I could feel the nervous tension in her, banked and ready to explode. It was surely not the loss of the dish – in my experience women like Yanne Charbonneau don’t go to pieces over a bit of broken glass. But the oddest things can trigger the blast: a bad day, a headache, the kindness of strangers.

And then I saw it from the corner of my eye, hunched beneath the counter-top.

It was a bright orange-gold, and clumsily drawn, but it was clear enough from the long curly tail and bright little eyes that it was supposed to be some kind of monkey. I turned abruptly to see it face-on, and it bared its pointed teeth at me before blinking back into empty air.

‘Bam,’ said Rosette.

There was a long, long silence.

I picked up the dish – it was blue Murano glass, delicately fluted at the edges. I’d heard it smash like the sound of firecrackers going off; scattering shrapnel across the tiles. And yet here it was, unbroken in my hand. No accident.

Bam, I thought.

Under my feet I could still feel the spilled bonbons grinding like teeth. And now Yanne Charbonneau was watching me in a fearful silence that spun and spun like a silk cocoon.

I could have said, well, that was lucky, or just put back the dish without a word, but it was now or never, I told myself. Strike at once, while resistance is low. There may not be another chance.

And so I stood up, looked Yanne straight in the eyes and levelled at her all the charm that I could muster.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I know what you need.’

For a moment she stiffened and held my gaze, her expression all defiance and haughty incomprehension.

Then I took her arm, and smiled.

‘Hot chocolate,’ I told her gently. ‘Hot chocolate, to my special recipe. Chilli and nutmeg, with Armagnac and a dash of black pepper. Come on. No arguments. Bring the brat.’

Silently she followed me into the kitchen.

I was in.

PART THREE

Two Rabbit

1

Wednesday, 14th November

I NEVER WANTED to be a witch. Never even dreamed of it – though my mother swore she could hear me calling months before I appeared on the scene. I don’t remember that, of course. My early childhood was a blur of places, scents and people passing fast as trains; crossing borders without papers; travelling under different names; leaving cheap hotels at night; seeing the dawn in a new place every day, and running, always running, even then. As if the only way to survive was to run through every artery, vein, capillary on the map, leaving nothing – not even our shadows – behind.

You choose your family, Mother said. My father had apparently not been chosen.

‘What would we need with him, Vianne? Fathers don’t count. It’s just you and me.’