“Could be worse,” typed Carmen. “You could be stuck somewhere that *isn’t* one of the most beautiful cities in the entire world, freshly blanketed in snow.”

“Ugh,” came back. “And I only have suede shoes.”

“Can’t your glamorous sidekick go buy you some Wellingtons?”

“She left last night, left me to catch a ducking plane on my own. Which now isn’t going. Ducking autocorrect.”

“It’s okay. I get what you mean.”

Carmen stifled a smile. Aha. What a big baby he was.

She walked along Princes Street to get the full effect of the capital under snow.

The castle looked like a dream, like something from Game of Thrones; the road was lined with people trying to catch the pink clouds floating behind it on camera, even as the snow still danced in front of their faces and flakes landed on their coats. Underneath, the snow was powdery and soft, not yet iced over and brown or hideous, slushy puddles.

She stuck her phone back in her pocket—it was too cold, taking off her gloves to type every time—and dodged the photographers.

The Mound steps were slippery, the road nearly as bad, but she did not regret taking the long way around as she more or less rappelled her way up and over the top of the Lawnmarket, watching people move about in awe and children racing each other for the exceptional pleasure of breaking the pristine ice of a puddle; a few optimistic sleds were already clustering in Princes Street Gardens.

By the time she got to the shop, she was pink in the face and Blair Pfenning was waiting outside for her.

“Are you going to open the shop?” he said, looking rather disgruntled.

“It’s snow, not a volcanic eruption.”

“It’s thundersnow.”

“If you didn’t think I was opening up, what are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I thought Mr. McCredie might like to discuss book sales.”

Carmen laughed as she put the key in the lock, and Blair thought how fresh she looked, young with a red scarf and hat that suited her marvelously.

“Well, I can’t really see that happening,” said Carmen. “I think he thinks books being exchanged for money is on a fundamental level really quite vulgar.”

Blair looked around. The shop was warm and cozy now that Carmen had showed Mr. McCredie you could program a thermostat, and also that they had a thermostat now. She busied herself grabbing her duster, while Blair frowned.

“I’d love a coffee,” he said.

She gave him a side-eye. “Kettle’s on the fridge through the back,” she said.

“What? After I sold enough books to keep this shop going for months?!”

Carmen glanced at a poster of his face that was still on the opposite wall and narrowed her eyes. “I’m busy!”

“You are,” said Blair. “I need boots. Look at my shoes. They’re a disaster.”