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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

There can be no harm in a batch of truffles. Or a tray of mendiants, or a cake or two. The Kindly Ones do not concern themselves with such trivial things as chocolates.

Or so I hope – as with every day Vianne Rocher, Sylviane Caillou and even Yanne Charbonneau recede more safely into the past, becoming smoke, becoming history, a footnote, names upon a faded list.

The ring upon my right hand feels strange against fingers long accustomed to being bare. That name – Le Tresset – feels even stranger. I try it on, as if for size, halfway between a smile and not.

Yanne le Tresset.

It’s just a name.

Bullshit, says Roux, that veteran name-changer, shapeshifter, gypsy and pinpointer of home truths. It’s not just a name. It’s a sentence.

2

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Thursday, 15th November

SO THERE IT is. She’s wearing his ring. Thierry, of all people – Thierry, who doesn’t like her hot chocolate, or know anything about her, not even her real name. She says she hasn’t made any plans. She says she’s still getting used to it. Wearing it like a pair of shoes that need breaking in before they feel right.

A simple wedding, Maman says. A registry office, no priest, no church. But we know better. He’ll get his way. The whole hog, with Rosette and me in matching frocks. It’s going to be terrible.

I said so to Zozie, and she pulled a face and said each to his own, which was a laugh, really, because no one in their right mind could imagine that those two could ever be really in love.

Well, maybe he does. What does he know? He came round again last night and took us out – not to P’tit Pinson, this time, but to an expensive place on the river, where we could see the boats go by. I wore a dress, and he said I looked very nice, but I ought to have brushed my hair, and Zozie looked after Rosette at the shop, because Thierry said it wasn’t a suitable place for a small child (though we all knew that wasn’t the real reason).

Maman was wearing the ring he’d given her. A great, fat, hateful diamond, perched on her hand like a shiny bug. She doesn’t wear it in the shop (it gets in the way of everything), and last night she kept playing with it, twisting it round and round on her finger, as if it felt uncomfortable.