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The others hummed their agreement.

‘The coach trips whizz straight past and ignore us.’ Crochet Catherine huffed.

Spring Square, with its natural spring fountain, pretty pots of hazel bushes, and shops forming a neat quadrangle around it, definitely had tourist appeal. It looked like something from a postcard of the Cotswolds and everything was just fancier. Their antiques were posher, their food was farm fresh with added feathers, and you could even treat your sausage dog to a blueberry facial.

And up there, at the top of the village, was where most of the houses and cottages were. Not to mention the quirky manor house with Texan Jim, his mother, and their many goats in coats, Reverend Godbee’s old church, the bustling village hall, the little school … How could they compete, being halfway down the hill and away from the action? But did they really need to compete? Their row of shops might not be upmarket – but surely, they were quirky, individual, full of creative heart …

‘We’re like the weird, embarrassing cousins,’ said Catherine. ‘The poor relations. The dog’s hairy underarm.’

Noémi half-laughed, half-sighed.

‘I think she means underdogs,’ said Carrie. ‘She has a point. My wee fork and spoon robins would sell like hotcakes at this time of year if more folk knew about them.’

Carrie’s cutlery creations were things of intricate beauty – each looking like it had its own personality. Word had it Carrie was so strong she could bend metal with her teeth – but this street had a lot of funny rumours.

‘We could all get smarter with learning to sell from our websites and social media,’ Catherine suggested. ‘The whole world should know about our offerings, and Tanveer at the post office is very organized with a parcel.’ Tanveer was married to Prisha, the avenue’s dressmaker.

‘We should think about it,’ Noémi conceded. ‘Though does mail order feel a bit … dull?’

‘I’m sure you could make it your own,’ said Catherine.

Noémi pondered it, because she had to make something work. ‘Maybe if I pulled out my special editions and signed copies and a few of those gorgeous books with sprayed edges. We could definitely do a much better job with our online photos to make our books look more enticing.’ She was a big fan of those beautiful images on Instagram, which might be the perfect place to attract more online buyers.

‘And some of the alchemy is in the wrapping,’ said Catherine, still busy with her crochet hook. ‘I feel like a proper Santa when I’m packaging things up with sparkly tissue paper and a handful of confetti sprinkles.’

‘I think I like that,’ Noémi said quietly, as her brain chewed it over. ‘And maybe I could offer book boxes, with added seasonal items.’ She’d seen photos of them online, brimming with treats readers loved, like candles and hot chocolate – packaged with the perfect book, like a hug in a box.

‘Yes!’ said Catherine, her finger in the air as though her mind was already orchestrating something.

‘I can picture you doing bespoke wrapping for customers in the shop,’ said Chai. ‘It’s your personal service that creates a magical buying experience. Imagine your customers feeling truly valued and pampered. People don’t get that when they order from some of those online-only retailers. They just get a pack of cardboard flung from a van in the general direction of their house. And you were always a natural at making your buyers feel special.’

Had she been? Though Noémi could argue that she’d lost sight of some of that passion in recent years, she sensed it was in there somewhere. She just had to reignite it, like a boiler that had been on the blink. And these ideas were creating small sparks. She thanked everyone for their thoughts and was relieved when Spirit chimed in with a different topic.

‘Anyone notice my blackboard this morning?’ Spirit asked, swigging the dregs of her coffee and nodding at Chai’s offer of another. ‘She’s sexy and she grows it.’

Daniel spluttered out his peppermint latte.

‘Not sure whether to feel flattered or objectified.’ Spirit shrugged.

‘Pure dead brilliant,’ said Carrie. ‘Still reckon the mystery writer is one of our lot from the emporium,’ she added, with barely disguised pride. ‘We’re the arty ones.’

Their shop rented shelves to all sorts of creatives from glass crafters to book binders to the guy who made rude body parts from clay.

‘Probably one of the bored local teenagers,’ said Catherine, moving her crochet attention to Santa’s beard, which for some reason was bright pink.

‘Or maybe it was that fella we saw heading into the empty shop next to yours when we were locking up yesterday,’ said Carrie, nodding in Noémi’s direction.

‘Which man?’ Noémi’s mind spun back to the stranger in the Dickensian-type costume, with his caramel curls and chocolatey eyes. ‘Wait. He went into the shop next to mine?’

It had been empty for months and they rarely saw the landlord.

‘I think so,’ Catherine joined in. ‘I mean, it was kind of dark, and the snow was getting in our faces. But he looked sort of swishy. You know. One of those coats with the long tails, and maybe some kind of costume stick?’

‘Hottie Totty, you called him.’ Carrie gave a raucous laugh.

Daniel’s ears pricked up.

‘I did not.’ Catherine blushed. ‘I could barely see him from where I was.’