The door of the shop tinged, and a woman walked in. Mr. McCredie looked at Carmen in a “go on” kind of a way.

“Hello,” Carmen said, and smiled.

The woman looked around, slightly discombobulated by the mess. Carmen couldn’t blame her. But maybe this worked well here. Maybe it was an authentic gold mine of a place that people liked because it wasn’t like other shops that had clean shelves and . . . took credit cards. Hmm.

The woman was pushing a large stroller, and there was nowhere for it to go without bumping into things.

“Let me take that for you,” Carmen said hastily, looking at the bright round baby, fresh as newly minted coconut ice, sitting up and taking a keen interest in her surroundings.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said the woman. “I was looking for a copy of The Jolly Christmas Postman.”

Carmen smiled; it had been a favorite of hers, except she’d lost all the letters, and Sofia, who never lost anything, had gotten cross with her.

“Of course,” she said. She couldn’t imagine a bookshop at Christmastime that wouldn’t have it. She smiled winningly at Mr. McCredie, who frowned distractedly.

“I’m not sure . . .” he said. “Do you know what year it was published?”

The woman looked bemused. “Um, no?” she said, as if this was a very bizarre question to be asked, which it was.

“You file your books by year?” hissed Carmen, generally surprised.

“Um, sometimes,” said Mr. McCredie.

Carmen quickly leafed through a box of children’s books. There was an old hardback edition of The Water-Babies, several lavishly illustrated lives of the saints, and a very old picture book about a rabbit who had wings, carrying a lantern over a snowy waste.

“Oh my,” said the woman, as Carmen held it up. “Is that Pookie?”

Carmen snuck a sideways glance at it. “It is!” she said. “Pookie Believes in Santa Claus.”

“My granny had these,” said the woman wonderingly. “I think she had this very one.”

The copy was red-bound, with gold picked out on the illustration. Although Carmen had never heard of it, there was something unutterably charming about the illustrations.

Carmen gently brought it forward; it smelled comforting, dry, and warm, and she opened it and held it up to the baby, who oohed and pointed.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” said the woman. “I know what happens next . . . Show me the page with Santa Claus arriving . . .”

“Oh, I’ll show you,” said Mr. McCredie, taking it off them. “I met the author, you know! She lived in Edinburgh. And married her publisher! Such a journey. So anyway, the publisher was originally Williams Collins, then they were bought out, but the original artwork . . .”

The baby in the stroller clapped her hands with delight as Carmen smiled at her.