“Ah! Good old Hopeless fog. By Jove, you cannot imagine just how much I’ve missed it.”

Reggie Upton inhaled the damp morning air with the brisk appreciation of someone contemplating exercise in an expensive Swiss health resort.

“We were gone for less than a day,” Philomena Bucket commented drily. “And it was your idea to go looking for sunshine, after all.”

“I won’t be doing that again in a hurry,” said Reggie.

Their brief sojourn in Tudor London, courtesy of Durosimi O’Stoat’s passage through the Underland, had seen Reggie being bundled into a priest-hole to avoid being burned as a heretic. All in all, the trip had been less than successful; it had, however, apparently cured him of any desire to be anywhere other than on the island of Hopeless, Maine, which he now considered to be his home.

“I must say, the London of the sixteenth century was a bit of a disappointment,” added Reggie. “All that filth and squalor! Not to mention having to make sure that one was batting for the right religion. So much for Merrie England!”

Drury, the skeletal dog, wandered in and sniffed the air, hoping that they had brought some of those interesting smells back with them. Disappointed, he shook himself noisily and settled into his favourite corner spot with a clatter.

“Don’t get too comfortable old chap,” said Reggie, “I was hoping that you might accompany me in a spot of beachcombing today.”

Always ready for an adventure, Drury leapt back up, wagging his bony tail happily.

“It will be good to be able to wander around unmolested, free to belong to any religion, or none, and blaspheme without fear or favour.”

Philomena rolled her eyes.

“He’s not going to let this go,” she thought to herself.

“Well, just make sure that Father Stamage doesn’t hear you,” she said. “If you start blaspheming in front of him, he won’t be too happy.”

“I’ll keep away from whichever bit of The Squid he’s currently haunting,” promised Reggie. “After all, I wouldn’t want to upset our resident holy ghost.”

As if to test the sincerity of Reggie’s newly-found fondness for all things fog related, the visibility along the beach that morning was down to just a few yards. The heavy mist rolling in from the sea blanketed everything, muting colours and sounds. Even the waves, relentlessly pounding the rocks, seemed quieter than usual. Reggie could not help but think that the atmosphere was decidedly eerie, even by Hopeless standards, which began to bother him a little. Drury, on the other hand, was completely unfazed, and trotted in front with his tail held high, a bone-white beacon for his companion to follow.

 Under the circumstances, it was hardly surprising that Drury failed to see the upturned boat. He clattered awkwardly over its hull, to descend on the other side into an unseemly pile of bones and festooned in seaweed.

“Dashed bad luck, old chap,” said Reggie, quietly thankful that Drury had been the one leading the way.

The osseous hound clambered to his feet and shook himself vigorously, broadcasting bits of seaweed everywhere. He then proceeded to sniff the boat.

“Have you found something, my friend,” asked Reggie, as the dog began to dig furiously in the sand.

“They have been gone an awfully long time,” said Philomena to her husband, Rhys. “The mood Reggie was in this morning could get him into trouble in some places.”

“Aren’t they beachcombing? I can’t imagine them running into difficulties doing that,” replied Rhys, “especially as Drury is with him. I don’t mind taking a stroll along the beach, though, if it would make you feel happier.”

“Let’s go together,” said Philomena, grabbing his arm. “It will be just like when we were courting.”

 *

“I am jolly glad to see you two,” said Reggie as Philomena and Rhys emerged through the mist. “Drury seems convinced that there is someone or something trapped under this boat, but I am dashed if I can turn it over on my own.”

Rhys grinned. His previous role as Night-Soil Man had bestowed muscles upon him that were the envy of every young man on the island. It was the work of seconds for him to turn the boat over, and expose whatever it had been concealing.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie.

 The child lying on the sand was no more than two or three years old. She was still alive, but breathing shallowly.

Philomena could not take her eyes away from the girl, whose hair was long and matted, but so fair as to be almost white in colour, as was her skin.

“Albino,” she whispered to herself.

“The poor child,” said Reggie. “We must get her to the orphanage. Miss Calder will know what to do.”

“No,” said Philomena, urgently. She gave Rhys a long and lingering look.

“Can we?” she mouthed, soundlessly.

Rhys wiped an uncharacteristic tear from the corner of his eye.

“She looks enough like you to be your daughter,” he said, a tremor in his voice.

Philomena knelt down and scooped the girl into her arms.

“Our daughter,” she corrected him. “And it’s time to take her home.”