Lucien versus the robot vacuum

It's half past one in the morning, and the shop has a new resident. It's round, gray and humming, and it has spent six minutes bumping gently into the same grandfather clock, like a very polite guest who can't find the door.

A sticky note on its lid, in Ines's cheerful handwriting, reads: IT'S A VACUUM. IT'S FRIENDLY. PLEASE DON'T WRITE IT A LETTER. Stuck beneath it, in elegant fountain-pen script: I have written it a letter. L.

Lucien stands on the counter stool in his waistcoat, holding a candlestick like a man prepared to negotiate. At the end of the street, a lantern swings into view.

Felix: Coming up, folks, is Stop Seven, where the furniture is said to move on its own. Screams on three!

The vacuum turns toward Lucien's shoe with what can only be described as intent.

It ate a receipt from 1890. I'm told this is called "a feature." ...Good evening. Would you help me make peace with it before Felix sees it and declares my shop haunted? Again?