Mr. McCredie looked startled. He ran an ancient bookshop in an old part of town, that was more or less all Sofia knew. That and the fact that it made absolutely no money.

“They’re going to raise the rents,” she said. “Haven’t you heard?”

Mr. McCredie shrugged. He was not, she knew, the best person at opening envelopes.

“It doesn’t . . . it doesn’t seem to make any money.”

For the first time, his face was genuinely worried. “Well, it’s . . . it’s not about that. It’s more . . . We sell old, rare books. Very specific. You can’t just walk in and get the new Ian Fleming you know.”

Sofia decided not to tell him there hadn’t been a new Ian Fleming in quite a while. “I realize that,” she said.

“I’ve been building a collection—I have some of the finest architectural studies of the city in existence!”

“I know. It’s just . . . if the shop can’t pay its way, I don’t know how it can be subsidized.”

“But it’s . . . I’ve had it for such a long time. There have been bookshops on Victoria Street for two hundred years.”

Sofia nodded. “I’ve asked around,” she said. “You could sell it as a going concern.”

He blinked. “Oh goodness. I really don’t want to do that.”

Sofia winced. “No, I mean, you can only sell it as a going concern. If it doesn’t start making money, you’re just going to lose it anyway, without getting any money for it.”

The old man blinked again, this time slowly.

“And the rents go up in the new year.”

“I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

Sofia would never ever have mentioned it was because he refused to read the many letters they had sent him on the subject. The reason it was at the last minute was not down to her. Sofia couldn’t bear anything last minute.

“You have to show a profit,” she said. “Over the next two months ideally—including Christmas and before the rent hike. If you do that, you will probably find a buyer. If you keep losing money . . . you’re going to lose everything.”

This time when he looked up his eyes were damp.

She sighed. The universe was conspiring with her bloody mother.

“By . . . by Christmas? I have to turn a profit by Christmas?”

“I think,” said Sofia. “I think I know somebody who can help.”

Chapter Four

Everywhere in Edinburgh is uphill. This doesn’t seem like it can possibly be true, but it is.

And possibly nowhere truer than Waverley Station, sunk at the very bottom of a drained loch, situated incongruously in the middle of a city, where other, more sensible cities have rivers and bridges and appropriate things.