I hesitated. I’d promised Zozie—

‘Trust me, Anouk. I need to know.’

So I tried to explain about Zozie’s System; and the colours, and the names, the Mexican symbols, and the Changing Wind, and our lessons up in Zozie’s room, and the way I’d helped Mathilde and Claude, and how we’d helped the chocolate shop to break even at last, and Roux, and the peg-dolls, and how Zozie had said there were no such things as Accidents, only regular people and people like us.

‘You said it wasn’t real magic,’ I said. ‘But Zozie says we should use what we’ve got. We shouldn’t just pretend we’re like everyone else. We shouldn’t have to hide any more . . .’

‘Sometimes hiding’s the only way.’

‘No, sometimes you can fight back.’

‘Fight back?’ she said.

So then I told her what I’d done at school; and how Zozie had told me about riding the wind, and using the wind, and how we shouldn’t be afraid. And finally I told her about Rosette and me, and how we’d called the Changing Wind to bring Roux back, so we’d be a family—

She flinched at that, like she’d burnt herself.

‘And Thierry?’ she said.

Well, he had to go. Surely Maman could see that. ‘Nothing bad happened, did it?’ I said. Except that—

Maybe it did, I thought. Maybe if Roux really did forge that cheque, then maybe that was the Accident. Maybe it’s what Maman says: that nothing comes without a price, and even magic has to have an equal and opposite reaction, like Monsieur Gestin tells us in physics at school—

Maman turned to the kitchen stove. ‘I’m making hot chocolate. Do you want some?’

I shook my head.

She made the chocolate anyway, grating it into the hot milk, adding nutmeg and vanilla and a cardamom pod. It was getting late – eleven o’clock – and Rosette was nearly asleep on the floor.

And for a moment I thought it was all right, and I was happy I’d cleared the air, because I hate having to hide from Maman, and I was thinking that perhaps now she knew the truth she wouldn’t be afraid any more, and she could be Vianne Rocher again, and fix it so we’d be all right—

She turned, and I knew I’d made a mistake.

‘Nanou, please. Take Rosette to bed. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.’

I looked at her. ‘You’re not angry?’ I said.

She shook her head, but I could see she was. Her face was white and very still, and I could see her colours, all mixed up in reds and angry oranges and panicky zigzags of grey and black.

‘It isn’t Zozie’s fault,’ I said.

Her face told me she didn’t agree.

‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

‘Just go to bed, Nou.’