“Ooh,” said her mother. “That means you have an idea . . .”

Sofia thought furiously and finally said, “If she messes it up, though . . .”

“She’ll be fine!” said their mother, crossing her fingers tightly.

Chapter Three

It was just a thought, Sofia reminded herself the following day. Not a commitment. Not a promise.

But Mr. McCredie had been a client for so long, since before Sofia’s time. If—and it was a big if—Carmen was a good shop assistant, well, this could be just the thing to stave off the worst, at least until they could find a buyer. And it would please her mother. And maybe even make Carmen a little grateful and pleased. So.

It would be one nice piece of news to impart, hopefully, on a day when she had very little good news to impart.

Most people who came into her office were pleased to see Sofia’s bump, or at least offered good wishes or made a polite inquiry. Sofia’s client that morning, Mr. McCredie, was not most people. He seemed extremely uncomfortable that it even existed, averting his eyes from her middle.

She smiled more than usual and did her best not to mind. Mr. McCredie was eccentric, after all, and the news was so bad, it was probably best not to have gushing congratulations over the baby before having to tell him the worst.

“So?” He looked nervous and glanced at his very old, very large watch. He hated these meetings. Sofia wasn’t overly fond of them either.

“Mr. McCredie, I have done what you asked, but I have to tell you—and you should speak to your accountant too—but I’m afraid that’s it. This is nearly the end. There’s almost nothing left to sell.”

It was heartbreaking. A family fortune, a good name, a huge Highland estate that had brought in income for years.

But Mr. McCredie had no interest in managing the estate, had let it go to rack and ruin, the huge house falling apart. He had no family, no siblings, to take it on. He had the Edinburgh flat and the bookshop, but the latter was making absolutely no money, and so he had sold more and more land and spent more and more of his inheritance, his capital, just to live.

And now the country house was sold, and the money for that had been swallowed up by the capital gains tax and the land tax and everything else. Sofia had the unpleasant job of telling him that he had been bequeathed a fortune and had run through it all—not by gambling or marrying or living an extravagant life, but simply by not paying attention.

Mr. McCredie said something surprising. “That’s all right. All I care about is the shop.”

“Ah,” said Sofia. “Yes. The shop. I’m afraid there’s bad news about that too.”