The sign of One Jaguar has many properties. True invisibility is, of course, impossible outside of fairytales, but the eye and the brain can be fooled in ways that cameras and film cannot, and it is easy enough, while their attention is focused on Madame, to creep away – not quite unnoticed – to collect the case I have so neatly packed.

Anouk followed, as I knew she would. ‘Why did you say that?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you say you were Vianne Rocher?’

I shrugged. ‘What do I have to lose? I change my name like my coat, Anouk. I never stay in one place for long. That’s the difference between us. I could never live like that. I could never be respectable. I don’t care what they think of me – but your mother has so much to lose. There’s Roux, and Rosette, and the shop, of course—’

‘But what about that woman?’ she said.

So I filled her in on the sorry tale: the child in the car seat; the little cat charm. Turns out Vianne never mentioned it. Can’t say I’m really surprised.

‘But if she knew who her mother was,’ said Anouk, ‘then couldn’t she have found her again?’

‘Perhaps she was afraid,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps she felt closer to her adopted mother. You choose your family, Nanou. Isn’t that what she always says? And perhaps . . .’ I faked a pause.

‘And what?’

I smiled. ‘People like us are different. We have to stick together, Nanou. We have to choose our family. After all,’ I told her slyly, ‘if she can lie to you about this, then can you be sure you weren’t stolen, too?’

I left her to think about that for a while. In the other room, Madame was still talking, her voice rising and falling in the rhythms of the natural storyteller. She and her daughter have that in common; but it’s not the time to hang around. I have my case; my coat; my papers. As always, I travel light. From my pocket I bring out Anouk’s present; a small package wrapped in red.

‘I don’t want you to go, Zozie.’

‘Nanou, I really have no choice.’

The present gleams among the folds of red tissue paper. It’s a bracelet; a slim band made of silver, lustrous and new. By contrast, the single charm that hangs on it is dark with age – a tiny blackened silver cat.

She knows what it means. A sob escapes her.

‘Zozie, no—’

‘I’m sorry, Anouk.’

Quickly I cross the deserted kitchen. Plates and glasses neatly stacked along with the remains of the feast. On the stove, a pot of hot chocolate simmers; its steam is the only sign of life.

Try me. Taste me, it implores.