Chocolat by Joanne Harris

pedalling as, his master scratches his belly. “The vet says there’s nothing to be done.”
           I begin to understand the look of guilt and love I see in Guillaume’s eyes.
           “You wouldn’t put an old man to sleep,” he tells me earnestly. “Not if he still had”— he struggles for words “some quality of life. Charly doesn’t suffer. Not really.”
           I nod, aware he is trying to convince himself. “The drugs keep it under control.”
           For the moment. The words ring out unspoken.
           “When the time comes, I’ll know.”
           His eyes are soft and horrified. “I’ll know what to do. I won’t be afraid.”
           I top up his chocolate-glass without a word and sprinkle the froth with cocoa powder, but Guillaume is too busy with his dog to see. Charly rolls onto his back, head lolling.
           “M’sieur le Cure says animals don’t have souls,” says Guillaume softly. “He says I should put Charly out of his misery.”
           “Everything has a soul,” I answer. “That’s what my mother used to tell me. Everything.”
           He nods, alone in his circle of fear and guilt. “What would I do without him?” he asks, face still turned towards the dog, and I understand he has forgotten my presence. “What would I do without you?”
           Behind the counter I clench my fist in silent rage. I know that look — fear, guilt, covetousness — I know it well. It is the look on my mother’s face the night of the Black Man. His words — What would I do without you? — are the words she whispered to me all through that miserable night. As I glance into my mirror last thing in the evening, as I awake with the growing fear — knowledge, certainty — that my own daughter is slipping away from me, that I am losing her, that I will lose her if I do not find The Place…it is the look on my own.
           I put my arms around Guillaume. For a second he tenses, unused to female contact. Then he relaxes. I can feel the strength of his distress coming from him in waves.
           “Vianne,” he says softly. “Vianne.”
           “It’s all right to feel this way,” I tell him firmly. “It’s allowed.”
           Beneath us, Charly barks his indignation.
           We made close to three hundred francs today. For the first time, enough to break even. I told Anouk when she came home from school, but she looked distracted, her bright face unusually still. Her eyes were heavy, dark as the cloudline of an oncoming storm.
           I asked her what was wrong.
           “It’s Jeannot.”
           Her voice was toneless. “His mother says he can’t play with me any more.”
           I remembered Jeannot as Wolf Suit in the Mardi Gras carnival, a lanky seven-year-old with shaggy hair and a suspicious expression. He and Anouk played together in the square last night, running and shouting arcane war cries, until the light failed. His mother is Joline Drou, one of the two primary teachers, a crony of Caroline Clairmont.
           “Oh?” Neutrally. “What does she say?”
           “She says I’m a bad influence.”
           She flicked a dark glance at me. “Because we don’t go to church. Because you opened on Sunday.”
           You opened on Sunday.
           I looked at her. I wanted to take her in my arms, but her rigid, hostile stance alarmed me. I made my voice very calm.
           “And what does Jeannot think?” I asked gently.
           “He can’t do anything. She’s always there. Watching.”
           Anouk’s voice rose shrilly and I guessed she was close to tears. “Why does this always have to happen?” she demanded. “Why don’t I ever—” She broke off with an effort, her thin chest hitching.
           “You have other friends.” It was true; there had been four or five of them last night, the