Noel rolls his eyes. ‘You two are incorrigible, you know that, don’t you? Leah hasn’t been here forty-eight hours yet and you’ve wheedled god knows how many trees out of her.’

‘Sounds painful. Here, have a gingerbread fire extinguisher to make up for it.’ Fergus produces two wrapped biscuits from his cardigan pocket and hands us one each.

‘It’ll be a great way to spread the word,’ Fiona says. ‘And will you be selling your trees here too? What a brilliant way of advertising, we can put a sign out telling everyone exactly where your stall is.’

‘And we all know the market’s in trouble. If we’re going out, at least we’re going out with a Christmas tree-scented bang. That artificial thing was a mess last year. It dropped more shiny plastic pieces than a real tree would drop needles.’

‘I think we’d better be going before you two talk Leah into giving you a tree stand and a tree skirt too,’ Noel says, putting a big hand on my shoulder and extracting me from the circle Fergus and Fiona have formed around us.

‘A tree stand would be wonderful!’ Fiona calls as we back away. ‘I can make a pretty skirt for it, don’t you worry about that!’

At the pumpkin stall, Noel picks up the stack of two empty wooden crates and carries it with one hand, swinging it along beside him like it weighs nothing as we walk towards the side entrance of the market where his truck is parked.

‘You got totally taken advantage of there, you know that, right?’

‘What, for the tree?’ He nods and I shrug. ‘I don’t mind. It’d be nice to get off on the right foot with the locals. Besides, the market is gorgeous, it deserves a real tree, and I can easily spare one.’

‘And some little ones for the corners. You’d be surprised how many “corners” Fiona can find in this market.’

‘It’s fine. I have thousands. I don’t need them all.’

‘The generous spirit of a terrible businesswoman.’

‘You can talk. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard about you doing things for the community this morning. I think they’re petitioning to get you a knighthood.’

His cheeks redden as we walk along in the middle of the lane, dodging shoppers at the stalls on either side, but he doesn’t say anything else.

‘So, magical mince pies, huh?’

‘Aye, and the only thing magical about them is that no one’s died after eating one.’ He glances at me. ‘Yet.’