Sam drove Callie back to Newton St Clare and she invited him in for a hot chocolate which she made after jotting her ideas down in a notepad. Owl Cottage felt horribly cold after the warmth of Campion House but Sam soon got a fire going and Callie turned on a couple of lamps and switched on the lights of her little Christmas tree, turning the tiny living room into a cosy haven.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she told him again as they sat on the sofa with their hot chocolates. ‘I had no idea about that book. I knew you were an M R James fan and I was pretty sure that you didn’t have a first edition. When I saw it, I got so excited.’

‘Callie – it’s an amazing present. I love it! Although you shouldn’t have spent so much.’

She gave a little shrug. ‘I’ve had a pretty good year with my own books,’ she told him, ‘and I just couldn’t leave it behind. I only wished I’d known about the history of the book.’

‘I guess it’s not something we talk about too often,’ he said, ‘although the subject does come up at Christmas as we’re reading ghost stories.’

‘So, what are you going to do with the book?’ she asked.

‘I’m going to keep it of course,’ he said. ‘I just won’t be allowed to bring it within a five mile radius of Mum. I think she’s going to take out a restraining order against it.’

Callie laughed but her smile soon faded. ‘You don’t really believe it’s haunted, do you?’

‘The book? No, of course not. Why, do you?’

She shook her head. ‘Although the night I brought it home from Cambridge, I had a power cut for the first time ever.’

‘Really?’

She nodded.

‘Coincidence,’ he said.

‘Yes. Very likely.’ And then she took a deep breath. ‘All the same, I’d prefer it if you kept it at yours in the future.’

‘Really? You don’t want to borrow it for the night and read it in bed?’

‘Erm, no. I really don’t.’

Sam shifted on the sofa and cleared his throat.

‘What is it?’ Callie asked.

‘You know, there might actually be something in this haunted book idea.’

Callie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

He turned to look at her, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Promise me you won’t say anything to the others. I wouldn’t want to spook them and – well, you’ve seen how easily spooked they are.’

‘You’re spooking me now,’ she told him.

‘Well, I won’t tell you if you think it’ll upset you.’

‘Oh, Sam! You can’t say something like that and not tell me!’ she cried, nudging him lightly.

‘You sure you want to know?’

‘Yes!’

He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, then, but you can’t unknow it once it’s told.’

‘Understood. Now, tell me.’

‘Remember me telling you about Mr Roache?’ Sam asked. ‘The man who gave me the book?’

‘The one with the bony fingers who kept saying, “This one! This one!”’

‘Yes. Well, when he gave me the book, he told me a little bit about its history. He’d been a collector and his father had been one too, and it was his father who’d bought the M R James first edition. Mr Roache knew that I’d appreciate the book and I was delighted when he offered it to me, but he said that it wasn’t altogether a gift. I asked him to explain, and he didn’t answer for a moment, but asked me to sit down. He had this big old Knole sofa which was mostly threadbare and we sat on that together. Well, perched. I remember thinking I’d never get up again if I sat on it properly – it was so deep and had half-collapsed in the middle.’

Callie giggled. ‘But what did he say about the book?’

‘He told me that, if I was to take it, I’d have to remember his warning. It was a special book, you see. A book that could make people feel things.’

‘Feel things?’

‘Yes, those were his exact words and I still remember the chill I got when he said them. He told me his father had bought the book from an old man who’d studied at King’s College, Cambridge.’

‘That’s the college M R James was at.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you think the old man knew M R James?’ Callie asked.

‘There’s no way of knowing now,’ Sam said. ‘I asked Mr Roache the same thing and he said it was possible. Just imagine if he’d been a student under M R James.’

‘It would be a lovely link to the author. Wouldn’t he have got the book signed, though, if he’d known the author?’

‘Maybe,’ Sam said, ‘but I’ve seen quite a few authors at our literary festival and I sometimes get so dumbstruck that I daren’t even approach them to get a book signed!’

Callie smiled at him.

‘Anyway,’ Sam went on, ‘that’s not all. The man Mr Roache’s father bought the book from believed that it might not only be a first edition, but the first first edition. Can you imagine? The very first to have been printed. And he sincerely believed that that made everything all the more vital. He believed that the emotions in the writing were stronger, the images more real and the terror more horrifying, and – all those feelings – all those emotions – are felt by the reader. Or rather, they’re felt by some readers. Those attuned to such things.’

‘Like your mother?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Sam took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. But I suppose it could be like a fine art print or etching – you know, the lower the number of the artwork, the more valuable it is, the sharper the image. Perhaps it’s the same with the first print run of a book.’

‘But how do we know it is the first first?’

‘I don’t think there’s any way of knowing for sure. It’s something I’d never really thought about before this book.’

Callie gazed into the flames of the fire. ‘There is always this special quality about a first edition, isn’t there?’

‘Oh yes. Remember how keen you were to get a copy of your own first edition after you realised you’d given the last one away?’

‘Yes!’ Callie said. ‘I couldn’t bear not to have one.’

Sam put his arm around her and they sat still for a moment, watching the fire and listening to the sound of the wind in the chimney.

‘You know, I think you should have your present now, seeing as I’ve already opened mine,’ Sam said after a few minutes.

‘You’ve got it with you?’ Callie asked as he stood up and went to get his coat, returning with it and rifling in one of the deep pockets.

‘Here we are,’ he said, handing her a red and gold package tied with a red ribbon.

‘Oh, Sam!’

‘Go on – open it.’

Callie didn’t need to be told twice, tearing an end of the pretty paper and sliding out a red box and opening it to reveal a pretty gold locket in the shape of a book.

‘Sam! It’s beautiful!’ she cried.

‘I saw it in a little shop on my travels and couldn’t resist.’

‘It’s lovely. Will you put it on for me?’

‘Of course.’

He took the necklace out of its box and she lifted her hair up for him to fasten it, his fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck.

‘Please tell me this little gold book isn’t a haunted first edition,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘I think this is definitely a book with a happy ending,’ he told her and she nodded.

‘I do too,’ she said as they kissed.

‘Merry Christmas, Callie,’ he whispered, holding her close.

‘Merry Christmas, Sam.’