Page 22 of Vianne

Magic has no rules. Sometimes it comes from the vapour in a pan; or reflections in a pool; or words whispered on the wind.

Sometimes it comes from an accidental combination of elements: a spread of cards; a handful of runes; the juxtaposition of objects.

And sometimes we can call magic from the very humblest of places; words at random in a book.

A novel, a grimoire, a bible, perhaps. Maybe even a cookbook.

I consult the binder of recipes as I would a deck of cards.

First, I draw her bouillabaisse, the very first recipe I learnt.

A good and warming recipe, made with love and industry.

Next comes a dish of foie gras with prunes; a dish from the regional south-west that I would never think to make; a memory of childhood, perhaps, from her years in Bergerac.

Then comes a dish of chestnuts with beans; of boar stuffed with wild cherries.

These land recipes are no good to Louis.

Coastal Marseille is not the place to make this very regional food.

But Margot still keeps them, and here too I hear her voice.

Straining to read in the moonlight, I find something else in the recipe book, tucked into the binding. I pull it out, unfold it. It looks like a loose page of recipes. But unlike the rest of Margot’s book, it is closely written; cramped; the writing almost too small to make out.

Spice to ease a restless heart: Take cardamom, cinnamon; vanilla, star anise, chilli.

Burn a eucalyptus leaf to dispel worries and unquiet thoughts.

For true love: Light a red candle at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve.

Add the heart of a pomegranate, a feather from the breast of a dove.

Say his name three times, with love, and love will surely come to you.

And as I read, I understand that these are not recipes, but spells .

A spell to summon courage : A pinch of Dragon’s Blood, dissolved in a cup of water.

Another one, for making friends – pink candle, lavender and nutmeg, lit at moonrise with the prayer Come, friend , and a meditation on Isis .

And here, most poignantly, a spell to welcome a child into the world and to give it a safe delivery: Burn a white candle with sandalwood; holy water; cup of wine.

Broken bread at the threshold of the home and the bedroom.

Scatter salt around the house to ward off evil spirits.

Sing a gentle lullaby to make the child feel welcome.

So, our Margot is a witch. Not in the way my mother was, but in a hopeful, eager way that feels almost heartbreaking.

Here’s her spell for a broken heart – scattered seeds, blue candle, meditation to Bonne Mère in her incarnation as the Mother.

And under that, a note to herself: Some men are afraid to be loved; even more afraid to love. Cyrano would have understood.

Cyrano de Bergerac. The man who loved in secret. What is she trying to tell me here? What did she hope to conjure with these hedge-witch spells and enchantments?

Turning over the close-written sheet, I find a list of names on the back. Raphael. Lo?c. Alexian. Francois. Henriot. Jean-Louis. Pierre-Emile. Bienheureux. And finally, Edmond , underlined, alongside a little drawing of church bells and a cradle.

Sing a gentle lullaby to make the child feel welcome.

And now I think I understand the secret sadness in her. Poor Margot, who would have been such a good mother, given the chance. Poor Margot, who turned to spells and potions when prayer failed.

And now, in the moonlight, I see her, standing by the kitchen door; hair tied loosely from her face, eyes filled with reflections.

She looks so real, so present that I could almost touch her.

She reaches out a hand, and I see that she is holding a tiny pair of knitted bootees, just like the ones I bought from the old lady on Rue du Panier, except that these are not pink, but blue – blue as the Virgin’s mantle.

Edmond. His name is Edmond , she says, and her voice is so close that she might be standing directly behind me. Vianne, his name is Edmond. Vianne. Find him. Find him. Bring him home.

What does this mean? Did she have a child? If so, Louis has never mentioned it. And yet, the drawing, the baby bootees – and perhaps most importantly, his name – all suggest that maybe she did. Who was Edmond? Was he real? Or was he a lonely woman’s dream, a conjuration by moonlight?

But Margot has already gone. Her scent – a smudge of lavender – still lingers in the gilded air.

But the words on the page are real, and the spell to call a child into the world.

And now, as I think of my own child – my Anouk, who feels so real – I wonder, with a pang of unease, if she too might just be a dream?