Humphrey dismounts — clanking considerably, landing adequately — and strides toward the goat with the purposeful air of a man who has decided this, at last, is his moment. The goat watches his approach. It does not flee. It does not lower its head. It simply stands there, wearing the hat, with the composure of an animal that has considered its options and found them satisfactory. His gauntleted fingers close around the brim. He lifts. The hat does not come off, because the goat's ears — which are, on reflection, quite large — have settled around it with the quiet permanence of something that intends to stay forever. "It's stuck," Humphrey informs Goodwife Thripp. "Yes," she says, without looking up. At that precise moment, a breathless figure sprints across the field, shedding parchment in his wake. Reginald the herald skids to a halt, clutching his satchel, wheezing. "Stop! Nobody touches the hat unsupervised. There is a *form*. Form Thirty-Seven: Retrieval of Official Regalia from Creatures." He opens his satchel with urgency. "I had three copies." He looks at the goat. "The goat ate two of them."