Joanne Harris - The Girl with No Shadow (published in the UK as The Lollipop Shoes)

To A. F. H.

Acknowledgments iv

PART ONE Death

PART TWO One Jaguar

PART THREE Two Rabbit

PART FOUR Change

PART FIVE Advent

PART SIX The Kindly Ones

PART SEVEN The Tower

PART EIGHT Yule

About the Author

Other Books by Joanne Harris

Credits

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

Acknowledgments

Once again, heartfelt thanks to everyone who helped guide this book from baby steps to walking in heels. To Serafina Clarke, Jennifer Luithlen, Brie Burkeman, and Peter Robinson and Michael Carlisle; to my fabulous editor, Jennifer Brehl, and her assistant, Katherine Nintzel; to Ervin Serrano for his wonderful cover design, and to Betty Lew for her elegant page design; to my terrific publicists, Sharyn Rosenblum and Jamie Brickhouse, and to all my friends at William Morrow/HarperCollins, New York. Many thanks also to Laura Grandi in Milan and to Francesca Liversidge and everyone at Transworld, London. Thanks, too, to my P.A., Anne Riley; to Mark Richards for running the website; to Kevin for running everything; to Anouchka for enchiladas and Kill Bill; to Joolz, Anouchkas evil aunt, and to Christopher, Our Man in London. Special thanks go to Martin Myers, super-rep, who saved my sanity this Christmas, as well as to all the loyal reps, booksellers, librarians, and readers who ensure that my books are still kept on the shelves.

P ART O NE

Death

Wednesday, 31 October

Da de los Muertos

It is a relatively little-known fact that, over the course of a single year, about twenty million letters are delivered to the dead. People forget to stop the mailthose grieving widows and prospective heirsand so magazine subscriptions remain uncanceled; distant friends unnotified; library fines unpaid. Thats twenty million circulars, bank statements, credit cards, love letters, junk mail, greetings, gossip and bills dropping daily onto doormats or parquet floors, thrust casually through railings, wedged into letter boxes, accumulating in stairwells, left unwanted on porches and steps, never to reach their addressee. The dead dont care. More importantly, neither do the living. The living just follow their petty concerns, quite unaware that very close by, a miracle is taking place. The dead are coming back to life.

It doesnt take much to raise the dead. A couple of bills; a name; a post-code; nothing that cant be found in any old domestic garbage bag, torn apart (perhaps by foxes) and left on the doorstep like a gift. You can learn a lot from abandoned mail: names, bank details, passwords, e-mail addresses, security codes. With the right combination of personal details you can open up a bank account; hire a car; even apply for a new passport. The dead dont need such things anymore. A gift, as I said, just waiting for collection.

Sometimes Fate even delivers in person, and it always pays to be alert. Carpe diem, and devil the hindmost. Which is why I always read the obituaries, sometimes managing to acquire the identity even before the funeral has taken place. And which is why, when I saw the sign, and beneath it the postbox with its packet of le tters, I accepted the gift with a gracious smile.

Of course, it wasnt my postbox. The postal service here is better than most, and letters are rarely misdelivered. Its one more reason I prefer Paris; that and the food, the wine, the theaters, the shops, and the virtually unlimited opportunities. But Paris coststhe overheads are extraordinaryand besides, Id been itching for some time to reinvent myself again. Id been playing it safe for nearly two months, teaching in a lyce in the eleventh arrondissement, but in the wake of the recent troubles there Id decided at last to make a clean break (taking with me twenty-five thousand euros worth of departmental funds, to be delivered into an account opened in the name of an ex-colleague and to be removed discreetly, over a couple of weeks), and had a look at apartments to rent.

First, I tried the Left Bank. The properties there were out of my league; but the girl from the agency didnt know that. So, with an English accent and going by the name of Emma Windsor, with my Mulberry handbag tucked negligently into the crook of my arm and the delicious whisper of Prada around my silk-stockinged calves, I was able to spend a pleasant morning window-shopping.

Id asked to view only empty properties. There were several along the Left Bank: deep-roomed apartments overlooking the river; mansion flats with roof gardens; penthouses with parquet floors.

With some regret, I rejected them all, though I couldnt resist picking up a couple of useful items on the way. A magazine, still in its wrapper, containing the customer number of its intended recipient; several circulars; and at one place, gold: a bankers card in the name of Amlie Deauxville, which needs nothing but a phone call for me to activate.

I left the girl my mobile number. The phone account belongs to Nolle Marcelin, whose identity I acquired some months ago. Her payments are quite up-to-datethe poor woman died last year, aged ninety-fourbut it means that anyone tracing my calls will have some difficulty finding me. My Internet account, too, is in her name and remains fully paid up. Nolle is too precious for me to lose. But she will never be my main identity. For a start, I dont want to be ninety-four. And Im tired of getting all those advertisements for stairlifts.

My last public persona was Franoise Lavery, a teacher of English at the Lyce Rousseau in the eleventh. Age thirty-two; born in Nantes; married and widowed in the same year to Raoul Lavery, killed in a car crash on the eve of their anniversarya rather romantic touch, I thought, that explained her faint air of melancholy. A strict vegetarian, rather shy, diligent, but not talented enough to be a threat. All in all, a nice girlwhich just goes to show you should never judge by appearances.

Today, however, Im someone else. Twenty-five thousand euros is no small sum, and theres always the chance that someone will begin to suspect the truth. Most people dontmost people wouldnt notice a crime if it was going on right in front of thembut I havent got this far by taking risks, and Ive found that its safer to stay on the move.

So I travel lighta battered leather case and a Sony laptop containing the makings of over a hundred possible identitiesand I can be packed, cleaned out, all traces gone in rather less than an afternoon.

Thats how Franoise disappeared. I burned her papers, correspondence, bank details, notes. I closed all accounts in her name. Books, clothes, furniture, and the rest I gave to the Croix Rouge. It never pays to gather moss.

After that I needed to find myself anew. I booked into a cheap hotel, paid on Amlies credit card, changed out of Emmas clothes, and went shopping.

Franoise was a dowdy type, sensible heels and neat chignons. My new persona, however, has a different style. Zozie de lAlba is her nameshe is vaguely foreign, though you might be hard-pressed to tell her country of origin. Shes as flamboyant as Franoise was notwears costume jewelry in her hair; loves bright colors and frivolous shapes; favors bazaars and vintage shops, and would never be seen dead in sensible shoes.

The change was neatly executed. I entered a shop as Franoise Lavery, in a gray twinset and a string of fake pearls. Ten minutes later, I left as someone else.

The problem remains: where to go? The Left Bank, though tempting, is out of the question, though I believe Amlie Deauxville may be good for a few thousand more before I have to ditch her. I have other sources too, of course, not including my most recentMadame Beauchamp, the secretary in charge of departmental finances at my erstwhile place of work.