Humphrey nods with the gravity of a man processing important information. "And where," he asks, "did the goat come from?" Goodwife Thripp turns a needle. "No one knows." "Surely someone—" "There was an inquiry," she says. "A brief one. The goat ate the findings." She continues knitting without breaking rhythm. "Before that, it was seen near the miller's barn. Before that, Alderman Pratt believed it might belong to his cousin." A pause. "His cousin does not own a goat. His cousin does not, on reflection, exist. The inquiry felt this weakened his testimony somewhat." "But it must belong to *someone*." "It belongs," says Goodwife Thripp, with the precision of a woman who has thought about this more than she wanted to, "to whoever has the wherewithal to take that hat back and do something creditable with it." She looks at him over her needles for the first time in several minutes. "You arrived four hours late to a tournament with no events remaining." She nods at the goat. "This," she says, "is technically an event."