She went outside and up the hill. The castle forecourt was blazing, lit up with footlights so the huge edifice beamed against the snowy sky, and she looked out, tiptoeing like a little girl to see over the wall, to stare out at this city, its Christmas lights glowing, its huge Christmas tree shining, stars and snow and joyous people, even now the scent of someone roasting chestnuts on the air, and sighed. She stayed there for a long time, even as her fingers grew numb and her breath was smoke in the air, thinking about everyone down below, so many people, and someone, somewhere in the teeming crowds, the only face she wanted to see, the only green eyes she wanted to look into . . .

Eventually, she slowly descended the steps again, not even turning her head toward the Quaker meetinghouse, where, if she had, she would have seen his bent head as he made sandwiches for the homeless with all his might, furiously trying to get rid of some of his pent-up energy and disappointment.

Most of the partygoers—including, thankfully, Blair and Skylar—had gone by the time she reentered the bookshop, and Mr. McCredie was counting up the cashbox with an aura of disbelief. Carmen started picking up discarded glasses. Ramsay and Zoe passed her on the way out, Ramsay easily carrying a fast asleep six-year-old in each arm, Zoe waggling the sleepy baby’s hand at her in farewell.

She cleaned up. It had been an amazing, sensational evening for the shop as well as a lovely party. She had one thing to thank Blair for at least.

“How are you doing?” she said to Mr. McCredie. She was amazed he’d managed to stay standing the entire night. As she looked closer, she realized he was extremely drunk and could actually barely stand.

“Oh goodness,” she said. In her own drama, she had almost forgotten his. “Come on, you.”

She took him in her arms like a child—he was so frail—and, locking the door, walked him up to the flat, made him drink a pint of water, took off his shoes and his jacket, and carefully put him to bed with a couple of aspirin and a fresh pint of water next to him.

“Shh,” she said, as he muttered something incomprehensible. His hand was screwed tight shut, gripping something. She carefully unfurled his fingers and extracted the picture. She smoothed it out and placed it carefully underneath the Cherry-Garrard book by his bed, to keep it safe for the morning.

Then she slipped out the tiny alleyway front door and once more joined the huge wave of Christmas revelers sweeping down to the Grassmarket, dodging in and out among them, anonymous in the crowd, just like anyone else under the cold-starred sky.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Carmen was dog-tired as she stopped dead on reaching the front door of the house. It was half open.

“Um, hello?” she said, poking her head around.