“I think you should have nothing but Christmas things,” said Phoebe. “Even if they’re boring grown-up things.”

Carmen thought again of what Mrs. Marsh had said. Well, maybe she had a point. And she didn’t know how on earth to sell all this stuff—these old books—otherwise.

“Okay,” she said. “Guys, every time you find a book that says ‘Christmas’ on it, bring it to me.”

“What will you give us?” said Jack instantly.

“The satisfaction of doing a job well,” said Carmen, sticking her tongue out at him. “Oh, all right. And a marshmallow.”

“We can’t—” started Pippa, but was silenced with glares from the others.

“You should read Christmas books in the shop,” said Phoebe. “Then everyone would come.”

“That’s . . . actually not a bad idea,” said Carmen. “Except I’m not very good at reading aloud.”

“Neither is Phoebe,” said Pippa in her disconcertingly adult tone. “She needs special help at school.”

“I do not!”

“She does.”

And Carmen dropped the story-time discussion straightaway, but she rather liked the idea nonetheless.

By the end of the afternoon (it was already growing dark at 3:30 P.M.) the shop was looking, if not gleaming, markedly better and tidier. Carmen had told them that every time they came across a book that looked Christmassy, however peripheral the connection, they should drag it out. And in fact, owing to Mr. McCredie’s completely obscure filing system, to the left of rabbits and upwind of knights and just above shipping, they hit gold: an entire section of the stacks devoted to Christmas titles, ancient stories Carmen had never heard of.

It was like finding treasure. They wiped them all down carefully and put them in the front window with a flourish. Coming out to examine their handiwork, it still looked—well, lame, frankly, compared with the other glorious, lit-up beacons up and down the street.

But it looked like a shop.

WHEN THEY ARRIVED home, the feeling of solidarity with the tired, grubby children didn’t last terribly long. Sofia tried to be gracious and say thank you, but patently couldn’t really hide her disapproval at the state of them, and she found herself making lots of remarks about bassoon practice and homework and caught herself at it. Oh God, when had she turned into such a nag? She had frittered her afternoon away: social media, then falling asleep on the sofa and waking up groggy and with a headache she couldn’t take anything for. This point of pregnancy was just so exhausting, and the amount of time Skylar seemed to need for “self-care”—lectures, yoga, massage therapy, having her aura read—was increasing all the time. She did need Carmen. Even if the children were absolutely mucky.

Chapter Ten

Carmen tried to tell herself the city was so lovely only because it was filled with annoying rich people who wore red trousers and had surnames as first names and were all snotty show-offs like Sofia.