But it wore you down, the magic. Even now, only in November, when night fell so early it felt like every street was beating back the dark every way it knew how: early trees appearing, glowing gold from inside the smart New Town apartments and in the big bay windows of the West End terraces; lights garlanding every road and stretching across the wide bank of George Street, with its expensive shops and bars wreathed in holly and more lights; the pillars of the huge Dome restaurant swathed in meters of foliage and lights sparkling and twinkling; the Ivy restaurant transforming its doorway into the wardrobe doors of Narnia that took you into a snowy scene. Up on the Royal Mile was a cathedral built entirely from light that you could stroll through and hear the carol singers. From every tiny coffee shop in every nook and cranny came the enchanting smells of gingerbread and cinnamon, and over at the Christmas market, the smell of mulled wine hung in the air. At the top of the Mound, which Carmen passed every day, was the tallest Christmas tree she had ever seen and a huge rainbow of lights. It didn’t matter how low you thought you were, thought Carmen. It was still pretty nice.

Mr. McCredie was looking at her gingerbread latte with some consternation. “What . . . ? I’m not quite sure I understand.”

“It’s coffee that tastes of gingerbread. You should try it; it’s delicious.”

He frowned. “I don’t think I would like that.”

Fastidiously, he stirred the slice of lemon in his dainty teacup with a willow pattern and a tiny handle and saucer.

“No,” Carmen said, smiling. “Maybe you wouldn’t.” She looked around. “But I have to say, your filing system came up trumps. Look! Everything about Christmas!”

Mr. McCredie frowned. “So you’re saying we only sell books about Christmas?”

“I think it has potential,” said Carmen bravely.

They looked at each other. Carmen wished he wasn’t putting quite so much faith in her.

The shop had started to look like a shop, but it still wasn’t getting many people through the doors. Carmen dusted and attempted to look cheerful over the following week, but people would still ask her for the new Jack Reacher or Richard Osman and she’d have to look apologetic, or they’d ask for something incredibly esoteric and difficult, and young Mr. McCredie would suddenly appear at the desk from his nook and contentedly spend hours discussing with the person (generally a man) his area of interest and what he’d read around the same subject, which, although it often would not end in a sale, clearly made Mr. McCredie very happy.