“Not exactly,” I say. “That was Sebastian Eels. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s an author, and a bit of a local celebrity. He’s a bit full of himself, too, if you ask me.”

“You’re not being rude about my customers, are you, Herbie?” says a Scottish voice I know well. A woman with tumbling red hair and a green dress is leaning out of the doorway, pulling a shawl around herself.

“Sorry, Mrs Hanniver. We were just coming to see you,” I say, though I notice Violet is still staring after Sebastian Eels with an odd look on her face.

“Well, come and see me a bit faster then, and close the door behind you,” says Mrs Hanniver. “It’s as cold as Neptune out there.”

Inside the shop, a cheery fire blazes in a black marble fireplace. We shuffle out of our borrowed coats.

“So, Herbie Lemon, has someone lost something in my dispensary? And is this, perhaps, the girl who lost it?”

“Not exactly,” I say, holding my hands to the fire. “This is Violet. Violet, meet Jenny Hanniver. She owns this place.”

Violet says hello, but she’s distracted, gazing around the shop in amazement. I remember how it feels to visit the Eerie Book Dispensary for the first time, and to see the sagging floor-to-ceiling shelves – colour-coded and stuffed with all manner of books, seemingly in no order at all. I can remember the book I got, too, but that’s another story…

“Ah, Violet,” says Jenny Hanniver. “I see that Erwin likes you.”

I look down and, sure enough, the dispensary’s cat, Erwin, is curling himself around Violet’s legs.

Mrs Hanniver scoops him up, a mass of snow-white fur and two ice-blue eyes in her arms. “A good sign. Cats can always tell.”

“Tell what?” says Violet, stroking the cat’s head.

But Mrs Hanniver just smiles.

“Violet’s got something to ask you,” I say, because the silence is a bit awkward. “Or show you, I mean.”

“Oh, yes.” Violet reaches into her pullover and pulls the ribbon over her head. “This.”

And she hands over her mermonkey card.

“So you’ve been here before,” Jenny says, turning the card in her hand.

Violet shrugs. “Maybe. My dad’s a writer, so perhaps you know him? His name is Peter Parma.”

“Peter?” Jenny blinks. “Wait, your name is Violet Parma?”

Violet nods. “You … you know me?”

“Know you? Not exactly. But I held you in my arms once, when you were a baby. Many years ago.”

“You do know my parents then?” Violet’s voice rises with excitement. “And my mother? You knew my mum?”

“I met her; it’s not quite the same thing. Your parents consulted my mermonkey, as many do. And they went missing soon after.” She holds up the card. “This, I presume, is the book prescription they were given?”