The Squid and Teapot had seen many strange visitors over the years, which is perhaps another way of saying that no one there was especially surprised when Astrid returned.

The Valkyrie arrived shortly after dusk, striding in from the fog with the air of someone who had crossed rather greater distances than the road from the harbour. The door swung open behind her with sufficient force to rattle several glasses and cause Rhys Cranham to look up sharply from polishing the counter.

Instead of a horned helmet and burnished breastplate, Astrid was today wearing a somewhat travel-stained long grey coat, but still carrying herself with that unsettling mixture of soldierly purpose and ancient dignity which made even confident men instinctively straighten their backs when she entered a room.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Miss Astrid,” replied Rhys cautiously. “You’re not on your horse…?”

“I thought that might have been obvious.” she said dryly, removing her gloves. “So I won’t be requiring a stable, but do you have a room available?”

This sounded to Rhys very much like the sort of thing that might lead to structural damage or supernatural disturbances, but before he could reply, Philomena Bucket emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of mugs.

“Oh no,” she muttered quietly.

Astrid turned.

“Miss Bucket.”

“You’re back.”

“So it would appear. You are obviously as perceptive as your husband.”

Philomena glanced automatically towards the snug.

This had become something of a habit in recent weeks.

The chair in the corner remained occupied in the same indefinable fashion as ever. Nothing could actually be seen sitting there, but the cushion retained a faint impression and the nearby tankard had developed the irritating tendency to refill itself sporadically.

Drury, lying by the fire, lifted his skull-like head and gave a low rattle.

Astrid followed Philomena’s gaze.

The room grew noticeably still.

“Oh,” she said at last.

No one spoke.

Then, from somewhere in the vicinity of the corner chair, came the faint sound of wood creaking.

Astrid closed her eyes briefly, like someone recognising an old and tiresome acquaintance at an otherwise pleasant social gathering.

“Still doing this nonsense?” she asked.

The chair creaked again.

Reggie Upton looked delighted.

“I say…” he began eagerly, “you mean to imply that you actually know our invisible guest?”

Astrid removed her coat slowly and handed it to Reggie. 

“Know him? Not precisely.” Astrid considered the chair. “But I have encountered his sort before.”

Philomena folded her arms.

“And what sort would that be?”

Astrid seated herself at a nearby table.

“The sort who arrives smiling shortly before things become complicated.”

From the corner came the soft clink of glass against wood.

“Charming as ever,” she observed.

At this precise moment the Tomte emerged from the kitchen carrying a screwdriver, stopped dead in the doorway and muttered something alarming in Old Norse.

Sitting upon the cushion of the occupied chair, watching Astrid with bright dark eyes, was a white hare.

It appeared only briefly.

Long enough for Philomena, Reggie, Rhys and the Tomte to see it clearly.

Then it vanished.

Hedging his bets, the Tomte bowed to Astrid, then crossed himself hurriedly, not being entirely certain that any of this was doctrinally appropriate.

“Well,” said Reggie breathlessly, “that rather settles matters.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Philomena. “It just makes them worse.”

Astrid, however, seemed entirely unsurprised.

“You always preferred that shape,” she remarked.

The tankard upon the table shifted slightly.

“People trust hares,” said a voice.

It was not a loud voice, nor even a particularly threatening one. Indeed, it sounded educated, faintly amused and perhaps a little bored. Yet every conversation in the inn stopped immediately.

Reggie stared at the chair.

“You can talk?”

“Obviously.”

“Then why the blazes have you spent weeks sitting there in silence?”

A pause followed.

“At first,” said the voice, “I was deciding whether I liked the place.”

Philomena looked scandalised.

“You’ve been haunting my snug like some invisible lodger because you were making your mind up?”

“More or less.”

Astrid laughed then, properly laughed for the first time since anyone on Hopeless had met her. It was not an unpleasant sound, though it carried the strange echo of something rarely used.

“You see?” said the unseen voice. “She understands.”

“I understand,” replied Astrid, “that wherever you appear, trouble follows shortly afterward.”

“An unfair accusation. Trouble exists perfectly well without my assistance.”

Reggie leaned forward excitedly.

“Are you,” he asked carefully, “some species of deity?”

“No,” said Astrid flatly.

“Yes,” said the unseen voice at exactly the same moment.

Drury whined softly.

Philomena pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I am far too tired for this,” she announced.

The fire crackled quietly, while outside, the fog pressed against the windows like damp wool, and for several moments no one spoke.

Then Astrid’s expression altered slightly.

She was looking directly at the occupied chair now.

“You should leave this island,” she said quietly.

For the first time, the humour seemed to drain from the unseen presence.

“No,” said the voice.

“You know what happens.”

“Indeed.”

“And yet you remain.”

The pause this time stretched uncomfortably long.

At last the chair creaked once more.

“When one has wandered for long enough,” said the unseen guest softly, “a place such as this begins to resemble home.”

No one present seemed entirely reassured by this revelation.

Least of all Astrid.