‘Lousy weather,’ says Madame. Of course, she would think so; seeing, not magic in the clouds, but pollution; not stars, but lightbulbs in the Christmas lights; no comfort, no joy but the endless, anxious grind of people rubbing together without warmth, searching for last-minute gifts that will be opened without pleasure, and in a rush to go to some meal that they will not enjoy, with folk they have not seen for a year, and would not choose to see at all—

Through the Smoking Mirror I look at her face. It’s a hard face in many ways, the face of a woman whose personal fairytale never had a chance of happy-ever-after. She has lost parents, lover and child; she has made good through sheer hard work; has wept herself dry years ago and has no pity now for herself or for anyone else. She hates Christmas, despises New Year—

All this I see through the Eye of Black Tezcatlipoca. And now, with an effort, I can just glimpse what stands behind the Smoking Mirror – the fat woman sitting in front of the television, eating choux from a white patisserie box while her husband works late for the third night running; the window of an antiques shop, and a china-faced doll under a cloche; the chemist’s where she once stopped to buy nappies and some milk for her baby girl; her mother’s face, broad and harsh and unsurprised, when she came to tell her the terrible news—

But she has come so far since then. So very far – and yet there’s something inside her, this void, still wailing for something to fill it again—

‘Twelve truffles. No. Make it twenty,’ she says. As if truffles could make a difference. But somehow these truffles are different, she thinks. And the woman behind the counter, with her long dark hair with the crystals braided into it and the emerald shoes with the shining stack heels – shoes made for dancing all night, for leaping, for flying, for anything but walking – she looks somehow different too, not like everyone else around here, but strangely more alive, more real—

There’s a scatter of dark powder on the counter where the truffles have shed cacao on to the glass. It’s easy, with a fingertip, to sketch the sign of One Jaguar – the feline Aspect of Black Tezcatlipoca – into the powdered chocolate. She stares at it, half mesmerized by the colours and scent, as I wrap the box, taking my time with ribbons and paper.

Then Anouk comes in – right on cue – all wild-haired and laughing at something Rosette has done, and Madame looks up, her face going suddenly slack.