This time, Scrood was less amazed to find himself once more in his own bed, albeit it seemed colder than her remembered. Gnarly's words came back unbidden, and he shivered.

"Cold already?" a voice sounded. If the room had been chilled before, the newcomer's voice made it dreadfully so. Like a sly north wind cheating between the shutters. Scrood turned to see his visitor, but only grey blur stood between him and the door. Like one of those northern storms that blot out all color and make the bones ache, the third messenger loomed over the bed.

"Don't tell me,"Scrood shivered, "let me guess. You are the ghost of Crispness yet to come?"

The apparition did not seem to find it necessary to answer. The cold wet cloud enveloped the room, bringing with it a sudden chaos. People! Everywhere! Hurrying, shouldering each other aside and cursing under their breath. Sounds of music were only half heard, drowned out by shouts and oddly unearthly voices announcing "For the next twenty minutes, Barbie will be half off in aisle nine." Lights blinked on an off, incredibly bright and buzzing like hornets. Armoured boxes bore images of their contents, and men and women grabbed them without even looking, dropping them haphazard into large baskets on wheels.

Horrified, Scrood watched the mob at its business. "What is this, spirit?" he asked, awed. "Who is Barbie? And why is she half off?"
"Why this is Paradise, I would suppose, for such as you Ebenezer," the ghost answered. "'Tis the Crispness business, money everywhere, buying and selling, and not the slightest mention of cups or wine or warmed bottoms. No one cares any more for the season. Business has triumphed over ritual. Does it not please you?"

"It's dreadful!" Scrood assured his guide. "This is not business; it's chaos."

"Not so," the ghost answered. "It is business made faster, less difficult. A man can buy in an hour more than he can pay for in a year. Fortunes are made and lost in a month. I should think you would be right at home."

"The Hell you say!" Scrood insisted.

"Yes," the ghost answered, "so I did."

"Take me away, please spirit," Scrood begged. "Show me some measure of sympathy for the old ways. Surely they are not all lost."

The ghost shrugged. "There are few enough such times in your future. I will see."

Scrood was stunned to find himself once more in the old Wysiwyg office. The table and chairs were still there, but the room seemed cold and lifeless. Instead of a bottle, the table was littered with papers. A sob from the corner drew his attention. Looking that way, he saw a woman, and his eyes opened wide as he recognized Ashley. Middle-aged now, she retained the beauty he remembered, but dimmed by cares. There were tears on her cheek, but of sorrow, not pleasure. She wore no frivolous Crispness gown, only an old dress, faded but serviceable.

"What happens here?" he demanded of his escort. "Where's old Wysiwyg? Where are the others?"

"Three months in his grave, and his wife beside him," the ghost answered. "The older sisters married and gone. Only she has tried to keep the family business."

Scrood looked around at the obvious signs of failure. "Not done too well, I would say."

"No," the ghost agreed, "business was never her strength. She was altogether too foolish, spending her energies on pleasure and happiness instead of diligence and labor."

"I see little enough of happiness," Scrood admitted. "Did she not marry?"

"Marry whom?" the ghost responded. "She gave her heart long ago, and had it rejected. You should be proud. She has not even kept the holiday since you left. No foolishness for her! Only business, and small good it has done her." The spirit pointed to the table. "Read there," it commanded.

Squinting, Scrood found a document of incredibly small print, in the barristers' obscure language. Only an occasional word he recognized: forfeiture; bankruptcy, dispossession, eviction.

"A fine holiday document, wouldn't you say, man of business?" the ghost inquired in a voice heavy with contempt.

"You make that sound like a curse," Scrood protested.

"And your point is?" the ghost mocked.

Scrood reddened. "Can nothing be done then? Is this the only future, or are there others? Did you show me this for no purpose?"

The ghost shrugged. "That is not for me to say. I cannot make or unmake the future, any more than the past."

"But I can," Scrood declared. "Is that not your message? Was it not that which Gnarly wanted me to learn?"

The room faded slowly without an answer from the ghost, and Scrood found himself once more in his bed, with light breaking over the horizon.

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