Hang on: weren’t there three billy goats in the window just a moment ago? And why is that troll licking its lips? It’s very lifelike. Perhaps a bit too lifelike . . .

Meanwhile, what looked like hundreds of elves danced and sang as they labored happily in Santa’s workshop, although what they appeared to be producing were just more versions of themselves as more elves poured off the production line. Children pressed their noses against the windows, mouths agape. Even their parents were amazed. It was the greatest Christmas display anyone had ever seen. A bit graphic, admittedly, but very impressive.

The main doors of the store opened, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley appeared. Behind him, Wreckit & Sons remained dark. Clearly another surprise was planned, and people remarked aloud that if the windows were that good, imagine what the inside must be like!

“Welcome!” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Welcome, all!”

His voice boomed, even though there was no microphone visible. A hush descended on the crowd.

“On behalf of Mr. Grimly, I’d like to say how greatly pleased we are that you could join us on this very special evening. I can assure you it is one that will not easily be forgotten.”

A round of applause came from the crowd, although they weren’t entirely sure what they were applauding. Most of them were hoping for some free stuff, just for entering into the spirit of the thing.

“I’m especially pleased to welcome our guest of honor for the evening: Mr. Samuel Johnson and, of course, his dog, Boswell.”

There was another smattering of applause, but not much.

“Why him?” someone asked. “What’s he ever done?”

“Well, there was all that invasion-from-Hell business.”

“Oh, but that was ages ago. What’s he done since then, eh? I mean, yes, he saved the world and all that, but he can’t expect us to go around bowing and scraping to him for the rest of our days just because of some demons. Anyway, I heard that they weren’t real. It was all made up to promote a film, or a television show, or something.”

Samuel stepped forward, Lucy Highmore on his left arm, and Boswell’s leash held tightly in his right hand. A photographer from the local paper popped up and took a couple of pictures, although Samuel noticed that he was pointing his lens at Lucy alone, and the only part of Samuel likely to end up in any photos was his left ear.

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. It felt both hard and strangely light.

“So good of you to come,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “So very good.”

He looked around, as though expecting someone else to appear.

“And your, um, friends?” he inquired.

“What friends?” asked Samuel.

“Mr. Cushing, and Mr. Lee. Won’t they be joining us?”

“I don’t know who you mean,” lied Samuel.

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley seemed about to differ, then changed his mind.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Perhaps they’re just a little delayed. They’ll join us in time: I’m certain of it.”