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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

I’ve tried to thank her, but she just laughs, as if working here were a kind of game, something she does for fun, not money. I’ve offered to pay her properly, but so far she has always refused, although now the closure of Le P’tit Pinson means that once more she’s out of a job.

I mentioned it again today.

‘You deserve a proper wage, Zozie,’ I said. ‘You’re doing far more now than just helping out occasionally.’

She shrugged. ‘Right now you can’t afford to pay anyone a full wage.’

‘But seriously . . .’

‘Seriously.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘You, Madame Charbonneau, should stop worrying about other people and look after Number One for a change.’

I laughed at that. ‘Zozie, you’re an angel.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She grinned. ‘Now shall we get back to those chocolates?’

3

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Wednesday, 21st November

IT’S FUNNY, THE difference a sign can make. Of course, mine was more of a beacon, of sorts, shining out into the Paris streets.

Try me. Taste me. Test me.

It works; today we saw strangers and regulars alike, and no one left without something – a gift box, beribboned, or some little treat. A sugar mouse; a brandied plum; a handful of mendiants or a kilo of our bitterest truffles, packed loosely in their cocoa powder like chocolate bombs ready to explode.

Of course it’s still too early to claim success. The locals, especially, will take longer to seduce. But already I sense a turn in the tide. By Christmas, we will own them all.

And to think I first assumed there was nothing for me here. This place is a gift. It draws them in. And think of what we could collect – not just the money, but the stories, the people, the lives—

We? Well, of course. I’m prepared to share. Three of us – four, if we count Rosette – each of us with our own special skills. We could be extraordinary. She’s done it before, in Lansquenet. She covered her trail, but not well enough. That name – Vianne Rocher – and the small details I have gleaned from Annie were enough to plot her trajectory. The rest was easy: a few long-distance telephone calls, some back editions of a local newspaper, dated four years ago; one of them showing a grainy, yellowed photograph of Vianne, smiling brashly from the doorway of a chocolate shop, while a tousled someone – Annie, of course – looks out from beneath her outstretched arm.