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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

Today I’ve been working on my fancy dress. I’m coming as Little Red Riding Hood, because all I need for my outfit is a red cape – with a hood, of course. Zozie helped me finish it, with a piece of cloth from a charity shop and Madame Poussin’s old sewing machine. It looks pretty good for home-made, with my basket with the red ribbons, and Rosette’s coming as a monkey in her brown jumpsuit with a tail sewn on.

‘What are you coming as, Zozie?’ I asked her for the hundredth time.

She smiled. ‘Wait and see, or you’ll spoil the surprise.’

2

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Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 3.00 p.m.

THE LULL BEFORE the hurricane. That’s how it feels now, with Rosette upstairs having her nap and the snow outside claiming everything with its quiet gluttony. Snow comes so relentlessly; it swallows sound, kills scent, steals light right out of the sky.

It’s settling now along the Butte. Of course there’s no traffic to challenge its progress. People pass by with hats and scarves all barnacled with the driving snow, and the bells from St-Pierre-de-Montmartre come mutedly and from afar, like something under an evil charm.

I’ve hardly seen Zozie all day. Deep in my plans for the party tonight, between kitchen, costumes and customers, I have had very little time to observe my opponent, who keeps to her room, giving nothing away. I wonder when she’ll make her move.

My mother’s voice, the storyteller, says it will be at dinner tonight, like in the tale of the widow’s daughter; but it unnerves me that so far I have not seen her make any preparations, or bake even a single cake. Could it be that I have it wrong? Is Zozie somehow bluffing me, trying to force me to show a hand she knows will injure my standing here? Could it be that she means to do nothing at all, while I bring down the Kindly Ones all unsuspecting on my own head?

Since Friday night there has been no apparent conflict between us – though now I can see the mocking looks and the sly winks she gives me that no one else sees. Still cheery as ever, still beautiful, still strutting in her extravagant shoes – but to me she now seems a parody of herself; too knowing beneath that conspicuous charm, enjoying the game in a jaded way, like an elderly whore dressed up as a nun. It is perhaps that enjoyment that offends me most – the way she plays to a balcony of one. There’s nothing at stake for her, of course. But I am playing for my life.

One last time, I draw the cards.

The Fool; the Lovers; the Magus, Change.

The Hanged Man; the Tower—