  78. 4
  79. 5
  80. 6
  81. 7
  82. 8
  83. 9
  84. 10
  85. 11
  86. 12
  87. 13
  88. 14
  89. 15
  90. 16
  91. 17
  92. 18
  93. 19
  94. Epilogue
  95. About the Author
  96. Also by Joanne Harris

But before I could call out his name, he was gone, slipping away between the tombs, quick as a cemetery cat and quiet as a ghost.

4

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Thursday, 13th December

MADAME LUZERON CAME in today, bringing some things for the Advent window. Toy furniture from her old dolls’ house, packed carefully in shoe-boxes lined with tissue paper. There’s a four-poster bed with embroidered hangings, and a dining-table and six chairs. There are lamps and rugs and a tiny gilt mirror, and several small china-faced dolls.

‘I can’t let you part with these,’ I said, as she spread the objects out on to the counter. ‘These are antiques.’

‘They’re only toys. Keep them just as long as you like.’

And so I put them in the house, where another door has opened today. It’s a sweet little scene, depicting a small red-headed girl (one of Anouk’s peg-dolls) standing admiring an enormous pile of matchboxes, each painstakingly wrapped in coloured paper and tied with the very tiniest of bows.

Of course, it’s Rosette’s birthday soon. The party that Anouk has planned so very meticulously is in part a celebration of this and partly, I sense, an attempt to recreate some (possibly imaginary) time when Yule meant more than just tinsel and presents, and real life was closer to the intimate, imaginary scenes around the little Advent house than the tawdrier truth of our Paris streets.

Children are such sentimentalists. I’ve tried to curb her expectations; to explain to her that a party is just a party, and that, however lovingly planned, a party cannot bring back the past, or change the present, or guarantee even the smallest shower of snow.

But my comments have had no effect on Anouk, apart from the fact that she now discusses all party matters with Zozie, rather than with me. In fact I’ve noticed that since Zozie moved in, Anouk spends most of her free time with her, up in her rooms, trying on her shoes (I’ve heard the sound of high heels on wood), sharing private jokes and talking – interminably – of what, I wonder?

It’s touching, in a way, I think. But there’s a part of me – an envious, ungrateful part – that still feels slightly left out in this. Of course it’s wonderful that Zozie is here; she has been such a good friend; has looked after the children; has helped us reinvent the shop and begin to make a living at last—

But don’t think I’m blind to what’s going on. If I look, I can see behind the scenes – the subtle gilding of the place; the cluster of bells in the window; the charm that I mistook for a Christmas ornament dangling above the threshold; the signs, the symbols, the figures in the Advent house, the everyday magic I had thought long since abandoned springing to life in every corner—