Emily allowed the scene in front of her to shimmer at its edges, began to imagine the world in which such a character would exist, or at least the world they would have created for him. A grassy hillock hidden deep in the forest, where he lived with only the trees for company. Or an underground network of caves, ruled by a dastardly gang of moles, who paid him to keep the humans away.

Emily could see it all in full Technicolor: the perfect shade of emerald green for his front door; a rocking chair in which he sat and smoked his pipe in front of the fire when the winter’s evenings closed in; circular miner’s lamps worn by all the moles as they excavated a kingdom underground. A whole world no one knew anything about, until a little girl and her pet duck came knocking one day, seeking shelter from a storm.

“She said you would know where to go next,” he said with a small nod in Emily’s direction. “She said all the clues were right in front of you.”

Of course they are, Emily thought. Her grandmother had always taught Emily to look closer, to see what others would not. But what was it she wanted Emily to see? And what if she chose not to?

“How many books?” Emily spoke slowly and with care, her mouth stretching over each syllable.

“I’m afraid I have no idea,” he replied. “Nor if all the clues will be books.”

Ten, Emily thought as she bent down to collect an armful of books and began to place them back on the shelves. Surely she can’t be sending me off to find them all?

“What if I say no?” Emily sighed with the effort of all the words at once, turned her face away so the bookseller couldn’t see the clench of her jaw, the flushed skin on her neck.

“Well,” he replied, drawing deeply on his pipe. “There was no mention of what would happen were you to refuse. But, well, I for one would be rather disappointed if you didn’t find the rest of the story.”

“What story?” Emily turned to see the bookseller holding out a red leather notebook, identical to those her grandmother had always written all of her ideas and early drafts for each story in.

“She brought it to me a couple of months ago, along with the other book and documents,” the bookseller said, a clear note of excitement in his voice. “Told me to keep it a secret, which, I must say, has been particularly difficult ever since that newspaper interview was published.”

Emily opened the notebook to the first page, recognized it as the beginnings of another story about Ophelia, but one that her grandmother had never quite been able to get right. It was about the ghost of a boy who was asking Ophelia for help to solve a crime he had witnessed, but Catriona had been concerned the topic was too dark for the children it was aimed at.