There are days on Hopeless when nothing happens at all, and these are generally the ones that deserve the closest attention.

The Squid and Teapot had settled into one of those stretches of quiet that follows excitement, when even the regular customers speak in softer tones, as though reluctant to disturb whatever it was that had been put right. The fire burned evenly and the kettle sounded a little less shrill than usual. Drury occupied his usual place by the hearth, his snores rising and falling in slow, contented measure.

It was Philomena who first noticed that the marsh smelled different.

It was not unpleasant, but simply cleaner, as though the tide had rinsed something away that no one had quite realised was there. She mentioned it to Reggie Upton, who sniffed the breeze with professional enthusiasm and declared that it reminded him of the early morning air in Rajasthan, although he had no idea why that should be.

The Tomte had noticed that something was different, as well. He is traditionally meant to be a reclusive fellow, but since the visit of Astrid, the Valkyrie, he had been much more in evidence, busying himself around the inn at all hours of the day and night. You could be forgiven for assuming that he was keeping a look-out, on the off-chance that she might return. 

Tenzin, the young Tibetan monk who called The Squid and Teapot home, smiled to himself as he watched the Tomte moving from chair to door to hearth with quiet determination. Windows were latched. Rugs straightened. Even the rarely used bell above the front door was adjusted twice, until it rang with a note that was somehow more decisive than before.

“Spring cleaning?” Tenzin ventured.

The Tomte looked at him for a long moment.

“Lines,” he said at last. “The lines need to be kept straight.”

Tenzin decided not to ask which lines.

Outside, Drury rose from his place without ceremony and padded toward the edge of the grounds. No one thought much of it at the time. The skeletal hound often walked alone, particularly when things seemed a little odd. The ghost of Granny Bucket, who had decided to extend her holiday, watched him go and nodded in approval, as though a small but important appointment was being kept.

To all intents and purposes the day passed without incident.

Which is to say, there were small things.

There was the lone gull that would not land near the marsh, and a patch of fog that hesitated at its edges, then drifted away again. Even the tide paused. It was not long enough to be remarked upon by anyone,except those who noticed such things.

By late afternoon, even Tenzin realised that something was waiting. Not maliciously. Not even urgently. Simply testing, as one might test a door to see if it had been properly closed.

Drury stood at the far edge of the path, where the ground becomes uncertain and the marsh begins to decide what it will be next.

He did not growl or bark, but simply stood, ribs lifted, head high, watching something that was not visible to anyone else.

Back at the inn, the Tomte set down his broom and listened. He tilted his head slightly, then cleared his throat. It was a small, deliberate sound, no louder than a polite cough.

For a moment Philomena felt the peculiar sensation that something was pushing against the doors and windows of the inn, then the feeling passed.

Drury took one step forward and gave a low bark.

Nothing answered.

Out on the marsh the lone gull returned, and showed little interest as the fog rolled in with the tide. Somewhere in the distance, a loose shutter that had been rattling for years fell still and remained that way.

By the time Drury came back inside, everyone seemed to have forgotten that something unknown had nearly happened. He shook himself once, scattering a little dark mud that did not behave quite like mud ought to, and settled beside the fire with a satisfied sigh.

Granny Bucket glanced up from her ectoplasmic knitting.

“That was well handled,” she said.

“Handled?” Tenzin repeated.

Granny only smiled.

Later that evening, Philomena noticed that the Tomte was gazing fondly at Drury. He nodded toward the old hound as he replaced his cap.

“Good dog,” he said quietly.

Drury glanced up, acknowledged the remark, and returned to sleep.

Nothing else occurred that night.

No lights in the marsh. No one had dreams of oars or voices, or heard hoofbeats.

And yet, the inn felt different. Things seemed somehow clearer, as though some unseen boundary had been walked and agreed upon by parties who preferred not to leave footprints behind.

The next morning, Rhys remarked that the air felt lighter than it had for days, and Tenzin declared that he had slept better than he had in weeks, then immediately apologised for saying so, in case it tempted fate.

Granny Bucket closed her knitting bag and rose to leave.

“Nothing came through,” she said, almost to herself.

Philomena followed her to the door.

“Do you think it will try again?” she asked.

Granny considered this.

“Oh, everything tries again,” she said cheerfully. “But not today.”

Philomena stepped out into the morning light, and tugged at the bell above the door, which sounded clear and certain.

Behind her, Drury lifted his head, listened to something only he could hear, and let it pass.

The island of Hopeless settled back into its ordinary business, which is to say, it waited.