[ The notion of time being little more than a construct is better understood in the abstract than in practice. Human society is regimented in accordance to time and cannot do away with the construct, but what of a society for whom time is wholly without relevance? Her spectral acquaintance is unmoored from the hands of the clock in a respect but nonetheless walks this temporal plane of entropy and change. Her home does not change, is immutable in every way. Christmasland may expand its attractions but is fundamentally the same, growing in size but never in concept. His legend cannot penetrate so self-contained a place; in fact, her involvement in the affairs beyond its gates is a sin.

With her elbow on the table's surface the young lieutenant regards him in deadpan, her cheek upon her fist, a web of blue veins lending her face the appearance of a propped up cadaver like that of a late child memorialised in a post-mortem photograph. She is out of time as well.

Her eyes roll white, looking up in contemplation. ]

No... You sound like a cautionary tale, a judge. That's Santa's business.

[ His tale is in competition with the dominant tale of Christmasland; it cannot admit a second judge of children, not in a serious way. ]

I'm all ears, missster.

[ Millie cranes her neck to confirm his epithet, having taken it quite literally, for unlike an adult she is willing to entertain fantastic things. ]

Eyes too. Is the face your own or another's? Is it hideous or handsome too?