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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

And she shoots me a smile like a falling star, and I can’t speak, can’t move, captivated like the rest of them. The fascination is so intense that I could almost believe I’ve been drugged; my head feels like a hive of bees; colours shift around the room, making it spin like a carousel—

Roux puts out his arm to steady me. He alone seems not to share in the general feeling of consternation. I’m vaguely aware of Madame Rimbault – Jean-Loup’s mother – staring at me. Her face is pinched with disapproval beneath the dyed hair. She very clearly wants to leave – and yet she too is mesmerized, caught up in Zozie’s narrative.

Zozie smiles and carries on. ‘You might say I’m an adventurer. All my life I’ve lived on my wits; gambling, stealing, begging, fraud. I’ve never known anything else. No friends, no place I liked enough to stay . . .’

She pauses, and I can feel the glamour in the air, all incense and sparkling dust, and I know that she can talk them round, can twist them round her little finger.

‘But here,’ she says, ‘I found a home. I found people who like me, people who like me for who I am. I thought I could reinvent myself here – but old habits die hard. I’m sorry, Thierry. I’ll pay you back.’

And as their voices begin to rise, confused and distressed and wavering, the quiet Madame now faces Thierry; Madame, whose name I don’t even know, but whose face is pale now with something she can barely articulate, her eyes like agates in that hard face.

‘How much does she owe you, monsieur?’ she says. ‘I’ll pay it myself, with interest.’

He stares at her, incredulous. ‘Why?’ he says.

Madame straightens up to her full height. It isn’t much; beside Thierry she looks like a quail facing down a bear.

‘I’m sure you have a right to complain,’ she says in her nasal Paris voice. ‘But I have good reason to believe that Vianne Rocher, whoever she is, is far more my concern than yours.’

‘How so?’ says Thierry.

‘I’m her mother,’ she says.

12

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Monday, 24th December
Christmas Eve. 11.05 p.m.

AND NOW THE silence that has bound her in its icy cocoon splits open in a broken cry. Vianne, no longer pale but flushed with pulque and confusion, now steps out to face Madame in the little semicircle that has gathered around her.

A bunch of mistletoe hangs above their heads, and I feel a wild, mad, relentless urge to run up to her and kiss her right there on the mouth. She’s so easy to manipulate – like all of them – and now I can almost taste the prize, can feel it in the rhythm of my blood, can hear it like surf on a distant beach, and it tastes so sweet, like chocolate—