The Christmas Bookshop(62)

This was more or less exactly what Carmen was thinking. Well. At least she knew it really had just been about the voucher. She sniffed and tried to look dignified, which is quite tricky when you’re wearing a purple velvet cloak.

‘Cor, you were with Blair Pfenning weren’t you?! Is he here?’ said Dahlia.

‘He’s in LA,’ said Carmen, bullishly sounding as if she knew his schedule. It was a ridiculous piece of showing off – who exactly was she trying to impress?

Oke relaxed. Right. So she was seeing that other guy. Okay. Fine. Not that he was terribly interested in Dahlia but he’d hated upsetting Carmen. But he was being ridiculous to think that she was thinking about him at all. The people who dated the Blairs of this world and those who dated the Okes very rarely interacted. He told himself very strongly to pack away those feelings.

‘Dahlia,’ said Bronagh, ‘come here, I have a present for you.’

‘Wow!’ said Dahlia happily, for whom this was turning into an excellent evening. Oke nodded to Carmen, then followed her too, naturally curious. Carmen hugged her glass like she didn’t care and looked around the party. As well as the alternative-looking crowd, it was also full of your typically successful-looking Edinburgh women: glossy, perfectly dressed, slender and well-off. She was half-surprised not to see Sofia among them; she would fit in right away, which wasn’t exactly what you would expect from a dark little occult shop at the bottom of Victoria Street.

‘Who are all these women?’ she whispered to Mr McCredie, who was in deep conversation with a very short man with a very long beard all the way down his front and gold-rimmed spectacles.

Mr McCredie gave a sideways look around the room. ‘Oh, those are those glossy working mother types, always perfect, never a hair out of place. Bronagh told me about them. She says they’re all witches. No other way you could conceivably “have it all” apparently.’

He went back to his conversation while Carmen frowned. This was all too strange for words. Although if it were true, it would explain a lot.

Suddenly a large figure loomed in front of her, teetering on tiny shoes.

‘Miss Hogan,’ she said, and Carmen flinched. It couldn’t be.

It was. Mrs Marsh stood there, a burgundy dress stretched across that formidable singular bosom.

Carmen’s first thought was ‘I knew she was a witch’ followed by an irresistible urge to call Idra.

‘Mrs Marsh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were one of the coven.’

Mrs Marsh sniffed.

‘This nonsense. Not at all. I work for the university settlement office at the bottom of the street. Showing Victoria Street solidarity.’

Carmen gave a meaningful look to Mr McCredie, which he caught. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It looks like this entire street gets involved even when they don’t want to.’

Mr McCredie blinked and came over, and Carmen had to introduce him, much as she was terrified of her old scary boss infecting her new lovely one. Mr McCredie, a gentleman as ever, immediately bore Mrs Marsh off for a drink.

Carmen took off the purple cloak – rather reluctantly, as it was warm and had a nice way of bouncing as she walked – and headed for the exit. She suddenly wasn’t in the mood, watching everyone else in the world having a good time.

The street outside was quieter now, but people were still on their way to the bars and restaurants of the understreets; the nightclubs would get noisier as the night went on.

‘Here,’ said Bronagh, materialising at her side before she left to take the cloak.

‘Thanks for the invite,’ said Carmen. ‘It was good to get Mr McCredie out.’

‘Oh, that poor man,’ said Bronagh. ‘Bad blood. Does nobody any good.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, don’t mind me. Don’t forget this.’

She gave her a tiny glass bottle with a clear fluid in it.

‘Just dab it on your doorstep,’ she said.

‘Is this a love potion?’

‘Oh goodness no, you don’t need that,’ said Bronagh. ‘No. It’s for the bond that holds two sisters; one of the strongest things on earth. Forged in steel, hard as iron, easy to burn, never to break. Goodspeed home.’

‘Actually, we’ve been getting on all … Thank you,’ said Carmen, seeing Bronagh’s face. ‘And happy solstice.’



She pulled out her phone, pushing past the Christmas revellers and curling over against the cold wind as she waited to cross Lothian Road, passing happy people on outings pouring into the theatres and concert halls and cinemas that lined it, piling up treats for Christmas, small children gazing in awe at the lights, girls in sparkly dresses, boys clutching bags of Maltesers, enjoying the thrill of being out after dark.

She walked into the shelter of the great red Caledonian hotel, with its black cabs lining up and where elegant ladies in long dresses and men in kilts were disgorging, obviously for some fancy party. She looked at the beautiful women, thinking about Mr McCredie’s theory that they had to all be witches, and shook her head. Then she thought about Oke and Dahlia and found herself oddly sad. He was just … well. He was different to the people she normally met. Mind you, since she’d moved to Edinburgh, everybody was.

She found herself almost unconsciously scrolling down back through her text messages with Blair, even though she knew it was unwise.