Page 70 of The Strawberry Thief
Rosette is sitting on the floor, in the last late bar of sunlight. Around her, spread out on the boards, there are sheets from her sketch-pad, and pencils, and colours, and something else – a tattoo kit, with a pen and a cup and something like a power-supply.
She does not look up when I come in, but says in a strange, but very clear voice: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Maman.’
It’s a voice I’ve never heard before. Low, like the sound of waves on a beach, and though strange, it’s not quite unfamiliar. I’ve heard something like it before, in dreams, and on the wind of the carnival, and in between the boats on the Seine, and through the leaves of autumn trees. It’s not unlike my mother’s voice, or mine, or maybe even Anouk’s – but to hear it now, after all this time, from Rosette, makes me shiver.
‘You’re talking,’ I say. ‘How can that be?’
She looks at me without smiling. Her eyes are like a hatful of stars. ‘Is it true, what you did?’ she says, and now I can hear the voice of the wind, speaking through my daughter. ‘Is it true you stole my voice, so you could keep me with you?’
For a moment I contemplate lying to my daughter. But there is no point, not now that she knows. My daughters are not like other girls. My daughters see more than other girls see. My daughters are children of the wind, and only the wind can claim them.
‘I wanted to keep you safe, Rosette. I love you.’
‘Love is never safe.’
She smiles. It might be Anouk speaking. First Anouk, and now Rosette. The wind has taken everything. She indicates the drawings spread out on the dusty wooden floor. I see a drawing of a lake, with ducks, and a hidden hunter. Morgane’s tattoo pen is by her side, plugged into its power pack.
‘What are you doing with that?’
She shrugs. ‘I’ve been learning to use it.’
‘What for?’
‘Because it’s a kind of magic,’ she says. ‘Ancient people all over the world tattooed their bodies to honour the gods. Some believed that a tattoo could reveal the shape of the soul.’
They are almost Morgane’s words, and the voice is almost Morgane’s voice, or mine, or Anouk’s, or my mother’s. It strikes me that our voices havealwaysbeen very similar. We are the daughters of the wind: the wind blows through us, like it or not.
‘Where’s Morgane?’ I say.
‘She’s gone.’
‘Why did she leave you her instruments?’
She looks at me. Her eyes are dark as the cloudline of an oncoming storm. ‘Because I see things. We all do. We see the thing that others need. Sometimes we even give it to them. Let me show you what I can do.’
I sit down next to her on the floor. I want to tell her so many things. But now I am the one with no voice, and the wind is tearing me apart, scattering me like feathers.
‘Don’t cry, Maman,’ says Rosette.
I’m not crying. I never cry. How easily power passes from one generation to another. Yesterday, Rosette was my child; today, in an instant, I am hers. I put my head on her shoulder and close my eyes. I want to sleep. I want to sleep in a feather bed until the end of everything.
‘What do you want to show me?’ I say.
Rosette puts a hand on my hair. ‘Later, Maman. Be patient. Right now, I want to tell you a story.’
