But I look again, and it isn’t Roux. It’s Jean-Loup at the door, and the red-haired woman next to him must be his mother, I guess. She’s looking kind of sour-faced and embarrassed, but Jean-Loup seems OK, a bit pale perhaps, but then he always looks pale—

I jump out of my chair. ‘You made it! Hooray! Do you feel all right?’

‘Never better,’ he says, grinning. ‘How lame would it be if I missed your party after all the work you’ve done?’

Jean-Loup’s mother tries to smile. ‘I don’t want to intrude,’ she says. ‘But Jean-Loup insisted—’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say.

And as Maman and I hurry to find a couple of extra chairs in the kitchen, Jean-Loup puts a hand in his pocket and pulls out something. It looks like a present, wrapped in gold paper, but it’s small, about the size of a praline.

He gives it to Zozie. ‘I guess they’re not my favourites, after all.’

She’s standing with her back to me, so I don’t see her face, or what the little packet contains. But he must have decided to give Zozie a chance, and I’m so relieved I could almost cry. Things are really working out. All we need is for Roux to come back, and for Zozie to decide to stay—

Then she turns and I see her face, and for a second it doesn’t look like Zozie at all. Must be a trick of the light, I guess, but just for a moment there she looked angry – angry? No, furious – her eyes like slits, her mouth full of teeth, her hand clenched so hard around the half-open packet that chocolate oozes out like blood . . .

Well, like I said, it’s getting late. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. Because half a second later she’s back again, all smiling and gorgeous in her red dress and red velvet shoes, and I’m just about to ask Jean-Loup what the little package was when the wind-chimes ring again, and another someone comes in, a tall figure in red and white with a furry hood and a big fake beard—

‘Roux!’ I yell, and I jump to my feet.

Roux pulls away the fake beard. Underneath, he’s grinning.

Rosette is almost at his feet. He picks her up and swings her into the air. ‘A monkey!’ he says. ‘My favourite. Better still, a flying monkey!’

I give him a hug. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Well, I’m here.’

A silence falls. He’s standing there, Rosette clinging on to one arm. The room’s full of people, but they might as well not be there at all, and although he seems relaxed enough, I can tell from the way he’s watching Maman—

I look at her through the Smoking Mirror. She’s playing it cool, but her colours are bright. She takes a step forward.