“Goodness,” said Carmen. “Young Mr. McCredie doesn’t look like the outdoor type.”

“No, he isn’t, not at all. So then the other young Mr. McCredie—”

“That’s not the South Pole one?”

“Goodness, no. That’s young Mr. McCredie’s father.”

“But he’s not still alive?”

“Oh no. He was a Great War hero, decorated and whatnot. Then I think their son came as a surprise.”

“Why?”

“Well, the whole family was known for its derring-do—lots of brothers in the military and so on. Lots and lots of boys.” She paused. “All dead now. I have the archive in the office; it’s quite fascinating. But Mr. McCredie was an only child, born just after the war, only interested in books really. Didn’t do anything that was expected of him.”

“Is he married?”

“Never married.”

“Gay?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so; it’s hardly a crime to be gay in Edinburgh.”

“Hmm,” said Carmen. “Is he nice? Do you like him?”

Sofia nodded. “He’s a little . . . distracted. But yes. Very kind, I think. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t have sent you to work for someone horrible, Carmen.”

“No,” said Carmen. “Just the only person in this town skinter than me.”

“You need to make the shop like Christmas,” interrupted Phoebe, chased inevitably by Pippa saying “Don’t interrupt.” But Phoebe continued, “And do stories.”

“I am going to do a story time!” said Carmen. “Tell your friends.”

“She doesn’t have any friends,” said Pippa, widening her eyes. “I am so sad for her, aren’t you?”

“No,” said Carmen. “Other children are total idiots, everyone knows that. Total buggers.”

And while Sofia internally gasped, Phoebe, for the first time, betrayed a hint of a smile.

Chapter Twelve

Carmen gave the shop a critical eye the next morning. The problem was, everywhere else was so lovely. Victoria Street itself had hung sparkling silver stars down the middle. She could see all along the street decorations and lovely windows and shop proprietors chatting with one another while helping each other hang garlands, and wondered why Mr. McCredie didn’t get involved.

She marched up to Mr. McCredie, who was sitting by his fireplace in the nook, poring over accounts in his half-moon spectacles and looking unpromising. She startled him of course, but he went to pour her a cup of tea. She was beginning to not mind it with lemon in it. She had gotten nowhere trying to convince him to try a gingerbread latte, though.

“Do you have any Christmas decorations?” she said. “I think we should put some up. Everyone else has absolutely loads.”

“Doing things everyone else does has never been my speciality,” said Mr. McCredie.

“I bet,” said Carmen. “But do you have any?”

He led her through the door she had assumed led to his bedroom, but it didn’t: there was, in fact, a flight of stairs.