The Lollipop Shoes Read Online Free PDF

is the colour of fresh pumpkin and her tiny face, no bigger than a gooseegg, is a blur of apricot freckles. An unremarkable little family, at least on the surface; and yet I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that there was something more that I couldn’t quite see, some subtle illumination not unlike my own—
    Now that , I thought, would be worth collecting.
    She looked at her watch. ‘Annie!’ she called.
    At the end of the street Annie waved her arms in what might have been exuberance or revolt. In her wake, a gleam of butterfly-blue confirms my impression of something to hide. The little one, too, has more than a hint of illumination, and as for the mother—
    ‘You’re married?’ I said.
    ‘I’m a widow,’ she said. ‘Three years ago. Before I moved here.’
    ‘Really,’ I said.
    I don’t think so. It takes more than a black coat and a wedding ring to make a widow, and Yanne Charbonneau (if that’s her name) doesn’t look like a widow to me. To others, perhaps, but I can see more.
    So why the lie? This is Paris, for pity’s sake – here, no one is judged on the absence of a wedding band. So what little secret is she hiding? And is it worth my finding out?
    ‘It must be hard, running a shop. Here, of all places.’ Montmartre, that strange little stone island with its tourists and artists and open drains, and beggars and strip-clubs under the linden trees, and nightly stabbings down among the pretty streets.
    She gave a smile. ‘It’s not so bad.’
    ‘Really?’ I said. ‘But now that Madame Poussin’s gone—’
    She looked away. ‘The landlord’s a friend. He won’t throw us out.’ I thought I saw her flush a little.
    ‘Good business here?’
    ‘It could be worse.’
    Tourists, ever on the lookout for overpriced tat.
    ‘Oh, it’s never going to make us a fortune—’
    As I thought. Barely worthwhile. She’s putting a brave face on it, but I can see the cheap skirt; the frayed hem on the child’s good coat; the faded, illegible wooden sign above the chocolaterie door.
    And yet there is something oddly attractive about the crowded shop window with its piles of boxes and tins, and its Hallowe’en witches in darkest chocolate and coloured straw, and plump marzipan pumpkins and maple-candy skulls just glimpsed beneath the half-closed shutter.
    There was a scent, too – a smoky scent of apples and burnt sugar, vanilla and rum and cardamom and chocolate. I don’t even really like chocolate; and yet I could feel my mouth watering.
    Try me. Taste me.
    With my fingers I made the sign of the Smoking Mirror – known as the Eye of Black Tezcatlipoca – and the window seemed to glow briefly.
    Uneasy, the woman seemed to sense the flare, and the child in her arms gave a silent mew of laughter and held out her hand—
    Curious, I thought.
    ‘Do you make all the chocolates yourself?’
    ‘I used to, once. But not any more.’
    ‘It can’t be easy.’
    ‘I manage,’ she said.
    Hm. Interesting.
    But does she manage? Will she continue to manage nowthe old woman’s dead? Somehow I doubt it. Oh, she looks capable enough, with her stubborn mouth and her steady gaze. But there’s a weakness inside her, in spite of all that. A weakness – or perhaps a strength.
    You have to be strong to live as she does; to bring up two children alone in Paris; to work all hours in a business that brings in, if she’s lucky, just enough to cover the rent. But the weakness – that’s another matter. That child, for a start. She fears for her. Fears for them both, clings to them as if the wind might blow them away.
    I know what you’re thinking. Why should I care?
    Well, call me curious if you like. I trade in secrets, after all. Secrets, small treacheries, acquisition, inquisition, thefts both petty and grandiose, lies, damn lies, prevarications, hidden depths, still waters, cloaks and daggers, secret doors, clandestine meetings, holes and corners, covert operations and misappropriation of property, information