Inside was a huge collection of all sorts of people: other shop staff, Edinburgh regulars, a group of women playing mystical folk music in the corner, some people dressed as fairies, various suited and booted gentlemen-about-town—many with waistcoats. Carmen looked at the latter; she couldn’t help herself. He was in LA anyway. Who cares? He’d probably thrown the Wellingtons away.

He was a less pressing concern by the time Carmen had drunk her second cup of the mulled wine, which tasted nothing like the watery Ribena you got down at the Christmas fair; rather, it was more like something perfumed and spiced, a mysterious concoction that warmed you right through from head to foot.

She passed lightly through the party, enjoying the interestingly attired guests, who clearly all knew one another—some parts of Edinburgh, she suspected, were as interrelated as a village. The shop was just as idiosyncratic as their own: stuffed birds hung from the ceiling, there was a broomstick assortment, and antlers lined the walls. Also along the walls were ingredients and spell books, jewelry in different birthstones, dream catchers, and many different crystals on display, soul stones and all. Carmen eyed everything narrowly. Mind you, should she ever believe witches existed, it would be down in the depths of Edinburgh, in its dark closes and hidden corners, where they had burned women on the Grassmarket right outside.

There was an apothecary table behind the cash desk; there were capes and pestles and mortars and a locked glass cabinet, high up, with a warning sign, very small, saying “These ingredients are for play only.”

Hmm, thought Carmen, smiling. Well, it was probably harmless. She turned around to go see how Mr. McCredie was getting on when she saw Bronagh standing right in front of her.

“Lovely shop,” said Carmen hastily. “Isn’t it gorgeous!”

“You think it’s nonsense, I can tell,” said Bronagh, who looked like she could be slightly more frightening than her short stature and rosy cheeks would suggest. In fact, she had a touch of Mrs. Marsh about her.

“It’s lovely,” said Carmen, pointing to a large collection of light green glass baubles, glinting in the light. The shop itself was decorated for Christmas in heavy wreaths everywhere from a tree Carmen didn’t recognize. “What is it? It’s beautiful.”

“Hawthorn,” said Bronagh. “Keeps the spirits out. Except the ones I invite in.”

She smiled, but it was still a little unnerving as the fairies in the corner giggled and the odd hypnotic music kept playing; the choirboys outside had all gone home for their teas.

“Well, happy Christmas,” said Carmen. Bronagh frowned again.

“It isn’t Christmas, my dear! It’s midwinter! It’s Heliogenna.”

“Okay,” said Carmen.

“Those bloody Christians. Came along and hijacked everything. It’s all just marketing, you know. Coke marketed Santa Claus. Bloody Christians marketed midwinter.”

“Um . . .” said Carmen.