BooksBarbecue
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

And as I watch from the kitchen door, a sudden thought occurs to me. There are too many ghosts in this place, of course. Dangerous ghosts; laughing ghosts; ghosts from a past we cannot afford to see reborn. And the strange thing is, they look oddly alive; as if I, Vianne Rocher, might be the ghost and the little threesome in the shop the real thing, the magic number, the circle that cannot be broken—

That’s nonsense, of course. I know I’m real. Vianne Rocher is just a name I wore; perhaps not even my real name. She can have no purpose beyond that; she can have no future outside of me.

But I still can’t stop thinking about her, like a favourite coat, or a pair of shoes, given on impulse to some charity shop, to be loved and worn by someone else . . .

And now I can’t help wondering—

How much of myself have I given away? And if I am no longer Vianne – who is?

PART SEVEN

The Tower

1

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Wednesday, 19th December

WHY, HELLO MADAME. Your favourite? Let me see – chocolate truffles, to my special recipe, marked with the sign of Lady Blood Moon and rolled in something that teases the tongue. A dozen? Or shall we make it two? Packed in a box of crinkly gold paper and tied with a ribbon of brightest red—

I knew she’d come eventually. My specials tend to have that effect. She came just before closing-time; Anouk was upstairs doing her homework and Vianne was in the kitchen again, working on tomorrow’s sales.

First, I see her catch the scent. It’s a combination of many things; the Christmas tree in the corner; the musty aroma of old house; orange and clove; ground coffee; hot milk; patchouli; cinnamon – and chocolate of course; intoxicating, rich as Croesus, dark as death.

She looks around, sees wall-hangings, pictures, bells, ornaments, a dolls’ house in the window, rugs on the floor – all in chrome-yellow and fuchsia-pink and scarlet and gold and green and white. It’s like an opium-den in here, she almost says, then wonders at herself for being so fanciful. In fact she has never seen an opium-den – unless it was in the pages of the Arabian Nights – but there’s something about the place, she thinks. Something almost – magical.

Outside the yellow-grey sky is luminous with the promise of snow. Forecasters have been announcing it for several days, though to Anouk’s disappointment it has so far remained too mild for anything but sleet and this interminable mist.