The trouble began, as many Hopeless catastrophes seem to, with a pot of tea and a sudden atmospheric shift.

It was late morning, and The Squid and Teapot seemed to be uncharacteristically quiet. Rhys and Reggie had gone to help Norbert Gannicox at the distillery, and Tenzin was entertaining the children, Caitlin and Oswald, up in the attics. Taking advantage of this little oasis of peace, Philomena retired to the snuggery and brewed a soothing pot of nettle and sea-lavender tea. Since the arrival of Doctor Pyralia Skant to the island of Hopeless, she had been trying very hard not to think about temporal leakage, an unsettling floating eyeball, or the fact that Drury had been seen playing fetch with a disembodied scream that morning.

When the snuggery door creaked open of its own accord, Philomena surprised herself by feeling an unaccountable twinge of excitement.

Seconds later, in walked Doctor Pyralia Skant. She was wearing her trademark heels, gloves, and a white lab coat so pristinely starched that, if it wasn’t armed, it was certainly dangerous. She carried with her the scent of ozone, absinthe, and the slight sense of a threat that might really be a promise.

“The variety of food on this island is absolutely abysmal, darling,” Skant declared, placing a satchel on the table. “So I’ve brought over some English muffins and lots of best butter. I thought that a change of diet might put a little colour in your cheeks. By the way, I may have inverted the lighthouse lantern by accident. Hope that’s not inconvenient.”

Philomena smiled. “I doubt that anyone will notice,” she said, too occupied in gazing at the food in disbelief to complain.

They sat. Tea was poured.

“I don’t know where all this has come from,” stammered Philomena, “but I’m grateful. However can I thank you?”

“Would you like me to butter your muffin, dear?” said Dr Skant with a disarming smile, picking up the butter knife.

Philomena gave her a long, hard look.

“No, that’s fine,” she said at last. “I can manage.”

The two women ate in companionable silence. Philomena closed her eyes. English muffins and soft, creamy yellow butter. She couldn’t remember the last time she had tasted such luxury.

And then, right on cue, the lights dimmed.

Not the candle lanterns, nor  the fire. The air itself seemed to narrow, as if reality was bracing for an impact.

A shape shimmered near the hearth. Familiar, and – at this precise moment – unwelcome.

“Well, would you look at this!” came the thick Cork accent, wrapped in ghostly smugness. “The girl’s only gone and invited the bloody apocalypse in for elevenses!”

Philomena did not turn.

She closed her eyes, then breathed and quietly counted to ten.

Doctor Skant raised an eyebrow. “Who’s this? I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

A vague blur of floral print and disdain solidified beside the fireplace.

“Granny Bucket, spirit of judgment past,” Philomena said through her teeth. “She drops by when the veil is thin or I commit emotional vulnerability.”

Granny cocked her head, squinting at Skant.

“You don’t smell right. You smell like surgery and sulphur. And you’ve got the air of someone who knows what a man’s spleen looks like from the inside.”

Skant smiled politely. “I do, actually.”

Granny sniffed. “So. One of those, is it?”

“I’m not sure what category you’re aiming for,” Skant replied. “But if it’s somewhere between a sorceress and an unmitigated disaster, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Philomena sipped her tea like it might explode. “Play nice. Please play nice ” she muttered.

Granny floated closer, folding her arms.

“You’re dangerous,” she said, fixing her new adversary with the sort of unnerving gaze that only the dead can summon.

“You’re right. I am,” Skant replied, unflinching. “Ask the fog. It still hasn’t forgiven me.”

“I’m Philomena’s ancestral guide, you know,” Granny said, peering through Skant as if expecting to find graveyard mould. “I knew her when she couldn’t tell an invocation from an invitation.”

“And I’m the one who is teaching her how to weaponize sarcasm,” Skant said sweetly. She held up a hand. “And there’s no need to thank me. You’re welcome.”

Philomena stood.

“Muffins, anyone?” she said too brightly, voice just on the edge of hysteria.

The two women – one dead, one eternal – locked eyes across the steaming teapot.

“You think you’re clever,” Granny said darkly.

“Oh, I know that I am,” said Skant.

“Doesn’t mean you’re wise.”

“And it doesn’t mean you’re right.”

There was a moment. A beat of psychic tension. A flicker of lavender flame in the shadows.

Then, a familiar clatter.

Drury trotted in, carrying a severed umbrella handle and looking pleased with himself. He wagged once, wagged twice, then barked.

Granny’s ghost rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re still here.”

Pyralia Skant reached down and scratched his nonexistent ears. Drury beamed with skeletal delight.

And just like that, the atmosphere snapped.

Granny scowled. “This is a monumental waste of my time. I’m off to harass a cleric. Is that Jesuit still hiding in the privy?”

Before Philomena could reply, Granny vanished in a small puff of mothballs and disapproval.

Philomena sat down slowly, pouring herself more tea. “Well,” she muttered, “that could have gone a lot worse.”

Skant raised a muffin. “I think I won, darling.”

“You absolutely did not,” said Philomena. “Granny always has to have the last word.”

Dr Skant flashed a dazzling grin.

“Then this is going to be so much more fun than I ever imagined,” she said.