La Céleste Praline. Intriguing name. Vianne Rocher enjoyed her share of whimsy; though you wouldn’t think it to see her now. In those days she was unafraid; wore red shoes and jangling bracelets and long, wild hair like a comic-book gypsy. Not entirely a beauty, perhaps – her mouth is too large, her eyes not entirely wide enough – but any witch worth her spell-book could tell that she was alight with glamours. Glamours to change the course of lives; glamours to charm, to heal, to hide.

So – what happened?

Witches don’t just quit, Vianne. Skills like ours beg to be used.

I watch her as she works in the back, making her truffles, her chocolate liqueurs. Her colours have brightened since we first met, and now that I know where to look, I see the magic in everything she does. And yet she seems unaware of this, as if she could blind herself to what she is by simply ignoring it long enough, the way she ignores her children’s totems. Vianne is no fool – so why does she behave like one? And what will it take to open her eyes?

She spent this morning in the back room; a scent of baking drifted through. In front – a pot of chocolate. In less than a week, the place has altered almost beyond recognition. Our table and chairs, hand-printed by the children, give the place a holiday look. There is something of the schoolyard in those primary colours, and however neatly they are aligned, there’s always a vague impression of disorder. There are pictures on the wall now: framed, embroidered sari squares in hot pink and lemon yellow. There are two old armchairs rescued from a skip; the springs are shot, and the legs are bowed. But I have made them comfortable, using nothing but a couple of metres of plush fabric, in a fuchsia leopard print, and some gold material from a charity shop.

Annie loves them, and so do I. But for our size, we might almost be a little café from one of the trendier quarters of Paris – and the timing couldn’t be better for us.

Two days ago, Le P’tit Pinson was closed down (not quite unexpectedly) following an unfortunate food-poisoning incident and a visit from the health inspector. I’ve heard say that Laurent has at least a month’s worth of cleaning and refurbishment before he’s allowed to reopen the café; which means that his Christmas clientèle is likely to suffer.

So he ate the chocolates after all. Poor Laurent. The Hurakan works in mysterious ways. And some people bring these things down on themselves, as lightning-rods draw the lightning.

Still, all the more for us, I say. We don’t have a licence for alcohol, but hot chocolate, cakes, biscuits, macaroons – and of course the siren-call of bitter truffle, mocha liqueurs, dipped strawberries, walnut cluster, apricot cup—