“I have reached the conclusion,” declared Philomena Bucket, “that the best thing to do, regarding our invisible interloper in the snug, is to ignore it completely.”

“You’re probably right,” said Reggie Upton, “but interloper? That’s a bit harsh. You can hardly accuse something, or indeed someone, of interfering in the running of the inn if they steadfastly remain invisible, and occupy just one chair.”

“It’s being passive aggressive,” replied Philomena firmly. “What do you think Rhys?”

Rhys Cranham knew that there was little point in disagreeing with his wife. Once she had made her mind up there was nothing that could change it. 

“I’ve no idea what passive aggressive means,” he confessed, “but if our guest is who I think it is, ignoring it might be the wisest course of action.”

“Who do you…” Philomena began, but Rhys held a hand up to silence her.

“He… and occasionally she… and I have crossed paths enough times for me not to be in a hurry to name him – I’ll say him, or further explanations could take forever. Anyway, that should be enough of a clue.”

Rhys’ previous life as the island’s Night-Soil Man had exposed him to enough hazards for Philomena to take him at his word.

She raised a quizzical eyebrow and a knowing look passed between them.

“You really think that’s him?” she asked, pointedly.

“I’m almost positive,” Rhys replied.

“Who the blazes are you talking about?” demanded a totally confused Reggie Upton.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Rhys.

Late that evening, after the last of the customers had drifted away into the fog and the sound of the sea had resumed its usual muttering somewhere beyond the harbour, Philomena carried a tray of empty cups through to the snug.

The room had settled into that peculiar stillness familiar to all old inns after midnight. The fire burned low in the grate, occasionally shifting with a soft sigh, while shadows leaned into the corners, as though they had paid for the privilege.

Philomena paused in the doorway.

Something about the room looked somehow occupied; at least, more so than usual.

The chair in the corner remained where it had always been. The tankard upon the table beside it appeared, in the uncertain firelight, to contain a dark liquid that had certainly not been there earlier.

And sitting neatly upon the chair itself was a white hare.

Philomena did not gasp.

This was partly because she disliked unnecessary drama and partly because life on Hopeless had long ago taught her that gasping at things merely encouraged them.

The hare sat upright upon the cushion with the composed air of a guest who had been waiting some time for the menu. Its fur was unnaturally white against the dark fabric of the chair, and its eyes reflected the firelight with an intelligence that Philomena found instantly suspicious.

For several moments neither of them moved.

Then, very slowly, the hare inclined its head, just enough to cause Philomena to narrow her eyes.

“Oh no,” she said quietly.

The hare’s whiskers twitched.

From somewhere behind her came the sound of careful footsteps. Rhys appeared in the doorway carrying a lantern and stopped dead the moment he saw her expression.

“You’ve seen him, then,” he said.

Philomena pointed toward the chair.

“White hare,” she said firmly. “Sitting there bold as brass.”

Rhys nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “That sounds like him.”

Philomena looked back toward the chair.

It was empty.

The cushion still bore the faint impression of weight, but the hare itself had vanished entirely.

For a moment, she wondered whether she had imagined the whole thing.

Then she noticed that the tankard upon the table was no longer empty.

Rhys followed her gaze and sighed the sigh of a man whose worst suspicions had just received written confirmation.

“Don’t touch that,” he said at once.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“That’s wise.”

Philomena set the tray down carefully upon a nearby table.

“So,” she said after a moment, “we’ve got the Trickster sitting invisibly in the snug, drinking whatever that is and putting signs up around the place.”

“Looks that way.”

“And you decided not to mention this possibility earlier because…?”

Rhys considered this carefully.

“I was hoping I might be wrong.”

Philomena folded her arms.

“And now?”

Rhys glanced toward the chair.

From the corner of the room came the faintest creak, followed by what might have been the suggestion of quiet amusement.

Rhys nodded once.

“Now,” he said, “I think it would be unwise to annoy him.”

Philomena stared at the chair for several long seconds.

“Well,” she said at last, “if he’s staying here, he can at least start contributing toward the housekeeping.”

At this, the tankard shifted slightly upon the table.

Rhys closed his eyes briefly.

“Oh dear,” he murmured.

Behind them, somewhere deep in the inn, the Tomte suddenly shouted something in Old Norse that sounded profoundly offended.

Neither Philomena nor Rhys chose to investigate.

In the snug, the chair remained occupied.

And although the white hare had vanished, both of them now knew that it had never truly been empty at all.