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‘Let me show you some newer editions,’ she said to the group.

What came next felt more instinctive, and some might say, a little on the woo side. But it had been a funny sort of day, with the magical unboxing of the Mrs Claus costume and her neighbour appearing in a fluffy onesie with a mystery blackboard. Though as she walked through the bookshop with the small crowd, listening to their light chatter and letting herself absorb their presence, she began to get an unseen sense of what they needed. As if books were medicine for the soul and stories were the healers you didn’t know you sought, she let instinct guide her through the shelves, her customers following.

Suddenly she felt light on her ballet-pumped feet, her arms sweeping towards each section of books, introducing them, like acquainting family with new friends. She felt a tingle of pride that her shop was now organized enough for her to do this, while maintaining its treasure-trove appeal, with the dimly lit aisles and their trails of fairy lights. She’d talked Barbara into letting her display some of her props, bearing Barbara’s price tags in case people wanted to buy them.

The Shakespeare shelf was dressed with a golden costume crown, a beautifully engraved chalice, and strings of red and white roses draped artfully around the books. The fairy-tale section was bedecked with magic wands, little glass slippers, and decorative apples which looked tempting enough to eat. And Noémi’s favourite, which is where she invited them to pause, was adorned with hearts, delicate lace veils, and inexpensive jewels.

She had an inexplicable feeling that somebody needed something from this romance shelf. An escape. Something to make them laugh and swoon. A fun, sassy heroine, thrown into an unfamiliar world, floundering before finding her feet. A sprinkling of love and the promise of a happy ending.

Noémi let her fingers trail along book spines before landing in the perfect place. She pulled out a romantic comedy from one of her favourite authors. Not wanting to single anyone out, she held the book and waited, knowing that a pair of eyes would light up. One of the women took the book from her gently, tracing the raised lettering on the cover, holding it up to the twinkling lights to watch the gold foil sparkle. Noémi could see from the woman’s face that the book had found its match. It was the first in a series, and the woman lightly swept them all towards her, smiling at each before cradling it against her. This was what made Noémi’s heart sing. Stories finding homes. Customers stumbling upon their next favourite author. Lives changed for the better.

They continued around the shop like this, Noémi letting her heart guide her like she was being pulled along by a stream, not knowing where they would stop until they got there. And soon, her new customers were lining up by the till, talking animatedly about their new finds, and Daniel was showing them the stationery while they waited and bundling beautiful notebooks into their arms with talk of Christmas gifts for loved ones. And Noémi was offering their new giftwrapping service, carefully wrapping each book in the customer’s chosen tissue and paper, Felix showing their range of ribbons and bows.

And all the while, even though not a single person had asked if she was the woman who made the cookies, Noémi was surprised that she kept having visions of baking. Because this felt just like the days when she had sold her baked creations. She’d created flavours for all seasons and palates, and she’d always seemed to know, beyond knowing, what people needed or secretly yearned for. She’d always been able to find their perfect treat. The thing that would bring them joy and make them smile.

Before today, it had been a long time since she’d found that magic selling books. Things hadn’t been the same since the Christmas when they’d lost Asher, or even since her mum had moved to the home. But for reasons she still wasn’t sure of, something had clicked today. And in her less-guarded moments, she found herself wondering what if.

What if she could create something even better, by bringing cookies and books together?

They had once been her favourite combination, when savouring a deliciously gooey bake had taken her love of reading to dizzying new heights.

Though perhaps dizzy wasn’t the word. Five eager customers from a passing coach trip would not change her reality. But they’d certainly put a spring in her step for the next part of her adventure – for which she’d (quite wildly) have to go as far as a certain kooky craft shop.

Chapter 17

Noémi bounced down the street with her empty box, definitely not looking into Shay’s shop as she passed. She had a more pressing mission than spying on a man in a short-legged reindeer outfit. Buoyed by her modest flurry of customers, she was excited to source craft items and pretty things to include in what she’d decided to call her ‘Cosy Up with a Book’ boxes – each like a little hamper of bookish loveliness. She would offer different styles and themes, so each one felt individual and special, and she’d change the look for each season. The Christmas box might just be her favourite.

Daniel was holding the fort at the bookshop, busy sharing photos on social media of the beautifully wrapped books and stationery they’d just sold, and they’d even secured a few delighted testimonials from their small coach trip crowd. They’d promised to tell the others from their party, who were keen to do their Christmas shopping while they were there. If they could just keep bravely reaching, maybe there was an inkling of hope that they could snatch their precious shop from the jaws of disaster.

She inhaled the cold December air, enjoying the way her breath came out in dragon puffs of fog. Not everyone enjoyed winter and these chilly, darker months – but she adored all of it. The chance to wear extra layers and bundle yourself up in a duvet coat and the crochet Christmas pudding earmuffs, which she hadn’t been able to resist popping on. The excuse to shut the curtains early, climb into fluffy pyjamas, and hibernate with a pile of novels until at least the spring. Yes, the ’ber months and the wintery ones were the perfect time for introverts and book lovers.

As she stepped inside the craft shop, Noémi felt a wonderful sense of calm wash over her. After her own bookshop, it was one of her favourite places. Now that it was dressed for Christmas, and each crafter had infused their displays with festive offerings, it had an even more magical feel – like an elf’s workshop. Not that she could think about elves now, without a certain man in tights accosting her thoughts.

The crafters in the emporium often changed, so the shop’s contents were like an evolving gallery of wonders – and you never knew what delights might await. It housed everything from edible treats to whimsical watercolours to paintings on pebbles. It was a party for the senses and a perfect place to escape and just be.

Today, Catherine was quietly crocheting semi-naked gnomes behind the counter and greeted her with a big smile and offers of tea and sweet gingerbread – but Noémi’s stomach was aflutter with nervous excitement, and she didn’t want to be sidetracked by dwarfish bottoms.

‘Collect what you like, and we’ll make a note of it,’ said Catherine. ‘You can pay us when the boxes sell, which I know they will.’

It was a kind offer, and probably above and beyond what most shop owners would do – but this street was special, and they looked after each other. Noémi thanked her again and promised she was there for them in return, if they needed anything.

She moved around the shop, soothed by the orchestral sounds of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, interspersed with what sounded like Carrie tip-tapping metal with a hammer and the occasional yelp of ‘jingle balls’. Though not much could distract Noémi from the mesmerizing cocoon of crafts. They encouraged shoppers to handle things and explore, and it was too tempting not to. Noémi let her fingers dance over the felted Christmas angels, spinning them gently and watching their sequined wings catch the light. They would work well in her Christmas fairy-tale boxes, perhaps with the fluffy, knitted bed socks she’d spotted, a sachet of winter-spiced tea, and some indulgent dark chocolate. She could already imagine them nestled in the shredded paper she would make from old book pages, with a lovingly wrapped novel or two.

She moved to the candles, inhaling the sweet scents of Christmas candy, toasted marshmallow, and spiced red apple, deciding her festive love stories box couldn’t do without them, perhaps a beautiful stained-glass heart, or one of those hand-thrown pottery plates that looked the perfect size for a cookie or two.

Cookies. Just because she was no longer making them, it didn’t mean her readers should do without. Sweet, seasonal cookies might be the perfect accompaniment to a festive love story? Noémi sniffed the air. Could she smell them now? Or perhaps it was a candle. Or … Her head whipped around. No, it wasn’t her neighbour, who held a faint air of cocoa and cinnamon – if you were the sort of person who sniffed strangers.

Continuing to browse, she noticed it wasn’t Hottie Totty she could smell.

‘Christmas cookies.’

Noémi hadn’t realized she’d uttered the words until Catherine looked up and muttered an apology, her cheeks reddening.

‘I told Carrie we should run it past you first, because you used to be the street’s chief supplier of cookies. But it has been a while, and Carrie insisted if you wanted to be cooking up a storm, you would be. She likes to call a spoon a spoon.’

‘It’s OK. I’m not baking at the moment.’ At the moment. Where had that bit come from? ‘You’re free to host whichever makers you like.’

Noémi picked up a box, trying to look casual as she glanced through its film window. She noticed, with a pang of relief, that the maker wasn’t too local. Not that it mattered, because it was stupid to get vexed about baked goods. The more the merrier. She sensed the mouth-watering flavours of triple chocolate, cut into the cutest winter mitten shapes and bedecked with edible glitter and sprinkles. It took all her strength to gulp back her pure cookie-dough lust.