She put down the spoon on the side of the dish and sat down very slowly on the kitchen chair. She sat there in silence for such a long time that I could smell the pastry shapes beginning to burn. Rosette was still playing with the pastry-cutters, stacking them up on top of each other. They are made of plastic, six of them, all in different colours: a purple cat, a yellow star, a red heart, a blue moon, an orange monkey and a green diamond. I used to like playing with them when I was small, making chocolate biscuits and gingerbread shapes, and decorating them with yellow and white icing-sugar from a squeezy bag.

‘Maman?’ I said. ‘Are you OK?’

For a moment she didn’t say anything, just looked at me, eyes dark as forever. ‘Did you tell him?’ she said at last.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. She could see it in my colours just as I could see it in hers. I wanted to say that it was all right, that she didn’t have to lie to me, that I knew all kinds of things now, that I could help her—

‘Well, now at least we know why he’s gone.’

‘You think he’s gone?’

Maman just shrugged.

‘He wouldn’t go because of that!’

Now she gave a tired smile and held out the peg-doll, all gleaming with the sign of the Changing Wind.

‘It’s just a doll, Maman,’ I said.

‘Nanou, I thought you trusted me.’

I could see her colours then, all sad greys and anxious yellows, like old newspapers kept up in an attic somewhere that somebody wanted to throw away. And now I could see what Maman was thinking – flashes of it, anyway – like flicking through a scrapbook of thoughts. A picture of me, six years old, sitting beside her at a chrome-topped counter, both of us grinning like mad, with a tall glass of creamy hot chocolate between us and two little spoons. A story book, with pictures, left open on a chair. A drawing of mine, with two shaky people that might have been me and Maman, both with smiles as big as summer watermelons, standing under a lollipop tree. Me fishing from Roux’s boat. Me, now, running with Pantoufle, running towards something I can never reach—

And something – a shadow – over us.

It frightened me, to see her so afraid. And I wanted to trust her, to tell her that it was OK, and how nothing was ever really lost, because Zozie and I were bringing it back—

‘Bringing what back?’

‘Don’t worry, Maman. I know what I’m doing. This time there won’t be an Accident.’

Her colours flared, but her face stayed calm. She smiled at me, speaking very slowly and patiently, as if she was talking to Rosette. ‘Listen, Nanou. This is very important. I need you to tell me everything.’