BooksBarbecue
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

The names and symbols of One Jaguar and Rabbit Moon, written in marker on the bottom of her schoolbag, ought to take care of her social skills; but I think she needs a little more. And so I give her the Hurakan, or Hurricane, the Vengeful One, to make up for all those times of being It.

Not that Annie would think so, of course. There’s a regrettable lack of malice in the child, and all she really wants is for everyone to be friends. I’m sure I can cure her of that, however. Revenge is an addictive drug, which, once tasted, is seldom forgotten. After all, I should know.

Now I’m not in the business of granting wishes. In my game, it’s every witch for herself. But Annie is a genuine rarity – a plant, which, if nurtured, may produce spectacular blossom. In any case, there’s precious little opportunity to be creative in my line of work. Most of my cases are easy to crack; there’s no need for craftsmanship when a cantrip will do just as well.

Besides, for once, I can sympathize. I remember what it was like to be It every day. I remember the joy of settling scores.

This is going to be a pleasure.

4

image Missing

Saturday, 17th November

THE FAT YOUNG man who never shuts up is called Nico. He told me so this afternoon, coming in to investigate. Yanne had just finished a batch of coconut truffles, and the whole place smelt of them; that mulled, earthy scent that catches at the throat. I think I said I don’t like chocolate – and yet that scent, so like the incense in my mother’s shop, sweet and rich and troubling, acts upon me like a drug, making me reckless, impulsive – making me want to interfere.

‘Hey, lady! Like your shoes. Great shoes. Fabulous shoes.’ That’s Fat Nico; a man in his twenties, I’d say at a guess, but weighing a good three hundred pounds, with curly hair to his shoulders and a puffy, screwed-up face like that of a giant baby, perpetually on the brink of laughter or tears.

‘Why, thank you,’ I said. Actually they’re among my favourites: high-heeled pumps from the 1950s in faded green velvet, with ribbons and crystal buckles on the toes . . .

You can often tell a person by their shoes. His were two-tone, black and white; good shoes but downtrodden like slippers at the heel, as if he couldn’t be bothered to put them on properly. Still lives at home, so I would guess – a mummy’s boy if ever I saw one – rebelling quietly through his shoes.