Silent, Michèle shook her head. I hadn’t really heard her speak since I’d told her who I was. Thirty years of grief and longing have given her face the look of something too often folded and creased; a smile seems unfamiliar, and she tries it on now as she might some garment that she’s almost certain will not suit.

‘They try to prepare you for loss,’ she said. ‘It never occurs to them to prepare you for the opposite.’

I nodded. ‘I know. We’ll manage,’ I said.

She smiled – a better smile than before, that brought a fugitive gleam to her eyes. ‘I think I will,’ she said, taking my arm. ‘I’ve a feeling it runs in the family.’

It was then that the first of the city’s fireworks went off, a chrysanthemum spray across the river. Another followed from further away; then another, and another, arching gracefully across the Seine in arabesques of green and gold.

‘Midnight. Merry Christmas,’ said Roux.

The fireworks were almost soundless, muted by distance as well as by snow. They went on for almost ten minutes more, spiderweb trails and rocket bouquets and shooting stars, and ringlets of fire in blue and silver and scarlet and rose, all calling and beckoning to each other all the way from Notre-Dame to Place de la Concorde.

Michèle watched them, her face calm and illuminated with something more than just fireworks. Rosette signed madly, crowing with joy, and Anouk watched with solemn delight.

‘That was the best present ever,’ she said.

‘There’s more,’ said Roux. ‘Just follow me.’

We walked down Boulevard de la Bastille towards the Port de l’Arsenal, where boats of all sizes are moored in safety away from the swell and turbulence of the Seine.

‘She said you didn’t have a boat.’ It was the first time Anouk had mentioned Zozie since the events at Le Rocher de Montmartre.

Roux grinned. ‘Look for yourself.’ And he pointed over the Pont Morland.

Anouk stood on tiptoe, eyes wide. ‘Which one’s yours?’ she said eagerly.

‘Can’t you guess?’ said Roux.

There are more impressive river-boats moored along the Arsenal. The port takes crafts up to twenty-five metres, and this one is no more than half that size. It is old, I can see that from here, built more for comfort than speed, and its shape is old-fashioned, less sleek than its neighbours, with a hull made out of solid wood rather than modern fibreglass.

And yet Roux’s boat stands out at once. Even from some distance away, there is something about the shape of it, the brightly painted hull, the plant pots clustered at the stern, the glass roof through which to see the stars—

‘That’s yours?’ says Anouk.

‘You like it? There’s more. Wait here,’ says Roux, and we see him racing down the steps towards the boat moored down by the bridge.