It was generally agreed that The Squid and Teapot had been running rather smoothly of late.

The floorboards creaked only when they meant to, the kettle whistled with commendable tone and punctuality, and the flushing indoor privy had reached a state of negotiated harmony between modern paintwork and traditional hauntings. For Hopeless, this amounted to a golden age.

To the surprise of no one, the ghost of Father Ignatius Stamage found this suspicious.

“Too much equilibrium invites complacency,” he announced one afternoon, his voice drifting down from somewhere near the ceiling of the public bar.

Reggie Upton looked up from his tea.

“Does it really?” he asked politely.

“Indeed it does,” said Father Stamage firmly as he flickered into vision. “I feel that, following the events of the last few weeks, the building would benefit from a modest blessing.”

Philomena, who had little patience with this sort of carry-on, had long since learned to approach his clerical enthusiasm with caution. 

She lay down her dishcloth with an air of authority.

“A blessing?” she enquired suspiciously. “Will it be at all messy?”

“Not in the least,” said the ghostly Jesuit. “A brief manifestation, a little incense, a few  well-chosen words.”

“I take it you’ve spoken about it to the Tomte?” said Philomena, innocently.

There was a pause.

“I see no reason why he should be concerned” said Father Stamage.

Rhys glanced up to the ceiling and suppressed a grin.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Stamage, suddenly somewhat uncertain. “He’s a reasonable sort of chap.”

This, as it transpired, was optimistic.

The Tomte appeared shortly after the preparations began. He stood in the doorway of the bar with his cap pushed back and his arms folded, watching Father Stamage’s attempts at organisation with the quiet concentration of a man observing someone stack firewood incorrectly.

The ghostly clergyman had managed a partial manifestation near the fireplace. His outline shimmered faintly, the familiar scent of cheap brilliantine and incense drifting gently across the room.

“Standards must be maintained,” he was saying, arranging an invisible ritual geometry around the hearth.

The Tomte tilted his head.

After a moment, he stepped forward and moved the poker two inches to the left.

Father Stamage paused mid-incantation.

“You did that deliberately,” he said.

The Tomte said nothing, but moved the tongs slightly closer to the grate.

Rhys coughed.

“This is obviously a professional disagreement,” he murmured to Reggie.

Father Stamage resumed.

“Let this house be… “

The Tomte quietly rotated a chair so that it faced a different direction.

“…a place of order and…”

The salt cellar slid two inches along the bar.

The clergyman’s outline flickered.

“My good fellow,” he said with strained patience, “I am attempting to establish a sacred arrangement.”

The Tomte regarded the room.

Then he picked up a spoon and placed it beside the teapot.

“That’s a domestic arrangement,” he replied.

The two men – one faintly transparent, the other barely a foot high – regarded one another with professional gravity.

From the mirror behind the bar came a faint shimmer.

Lady Margaret D’Avening, still refusing full manifestation in daylight, observed proceedings from the reflective surface with considerable interest. The semi-opaque drift of her nightdress shimmered faintly at the edge of the glass.

“Gentlemen,” she said coolly, “surely there is room for both theology and housekeeping.”

Drury, who had been lying by the fire throughout, had stopped snoring and was all ears (or would have been, had he actually possessed any).

The Tomte adjusted the position of the rug.

Father Stamage cleared his throat.

“Very well,” he said at last. “We shall proceed… collaboratively.”

The blessing resumed.

This time, the Tomte allowed the candles to remain where they were, though he corrected the angle of the hearth brush and discreetly straightened the bell above the door.

Father Stamage completed his final words with solemn dignity.

“Amen,” he concluded.

The air warmed slightly.

The Tomte surveyed the room.

Everything appeared to be satisfactory.

He nodded once.

“Yes, that’s acceptable,” he said.

The scent of incense faded. Father Stamage’s outline softened and withdrew toward the ceiling.

Lady Margaret’s reflection vanished from the mirror with the faintest rustle of lace.

Philomena looked around the room.

“Is that it?” she asked.

Reggie went to check his pocket watch, then remembered that he’d given it to Winston Oldspot. 

“I imagine so,” he observed. “It seemed efficient enough.”

Rhys glanced at Philomena.

“Was that a real blessing?”

“It was, if it makes him happy,” she said. “But Granny Bucket might have had another opinion on the matter.” 

The Tomte nodded in silent approval at this remark. 

Drury thumped his tail once more, then promptly settled back down to sleep.

And for the rest of the evening, the inn felt especially well behaved, as though both heaven and housekeeping had briefly agreed on where everything ought to go.