As if nothing had happened, shortly before 5:30 P.M., Mr. McCredie appeared, dressed in a perfect tweed suit—very old, of course—and a polka-dotted bow tie. His glasses were rimmed with gold and he had smartly polished shoes on, and it was very clear that the visitors were not to be discussed.

“Mr. McCredie! Look at you, all dolled up,” said Carmen, counting out the register.

“It’s Bronagh’s party.” He frowned. “You told her we were coming. It doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of a witch in my experience. Especially not in this city.”

“Oh God, the witch. I wonder if she would like some spell books?” Carmen looked down at her denim skirt and stripy top. “I completely forgot about it—I’m not dressed for a party at all.”

On the chime of 5:30 P.M., there was a sudden hush outside in the freezing air—Carmen tilted her head, about to lock the door—when a pure sound filled the air. It was clear as a little bell and took Carmen a moment to realize that someone was singing.

“Oh good, good, she’s invited the St. Giles boys,” said Mr. McCredie, referring to the cathedral twenty meters up the road, as more tenor voices joined in until a chorus was singing “In the Bleak Midwinter” in this purest and most extraordinary world.

Mr. McCredie had offered Carmen his arm on the slippery pavement. Up and down the street, the groups of browsers and shoppers and tourists had all stopped too, many of them starting to film or putting money into the boys’ bright red collection bucket for Waverley Care.

It seemed to Carmen as if time had stopped, with the light snowflakes in the sky, the traffic muffled and faded, and the tourists and their chatter and multilingual shouting and calling frozen in place, all entranced by the singing of children under a cold sky. It made her feel cold and hot and lonely and happy and sad all at once; she felt a yearning, but she didn’t know what for. She and Mr. McCredie went two doors down.

“Come, come,” Bronagh called, beckoning as she saw them both. She was holding up goblets of what looked like rather sinister drinks—they were steaming—but on closer examination turned out to be mulled wine.

“Is that what you’re wearing to a Christmas party?” said Bronagh, looking disappointed, even after Carmen handed over a beautifully wrapped copy of The Winter Almanac.

“I know, it’s lame. I’m sorry,” said Carmen.

“Don’t worry,” said Bronagh, vanishing inside and reemerging with a swirling purple velvet cloak. “It’s one of mine. Put it on.”

Carmen looked at it ruefully for a second, then, figuring she might as well go with the spirit of things, twirled it around her shoulders and took another gulp of the warming wine.