Death is banal, as my mother used to say, weeks before her own death on a crowded street in mid-town New York. Life is extraordinary. We are extraordinary. To embrace the extraordinary is to celebrate life.

Well, Mother. How things change. In the old days (not so old, I remind myself) there would have been a celebration last night. All Hallows’ Eve: a magical time; a time of secrets and of mysteries; of sachets to be sewn in red silk and hung around the house to ward off evil; of scattered salt and spiced wine and honey-cakes left on the sill; of pumpkin, apples, firecrackers and the scent of pine and woodsmoke as autumn turns and old winter takes the stage. There would have been songs and dancing round the bonfire; Anouk in greasepaint and black feathers, flitting from door to door with Pantoufle at her heels, and Rosette with her lantern and her own totem – with orange fur to match her hair – prancing and preening in her wake.

No more – it hurts to think of those days. But it isn’t safe. My mother knew – she fled the Black Man for twenty years, and though for a while I thought I’d beaten him, fought for my place and won the fight, I soon realized that my victory was just an illusion. The Black Man has many faces, many followers, and he does not always wear a clerical collar.

I used to think I feared their God. Years later, I know it’s their kindness I fear. Their well-meaning concern. Their pity. I have felt them on our trail these past four years, sniffing and sneaking in our wake. And since Les Laveuses they have come so much closer. They mean so well, the Kindly Ones; they want nothing but the best for my beautiful children. And they will not relent till they have torn us apart; until they have torn us all to pieces.

Perhaps that’s why I have never confided in Thierry. Kind, dependable, solid Thierry, my good friend, with his slow smile and his cheery voice and his touching belief in the cure-all properties of money. He wants to help – has already helped us so much this year. A word from me, and he would again. All our troubles could be over. I wonder why I hesitate. I wonder why I find it so hard to trust someone; to finally admit that I need help.