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 now at last the child’s mother appears, pushing the plastic curtain aside and looking in with widening eyes. She calls a name. Her voice is shrill. The little girl does not look up, too absorbed in the black piñata that needs only one more strike to release its secrets—

The mother cries out again. Too late. The child is too absorbed in her task. The grandmother leans forward eagerly, almost tasting it now, she thinks; rich as blood and chocolate.

The stone knife falls with a hollow sound. The split widens—

She thinks: I’m in.

And now the last of the vapour has gone. The chocolate will set correctly, with a good sheen and a pleasing snap. And now I know where I’ve seen her before, that little girl with the knife in her hand—

I’ve known her all my life, I suppose. We fled her for years, my mother and I, running like gypsies from town to town. We have met her before in fairytales: she’s the Wicked Witch in the gingerbread house; she’s the Pied Piper; she’s the Winter Queen. For a while we knew her as the Black Man – but the Kindly Ones have so many disguises, and their kindness spreads like wildfire, calling the tune, ringing the changes, charming us out of Hamelin, sending all of our troubles racing and tumbling in the wake of those enticing red shoes—

And now I can see her face at last. Her real face, hidden behind a lifetime of glamours, variable as the moon and hungry, hungry – as she steps through the door in her bayonet heels and stands watching me with a radiant smile . . .

6

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Friday, 21st December

SHE WAS WAITING for me when I came in. Can’t say I was altogether surprised. I’d been expecting a reaction for some days now, and to tell the truth, it’s overdue.

Time, at last, to set things right. I’ve played the tabbycat too long. Time to show my feral side, to face my opponent on her home ground.

I found her in the kitchen, wrapped in a shawl, with a cup of chocolate long since gone cold. It was past midnight; it was still raining outside and there was a lingering smell of something burnt.

‘Hello, Vianne.’

‘Hello, Zozie.’

She looked at me.

Once more, I’m in.

If I have a single regret regarding the lives I have stolen, it’s this: that so much of it was done in stealth, and that my adversaries never knew or appreciated the poetry of their downfall.

My mother – not the brightest spark – may have come close to it once or twice, though I don’t think she ever believed it, really. In spite of her occult interests, she really wasn’t all that imaginative, preferring meaningless rituals to anything closer to the bone.