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Luckily, no books were harmed either – thank the angels of all bookish things. Noémi had carefully tidied the antiquarian books from the coffee table, as she had plans for those.

Barbara was the first to arrive, other than Shay, who’d gone off to feed Wanderer and grab milk for all the tea she’d no doubt be making when half of the village descended for the clean-up. In fact, there wasn’t much cleaning up to be done – but there would be no telling the residents of Hazel Blooms, who loved a good project. December was the month of Christmas spirit and good deeds after all.

‘Well, it’s a bit scorched in places, and it smells like my Brian’s cooking.’ Barbara sniffed the air. ‘But worse things have happened.’

‘That’s very true,’ said Noémi, taking the box from Barbara and offering her a piece of Christmas cake. There was no sense in wearing themselves out when there were brandy-soaked currants to be sampled.

As she’d inspected the damage that morning, it hadn’t escaped Noémi that she’d been extremely lucky. Her precious books could have gone up in flames. Her home, her memories, their lives. And she’d spent too long convincing herself that if she sat quietly with her books, nothing too risky could happen. She’d let herself believe that Shay’s lifestyle was the reckless one – yet he’d been the brave and steady hand. Not that she needed a man dressed as a side vegetable to rescue her. But if he happened to be passing …

In terms of damage, apart from the rug being roasted and the floor needing a scrub, things didn’t look terrible. Of course, she’d need to air the place and carry out a new fire safety assessment. Daniel had messaged to say he’d be bringing a hunky off-duty fireman to help. Having barely glanced at men since Asher, it seemed Daniel was making a comeback.

‘No need for Christmas cake. I brought a chocolatey Yule log,’ said Barbara. ‘Word has it your cookies got incinerated. Will you be making any more?’

‘No,’ Noémi replied, as brightly as she could.

‘I brought a panettone,’ said Catherine, who’d just arrived, sporting her latest crochet poncho. ‘Isn’t that French?’

‘Italian,’ tutted Prisha, from just behind her. ‘And I brought a cheese board and crackers, because I’m having such a craving. Most of them I’m barely allowed to sniff in my condition,’ she said, nodding at her belly. ‘But you can’t come to a party empty-handed.’

‘Ooh, is it a party?’ asked Catherine, putting down her cake and clapping her hands.

Noémi blinked a few times. ‘We’re not having a party, that I know of. Just a casual clean-up.’

‘Same thing.’ Catherine flapped a hand.

‘I heard there was a buffet,’ said Texan Jim, coming through the door, thankfully goat-free. ‘So Mama sent honey-baked ham and her homemade cranberry sauce, left over from Thanksgiving.’

‘A buffet?’ asked Noémi.

If this town were a novel, it would have lost the plot this morning. But nothing happened normally around here, and it would be distinctly boring if it did. Strictly speaking, they weren’t even open, let alone hosting a knees-up.

‘To keep up the workers’ morale,’ Jim explained as a crowd of people from up in the village piled in.

‘Oh, I’d forgotten how lovely it is down here,’ said one of the group. Noémi recognized her as someone who worked in the deli. ‘I rarely come down, as we have most things in the square, or I go to one of the bigger towns. But isn’t it quirky? The craft shop is to die for. And that plant place called Leaf Me Alone! How much fun.’

A few of the others agreed, and there was suddenly animated chat about the unusual stuffed alligator wearing a Santa’s hat and holly-patterned bloomers in the window of Barbara’s Bits & Bobs, and the tale that Oh Sew Special was so named because Prisha had been rumoured to sew special wishes into the seams of things.

Noémi glanced at her Coat of Many Books, then over at Prisha – who was gleefully sniffing a triangle of Danish Blue. Hmm.

‘We’ll pop down here more often. I’ll do some Christmas shopping later. By the way, I brought freshly baked mince pies with orange-zest pastry and a sprinkle of extra spice. They smell like heaven.’ Deli lady waved a large box, the rich, zingy flavours already escaping.

‘And brandy cream,’ said another woman, holding two cartons aloft and bopping her head like she’d arrived at a shindig. ‘Once you’re into December, it’s fair game – even for breakfast.’

Reverend Godbee piled in, carrying a feather duster and a tray of sausage rolls, still wearing yesterday’s antlers. Catherine’s Tequila Jammers arrived, all women in their fifties and beyond, many dressed in black with hints of leather, and thankfully not bringing tequila, because it was barely ten in the morning.

‘We brought plum gingerbread jam,’ said one of them. She had blue hair, a nose ring, and called herself Betty Boo.

‘Which we totally made ourselves,’ said another, placing two jars on the counter, which somebody had already cleaned off for buffet use.

Noémi sensed the jam was shop-bought, with the prices inexpertly scratched off – but she didn’t like to say. She still wondered what the Jammers really did in their mysterious village hall meetings, but she guessed they wouldn’t dish up secrets without a lot of brandy cream.

‘It had slipped my mind that there was such a brilliant bookshop down here,’ said Betty Boo, taking a moment to admire the place, which still looked lovely, apart from the scorch marks.

There was a chorus of agreement.

‘I often shop online,’ said one of the snazzy pushchair mums from up in the village. ‘But it’s nicer to get the full shopping experience. And my children would love this.’ She lifted her arms and smiled. Noémi felt a thrill run through her. ‘Do you do story time?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it.’ Noémi beamed. ‘I’ll gather email addresses, if you’d like, then I can keep you posted.’