The fire in the public bar of The Squid and Teapot had settled into that most companionable of moods. It was no longer roaring, no longer demanding attention, but glowing steadily, as though it knew it would be needed for stories. Outside, the fog pressed up against the windows like an uninvited listener, and inside, tankards were refilled, chairs drawn a little closer, and voices lowered without anyone quite noticing why.

Mr Squash sat on the floor with his back to the hearth, vast, shaggy, and contentedly immovable. Drury lay sprawled beside him, his bony tail ticking gently against the flagstones.

“You seemed to know that Christmas was coming,” said Tenzin, watching the firelight ripple across the Sasquatch’s dark fur. “Even before the decorations went up.”

Mr Squash considered this for a moment.

“Well,” he said at last, “I’ve had a fair bit of practice. And I spent one winter far north of here, where the nights are so long that even the stories grow beards.”

This, as everyone present knew, meant that a tale was inevitable.

“It was northern Sweden,” he went on. “And a long way from home. But that was six centuries ago, give or take. I was younger and a good deal sprightlier in those days, and less inclined to sit down for long periods. Anyway, there was an inn up there, very much like this one, only built of timber, and standing where the forest thinned just enough to allow travellers through.”

The fire gave a small, obliging crack.

“That inn was watched over by a house guardian, a Tomte,” said Mr Squash. “Not a showy fellow, performing tricks for their own sake. He kept the place warm, the food plentiful, the doors hanging true on their hinges. He did all this quietly, and for a very long time.”

Philomena smiled to herself but said nothing.

“Now, people often think a Tomte looks after a house,” Mr Squash continued. “That’s not quite right. A Tomte looks after the agreement between a house and the people who live in it. So long as both sides hold up their end, all is well.”

“And if they don’t?” asked Rhys.

Mr Squash’s broad shoulders lifted slightly.

“Then the Tomte notices.”

In the old inn, he explained, the first owners had been good people. Not saints, mind you; it’s well known that saints make terrible innkeepers. No, these people weren’t saintly but they were fair. They fed their guests properly, didn’t cheat their measures, and remembered that a house is something you live with, not in.

“But time passes,” said Mr Squash, “and hands change.”

After a while a new owner arrived. Then another. Corners were cut. Food was wasted. Guests were mocked once their backs were turned. It was nothing dreadful, just a slow and noticeable thinning of care.

“The Tomte didn’t rage,” Mr Squash said. “That’s a human habit. Instead, he took out his measuring stick.”

Reggie frowned. “Measuring stick?”

“Oh yes. He measured the hearth, to see if it still welcomed people. He measured the doorways, to see if they still invited strangers in. He measured the beams, to see if they remembered why they’d been raised in the first place.”

The fire popped again, rather sharply this time.

“Tomtar,” Mr Squash added, using the correct plural, “never measure in order to repair. Only to decide whether it’s time to leave.”

As the Tomte measured, small things began to go wrong. Bread went stale too quickly. Laughter didn’t linger. Guests left earlier than they meant to, unable to say why. The house grew colder, though the fire burned just as brightly.

“And still,” Mr Squash said, “no one noticed, except for a child. This was a boy, no more than six, who liked to sleep near the kitchen hearth. He awoke one night to see the little grey-bearded figure measuring the stones.”

“What are you doing?” the boy asked.

The Tomte looked at him for a long while before answering.

“I am seeing whether this inn still knows itself, as it should do.”

The boy thought about this, as children do, very carefully.

The next evening, he set aside a bowl of porridge.

 It was  properly made, with good oats and, because it was Christmas Eve, a generous knob of butter from the best they had. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask for anything; he simply left it out. 

The Tomte ate. Then he put away his measuring stick.

“In the morning,” said Mr Squash, “the house felt like its old self again. Not perfect, but just right. And the Tomte stayed.”

There was a silence in the bar, warm and thoughtful.

Outside, snow had begun to fall.

Mr Squash shifted slightly and glanced toward the kitchen.

“That’s why,” he said mildly, “it matters what you feed a house. And why it’s best not to forget who’s helping, even if you can’t see them.”

At that very moment, unseen by most, a small figure padded along the beams above the bar, pausing to straighten a sprig of holly and adjust a pine cone that had slipped out of place. Satisfied, he moved on, his work done for the night.

Philomena rose quietly.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “there’s some porridge that needs attending to.”

No one laughed, or commented.

And if, later that night, the inn felt warmer than it strictly ought to have done, and the beer tasted better than anyone remembered, well – it was Christmas Eve, after all.