It was my mother. She had just walked in wearing a quilted dressing gown with her hair sticking in all directions. For someone usually so suspicious of Emma Hamilton, she seemed quite cordial and even wished her good morning—although she swiftly removed the sherry from the counter and replaced it in the cupboard.

“You early bird!” she cooed. “Do you have time to take DH-82 to the vet’s this morning? His boil needs lancing again.”

“I’m kind of busy, Mum.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, sensing the seriousness in my voice. “Was that business at Vole Towers anything to do with you?”

“Sort of. I came over to tell you—”

“Yes?”

“That Dad has—Dad is—Dad was—”

Mum looked at me quizzically as my father, large as life, strode into the kitchen.

“—is making me feel very confused.”

“Hello, sweetpea!” said my father, looking considerably younger than the last time I saw him. “Have you been introduced to Lady Hamilton?”

“We had a drink together,” I said uncertainly. “But—you’re— you’re—alive!”

He stroked his chin and replied: “Should I be something else?”

I thought for a moment and furtively shook my cuff down to hide his ChronoGraph on my wrist.

“No—I mean, that is to say—”

But he had twigged me already.

“Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!”

He stood next to Mum and placed an arm round her waist. It was the first time I had seen them together for nearly seventeen years.

“But—”

“You mustn’t be so linear,” said my father. “Although I try to visit only in your chronological order, sometimes it’s not possible.”

He paused.

“Did I suffer much pain?”

“No—none at all,” I lied.

“It’s funny,” he said as he filled the kettle, “I can recall everything up until final curtain minus ten, but after that it’s all a bit fuzzy—I can vaguely see a rugged coastline and the sunset on a calm ocean, but other than that, nothing. I’ve seen and done a lot in my time, but my entry and exit will always remain a mystery. It’s better that way. Stops me getting cold feet and trying to change them.”

He spooned some coffee into the Cafetiere. I was glad to see that I had only witnessed Dad’s death and not the end of his life, as the two, I learned, are barely related at all.

“How are things, by the way?” he asked.

“Well,” I began, unsure of where to start, “the world didn’t end yesterday.”

He looked at the low winter sun that was shining through the kitchen windows.

“So I see. Good job too. An Armageddon right now might have been awkward. Have you had any breakfast?”

“Awkward? Global destruction would be awkward?”