Peering in that direction, Carmen saw that the room narrowed and then, through an opening, vanished back into gloom; there was no telling how far back it went. From where she stood, it looked as if it burrowed straight into the heart of the ancient cliffside itself.

Just as she was thinking this, Mr. McCredie appeared, blinking in the weak sunlight, as if he were a misdirected mole.

Carmen blinked herself—he was not, it turned out, remotely young. Quite the opposite.

He was portly, with surprisingly small feet and hands, which meant for a round man he moved with unexpected delicacy. He had bright pink cheeks and tufts of white hair, as well as a pair of glasses on his nose, another pair tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat, and a third hanging out of his tweed jacket pocket. His eyes were tiny, blue, and, at the moment, rather confused.

“I don’t think we’re open,” he said in a broad sweet accent that lengthened every word: I do-ant think we-rrrrr oaaa-pen.

“Well, you should be,” said Carmen, smiling. “Hello! I’m Carmen! I’m your extra Christmas staff.”

Mr. McCredie frowned and touched his hands to his glasses to make sure they were still there. They were.

“Oh yes?” he said. He frowned again.

“Sofia sent me. Your lawyer. You said you needed someone . . .”

Fear slightly gripped at Carmen’s heart. She couldn’t be blanked for a job again, she just couldn’t. What would she do? She’d have to apply to be a wench at the Christmas market, and it was freezing out there. This place was clearly a dump, but she was here now, and obviously they were quite slack about hours and, well, she desperately needed to be out, otherwise she was going to have to turn into Sofia’s cleaner.

“Did I?” said Mr. McCredie absently. Then he remembered. The whole horror of the meeting. And his face fell. He looked at the girl in front of him. She was short and rather pretty: dark hair and eyes, and cheeks pink from being outside. Her mouth had a stern set to it, and she had a curvy figure, rather old-fashioned-looking. Goodness. Was this the person who was going to save him from the awful fate of having to leave his beloved books, his beloved city, retire to some terrible bungalow somewhere?

He looked around. “You’ve worked in a shop before?”

“I have eight years’ senior retail experience,” said Carmen proudly.

“In bookselling?”

“Um, haberdashery,” said Carmen.

Mr. McCredie blinked. “Buttons and whatnot.”

“Buttons and whatnot,” agreed Carmen.

“Well”—he indicated the room with his hand—“it’s not exactly like selling buttons.”

“I can imagine.”

“Do you read?”

“Of course!” said Carmen indignantly. She decided not to mention how much she loved her e-reader. He didn’t look like an e-reader kind of a person at all.