She’d explain to Mr. McCredie. She wasn’t any use as a maidservant in a shop with no customers, with a boss who didn’t want it to be a shop at all as far as she could tell. This was just a waste of time. Anyway, he was one of those old posh Edinburgh people. He’d have money. He’d be all right. Sofia was probably just egging him on to make her feel bad as usual. There were thousands of restaurants in Edinburgh. If she left now, she could make the tour this afternoon, find a cool well-paid job like Idra. Everyone needed waitstaff this time of year. Sofia could solve her own damn problems.

“MR. MCCREDIE,” SHE CALLED out. There was no answer in the silent shop.

She listened. What was that? A tiny noise coming from somewhere. Oh God, what if they had mice? Of course they’d have mice. Paper-chomping mice, making delicious nests . . . Did mice eat paper and make nests? Probably. Edinburgh mice probably made seven-story nests. Then made the entrance on floor three and a half.

She stepped forward quietly and tilted her head. It sounded like . . . less like a mouse, perhaps a cat mewing? She stood stock-still. Then she realized. It was a person.

She frowned. It could be . . . Well, Mr. McCredie, as she had learned that morning, left the door open all night, so it could be anyone. It could be him. Or a homeless person, or someone ill . . . or a burglar. Probably not a burglar. The cash till was sitting there, untouched.

Carmen took out her phone cautiously, just in case she had to dial the police. Then she took a step forward, through the entrance at the back, and into the forbidden stacks. She couldn’t see a light switch anywhere; her hands groped along the wall, but with no luck.

It was the oddest thing. The shop went on, deeper and deeper, narrower and narrower. But there started to be fewer and fewer books, a potted plant here and there, and the strip lighting faded to be replaced by darkness, and then she noticed that the hard floor of the shop had turned softer. I wonder, is that a plank? she thought, bending down to feel it with her hands. But instead of feeling the hard, smooth stone of the floor of the bookshop, she felt something extremely fine and warm to the touch, like old wood. “This is very odd,” she said to herself, and went on a step or two farther.

The next moment, she saw that there was a light ahead of her—not a striplight in the ceiling where the stockroom should be, but a soft glow, some way off. A moment later, she found that she was standing in the middle of a sitting room, with rugs under her feet and wallpaper on the walls.