Laurel tried to give her niece a reproving look because it wasn’t cool for one artist to disrespect another. ‘I’ve never seen a hedgehog strung with coloured lights,’ she said diplomatically. Then she snorted a giggle and whispered, ‘I’ve seen better-looking Christmas trees, though.’

Daisy’s long hair blew out from beneath her hood like a curly scarf and she finally seemed to notice the arctic temperatures, as they turned right into The Cross. ‘Brr-brr-brr,’ she shivered. ‘Let’s deliver the Rotten Row wreath first. Oh, look, Nan Heather’s got her Christmas tree up already.’

Laurel didn’t remember Nan Heather but she joined Daisy in waving a mitten at the tiny, elderly lady smiling and waving through her window. They knocked on a house two doors up and Daisy took her first twenty-pound note in payment as they delivered a wreath covered in so many baubles it nearly gave Laurel a migraine.

They walked on to The Angel, where they found a jolly gathering in The Public, members of Craft Stuff chattering loudly about sales through their Art December window displays or hurrying to finish ornaments and cards for their stalls at the Middledip Christmas Fair. An elderly guy called Hubert had decided to join the session instead of tending his window at home in Port Road and as he’d ordered a wreath Daisy got rid of four instead of three. Modestly, she accepted her customers’ exclamations of delight as they examined their wreaths on woven willow circlets, the artfully arranged leaves, berries and cones cunningly secured with jute twine. As they left The Angel, Laurel paused at the counter to buy two cups of hot chocolate to-go, though, she reflected, Daisy’s hands probably needed no warming, what with the way she was rubbing them in glee at pocketing a further eighty pounds.

The east wind poked its icy fingers into their collars as they continued up Port Road, slip-sliding along the icy route past the Art December windows, one with corn dolls, others with scented candles and pretty bird feeders, the word ‘art’ being applied to all art, craft and making. Laurel finished the last of her drink with regret. She hadn’t wanted to rush it but it was almost cold chocolate already.

When they reached Mistletoe Cottage on the corner of Ladies Lane, Daisy turned her mouth down in disappointment. ‘Grady hasn’t done his window. And he’s the organiser.’

She was right. Mistletoe Cottage didn’t look one bit festive and its curtains were firmly shut. ‘I expect he’ll get it done,’ Laurel said soothingly, thinking that the cottage looked as gloomy as Grady had when he’d left the studio this afternoon. She linked Daisy’s arm to cross Ladies Lane, not wanting her niece to take it into her head to bang on Grady’s door and demand he instantly fill a window with Christmas lights and brightly coloured gourds.