She laughs again. Her eyes are like cinders, her mouth is a wire, and I wonder how I could ever have thought she was fabulous. She smells of dead crab and gasoline. Her hands are like bunches of bones; her hair is like rotting seaweed. And her voice is the night; her voice is the wind, and now I can hear how hungry she is, how much she wants to swallow me whole—

Then Maman speaks. She sounds very calm. But her colours are like the Northern Lights, brighter than the Champs-Elysées, and she flicks out her fingers at Zozie in a little gesture I know very well—

Tsk-tsk, begone!

Zozie gives a pitying smile. The string of hearts around her waist flips and flirts like a cheerleader’s skirt.

Tsk-tsk, begone! She forks it again, and this time I see a tiny spark skip across the square towards Zozie like a cinder from a bonfire.

Once more, Zozie smiles. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ she says. ‘Domestic magic and cantrips even a child could learn? What a waste of your skills, Vianne, when you could have been riding the wind with us. Still, some people are too old to change. And some people are just afraid to be free—’

And she takes a step towards Maman, and suddenly she’s changed again. It’s a glamour, of course, but she’s beautiful, and even I can’t help but stare. The necklace of hearts has gone now; and she’s wearing hardly anything but a linked skirt of something that looks like jade, and a lot of golden jewellery. And her skin is the colour of mocha cream, and her mouth is like a cut pomegranate, and she smiles at Maman and says—

‘Why don’t you come with us, Vianne? It’s not too late. The three of us – we could be unstoppable. Stronger than the Kindly Ones. Stronger than the Hurakan. We’d be fabulous, Vianne. Irresistible. We’d sell seductions and sweet dreams, not just here, but everywhere. We’d go global with your chocolates. Branches in every part of the world. Everyone would love you, Vianne, you’d change the lives of millions—’

Maman falters. Tsk-tsk, begone! But her heart isn’t in it any more; the little spark dies before it’s halfway across the square. She takes a step towards Zozie – she’s only a dozen feet away, and her colours are gone, and she looks like she’s in some kind of dream—

And I want to tell her it’s all a cheat, that Zozie’s magic is like a cheap Easter egg, all shiny foil on the outside, but open it up and there’s nothing there – and then I remember what Pantoufle showed me; the little girl, and the shop, and the black box, and the great-great-grandmother sitting there grinning like a wolf in disguise—