Page 21 of Vianne

The soupe au pistou was not a success. Emile, especially, complained, saying that soup was an old woman’s meal, and that men needed proper nourishment.

‘You’ll need to know that, if you ever want to find a man yourself,’ he said, as I brought him his second helping of dessert. ‘A pretty face is one thing, but a generous hand in the kitchen, well —’ He paused to inspect his apple bourdon . ‘What’s this stuff on top of it?’

‘Toasted brown sugar and cinnamon, just to give the apple some spice.’

‘Hm. Not bad. I guess it’ll do.’ Emile never makes compliments. To him, to finish is praise enough; anything else is indulgence. But Louis did not take dessert today, and once more refused my hot chocolate, saying: ‘I have to watch my weight. You’ll turn me into a pig at this rate.’

Of course, this has nothing to do with his weight.

Something happened in Allée du Pieu; something that has to do with my friends, and with the chocolaterie.

His silent disapproval feels like a piece of barbed-wire thread, twisted into a ball of wool.

It’s nothing to do with the chocolate, either; it’s something to do with that herbalist’s, and the fire that gutted the building.

I have tried to find out more, but no one seems to know very much.

Simply that Allée du Pieu is bad news, and that no business succeeds there.

I read the cards again tonight. I drew those seven cards again, but in a different order.

Change. Flanked with the Hermit, it seems to relate to Louis, a man embedded in grief, slowly emerging into the light.

The Fool, with his perpetual smile, reminds me of Guy – an innocent, buoyed with plans and optimism.

And the Six of Swords, like the Tower, means grief: the grief of my mother’s death, perhaps, or maybe something yet to come, something still more ruinous.

I wish I could see her. I miss her so much. Help me. Help me understand.

The box still smells of sandalwood and the dust of a thousand spices.

Lavender, to bring restful sleep; St John’s Wort, to banish care; ginger, to ease troubled blood; chamomile, for joint aches.

My mother knew their names, their medicinal applications.

I wonder what she would have made of Guy’s xocolatl.

Magic, I have learnt, is as simple or as complicated as you make it.

We all long for the power to change our world, our lives, and sometimes even ourselves, which is why transformation plays such a part in stories of magic.

Straw into gold, water into wine, a life of drudgery into a life of happiness and prosperity.

Perhaps that’s why we so often seek some kind of magic to bring it about.

A magic wand. A religion. But magic isn’t really about changing frogs into princes.

Sometimes, all you need to bring about the change you need is to see the world in a different way – to show the world a new face – a new name.

That’s why the words for magic are so often linked with qualities that we see in other people.

Charm . Glamour . Charisma . And, far from needing a magic wand, we already have the potential to change; it’s just that we don’t always dare to.

That’s why we invest objects and rituals with significance – a set of Tarot cards, a spell, a special spoon, a wafer – not because those things are magical in themselves, but as an aid to focus.

Focus, Vianne. Try to see.

But I see nothing in her cards, except her disapproval.

Magic is our gift, she says, not to be wasted on others.

I have allowed myself to become attached – to Louis, to Guy, to Mahmed, and most especially, to Margot – a mistake she would never have permitted.

As a result, her Tarot cards are lifeless beneath my fingers.

Outside, the voice of the turning tide is like the sound of a sharpened blade.

The wind is changing. Time to move on. The cards, like you, are frozen. Stay too long in one place, Vianne, and soon you’ll be rooted to the spot; helpless as a flightless bird; a gift to any predator.

It’s the voice that has been with me all my life.

But that’s the voice of her fear, not mine.

A fear that kept us on the move for eighteen years, across continents.

A fear that I refuse to pass on to my Anouk, when she is born.

There is no Man in Black any more; the wind has no power over us.

And if the cards refuse to speak, then I shall find my truth elsewhere.

In a handwritten cookbook, perhaps, or in a jar of chocolate.

Be careful, ’Viane. My mother’s voice on the night wind sounds like the lonely cry of an owl. Don’t do this. It’s dangerous. Stop, while you still have a choice. Fixing other people’s lives only leaves you broken.

But I don’t think that’s true, Maman. We can mend each other.

A kindness is never wasted, nor a word of comfort lost. And I think I know where to find them now; the answers I am looking for.

Not in the cards, but in a kinder, more domestic magic.

Barefoot in the kitchen, I pull the cookbook from the shelf.

I open the book at a random page; trying to focus; trying to see .