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Her mother had been dead for eight years, and she was making pancakes.

It was Saturday 17 October, half past twelve, the first day of the October half-term. Ambre was on her way back from Zélie's in La Madeleine, her sleeping bag under her arm, running on three hours' sleep. She had shouldered the door open, thrown her keys into the bowl in the hall, called out “It's me” without waiting for an answer.

It smelt of hot butter.

Nadia never made pancakes. Nadia said the pancake pan was a museum piece.