There had been more than a little excitement in The Squid and Teapot lately, with a card-carrying Valkyrie – complete with winged helmet, impressive armour, and a huge black charger – thundering into the snuggery in response to Doc Willoughby blowing a ceremonial Viking horn. To Reggie Upton’s evident disappointment, this was not the Wagnerian Brünnhilde, but a lower-ranking Valkyrie named Astrid, and in true Squid and Teapot fashion, it did not take long for everyone to be on first-name terms.

The more astute readers of these tales may have noticed that one stalwart of the inn was conspicuous by his absence. Drury was not in the snuggery when Astrid arrived.

This was remarked upon only later, and then mostly in hindsight, when people began to notice the things that had not happened. At the time, there were sparks and hoofbeats and matters of procedure to attend to, and no one thought to ask where the skeletal hound had gone. It was only after the house had settled, and had stopped holding its breath, that Philomena realised Drury was missing.

She found him at the far edge of the inn’s grounds, where the path gives up pretending it knows where it is going, and the marsh begins to decide what it will be next. He stood very still, facing outward, as though listening for something that had already passed.

“Drury?” she said softly.

He did not turn, but his tail made the faintest movement. It was an acknowledgement, not an invitation.

Behind her, Granny Bucket arrived without sound.

“Oh good,” she said. “He knew where to be.”

Philomena looked again, noticing the mud on Drury’s paws. It was darker than marsh mud ought to be. A faint tang of cold air and salt clung to him, like the memory of a door closing somewhere else.

“He’s been guarding,” she said.

Granny smiled into the darkness.

“Not guarding,” she corrected. “Holding.”

And when Drury finally turned and followed them back inside, the boundary he had been minding closed behind him as neatly as a well-made gate.

By the following morning, Drury was back to his usual habits.

This, in itself, was the first sign that something had been resolved. He took up his place by the fire, stretched out with the careful dignity of someone arranging old bones, and regarded the room with an air of mild satisfaction. If anyone had been hoping for lingering drama, such as strange lights, uneasy silences, or unexplained cold spots, they were to be disappointed. The inn felt like an inn again.

Philomena, however, had learned to trust the things that didn’t happen.

She noticed that Drury slept more deeply than usual, and that when he dreamed, his paws twitched not with pursuit, but with patience. She also noticed that the threshold stones had apparently shifted slightly overnight. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that the draught, which had plagued the front door for years, no longer troubled it.

The Tomte noticed too.

He appeared just after breakfast, sitting on the hearthstone with his cap in his hands and his boots neatly aligned beside him. He was not known to be keen on dropping by for a chat, so this, Philomena decided, was yet another indication that something had to be taken seriously. He nodded once toward Drury, who acknowledged this with a slight thump of his tail.

“Busy night?” Philomena ventured.

The Tomte considered this.

“It was a necessary night,” he said at last, in the careful English he reserved for matters of importance. “Lines were walked, and order was restored without anyone getting hurt.”

Drury lifted his head at that and thumped his tail again, softly.

The Tomte glanced toward a space somewhere beyond the door, and frowned faintly.

“Nothing followed her,” he said. “That is good.”

Philomena felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

“And Astrid?” she asked. “Will she return?”

The Tomte shrugged.

“She was expected,” he said. “But you know what the real work of the Valkyrie is, and that doesn’t usually involve collecting relics. it’s good that you didn’t invite her to stay.”

He replaced his cap, stood, and went about his tasks, setting a chair straight, brushing a scattering of ash back into the hearth, restoring the room to the exact degree of order he preferred.

Later that day, Granny Bucket remarked that the marsh was quieter.

“There was nothing to show what had gone on,” she said. “Just mud being mud.”

Drury raised his head at the word mud, gave a satisfied huff, and settled again.

Whatever line had been held, whatever door had been closed, whatever courtesy had been extended and returned, it had been done properly.

And on Hopeless, that makes all the difference.