Theresa sighed as the carriage clock astride her antique fireplace ticked its fingers around to midnight. Her first post-premiership Christmas was starting as inauspiciously as her career ended: alone with only a glass of malt for company. She downed the whisky and patted the arms of her chair, readying herself for the climb to her bedroom when a shift in the shadows drew her attention. Her hand reached for the panic button.

“It won’t work,” said a voice. It was both commanding and gentle. “We are in the time between moments.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, pushing the button anyway, but instead of the door flying open and Special Forces troops bursting in, there was only the soft footfall of the tall, well-dressed man approaching from the shadows.

“I said it wouldn’t work,” he nodded at the button. He removed his hat to reveal neatly cut silver hair above dark blue eyes, a geometrically straight nose and a wry smile hovering on full lips. “I am what the Dickens fans would call ‘The Ghost of Christmas Unfulfilled’. Actually, they probably wouldn’t, they don’t like him messed with.”

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