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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

It was three o’clock when I returned to the chocolaterie, and already it was getting dark. Vianne was serving a customer, and she looked at me sharply as I came in, although her greeting was pleasant enough.

I know what she’s thinking. Folk like Zozie. To advertise her hostility now would be damaging only to Vianne herself. Already she is wondering if my threats of the other night were designed to lure her into an ill-considered attack, to show her colours too soon and thereby lose the safe ground.

The battle begins tomorrow, she thinks. Canapés and frivolities, sweet enough to tempt the saints. They will be her weapons of choice – and how naïve of her to imagine that I will respond in kind. Domestic magic is such a bore – ask any child, and you’ll see how they prefer the villains to the heroes of the books they read, the wicked witches and hungry wolves to the plain-vanilla princes and princesses.

Anouk is no exception, I’ll bet. Still, we’ll have to wait and see. Go ahead, Vianne. Attend to your pots. See what domestic magic can do, while I work on my own recipe. According to popular tradition, the way to the heart is through the stomach.

Personally, I prefer a more direct approach.

PART EIGHT

Yule

1

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Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 11.30 a.m.

IT’S SNOWING AT last. It’s been snowing all day. Big fat fairytale flakes like whirligigs from the winter sky. Snow changes everything, so says Zozie, and already the magic’s beginning to work: changing shops, houses, parking-meters into soft white sentinels as the snow falls, grey against the luminous sky, and little by little, Paris disappears; every flake of soot, every discarded bottle, crisp packet, dog turd and sweet wrapper reclaimed and made new again under the snow.

That isn’t really true, of course. But all the same it looks true, as if things could really change tonight, and everything be put right, instead of just covered over like icing on a cheap cake.

The last door in the Advent house opened up today. Behind it, there’s a Nativity scene: mother, father and baby in the crib – well, not quite a baby any more, but sitting up with a smile on her face and a yellow monkey by her side. Rosette loves it – and so do I – but I can’t help feeling a little sorry for my peg-doll, left outside in the party room, while the three of them celebrate alone.

That’s stupid, I know. I shouldn’t feel bad. You choose your family, Maman says, and it doesn’t matter that Roux isn’t my real father, or that Rosette is only my half-sister, or perhaps not even a sister at all . . .