Miss Prim smiled. She found the man very likable. There was something in his manner, something warm and reassuring, that made her feel very much at ease.
“A skill, maybe?”
“Skill? Wait until you see your present before being so generous.”
“You haven’t bought me one too, have you?” she asked, touched.
“Of course I have. You wouldn’t expect us to leave you out at Christmas, as if you’d been a naughty child? Don’t be surprised if you receive a number of presents. I know for a fact that you’ve become very popular in this funny little community of ours.”
Miss Prim shivered, with pleasure rather than from the cold, in her soft cashmere coat.
“I’m sorry, Prudencia, I’m a swine keeping you outside in this cold. Why don’t you come to the bookshop with me? I’ve got to buy something for that old monk who keeps himself hidden away from us in his cell.”
Miss Prim said she’d be delighted to spend some time shopping herself. The streets of San Ireneo were already adorned with Christmas decorations. Windows hung with garlands of holly and heather, lit candles, Nativity scenes and poinsettias drew passersby into the shops. Inside, shopkeepers offered customers cups of tea and hot chocolate, biscuits, doughnuts, and cupcakes dusted with sugar to look like snow.
“What are you thinking of buying him?” asked Miss Prim once they were in the bookshop.
“I’m a sentimental old man, you know,” sighed her friend. “I went to see him at the abbey the other day and we talked about our childhoods. He told me about his schooldays, his mother’s love, the catechism...”
“You’re going to buy him a catechism? Of the Council of Trent, I assume,” she interrupted with a smile.
Without a word, Horacio went to a shelf and withdrew a small red book with a very worn cover. The librarian peered at the spine.
“Abbé Fleury?”
“TheHistorical Catechism, 1683, a first edition. A real gem.”
“Quite,” said a soft, polite voice behind them. “You can’t imagine how hard it was to get hold of. It only arrived from Edinburgh this morning.”
Miss Prim turned to see an extremely thin, severe-looking woman with mischievous, intelligent eyes.
“You must be the famous Prudencia Prim. Please, allow me to introduce myself: I’m Virginia Pille, San Ireneo’s bookseller.”
“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Pille,” said Miss Prim, holding out her hand.
“Please, call me Virginia. Everybody does.”
“I think I should tell you, Prudencia, that you’re talking to the most powerful woman in the village,” whispered Horacio.
The owner of the bookshop laughed, a clear and crystalline sound.
“Nonsense, Horacio, everyone knows that Herminia is the most powerful woman in San Ireneo. Not a leaf stirs in this village without her knowledge.”
“Maybe, but all the leaves that stir in this village belong to your books,” he said affectionately.
Virginia laughed happily again.
“You have a lovely bookshop,” said Prudencia, looking around. The old shelves were painted blue, charmingly rickety tables piled high with books bore penknife inscriptions, reading lamps were dotted about in corners, and there was a vintage silver samovar on the counter.
“Thank you, I think so too. Can I offer you both a cup of tea?” asked the bookseller.
While she was making the tea, Miss Prim inhaled deeply and asked: “Krasnodar?”
Virginia lifted her gaze and peered at her with curiosity.
“Yes. What a keen sense of smell! I have it picked, dried, and packed for me specially. I have some good friends in old Russia.”
“In Sochi?”
