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he was at last exhausted enough to drop into a long, dreamless slumber. He could sense that another such ordeal was soon to be upon him. Before him, the counterpane was already turned back invitingly. You think too much, he told himself harshly. He extinguished his candle and crawled into bed.
    Sir Giles stretched beneath the crisp linen sheets. Even though they still held the heat of the bed warmer, he could not help but feel cold on this stormy night. He pulled the covers further up over his shoulders and rolled onto his side. Then he froze. What was that noise?
    An odd, snuffling sound was coming from extremely close range and, accompanying it, the slight odor of—could it be wet fur? In the darkness, something moved next to him on the bed. The next thing he knew, a cold, wet caress touched his face.
    Entirely unnerved, Sir Giles leapt from his bed, fumbling at the bedside table for a candle. Once he had grasped it (and inadvertently pitched several other objects into the night), he made his way quickly to the fireside where he kindled a light. He held it up and then scanned the bed from where he stood. A pair of eyes flickered back at him. Sir Giles felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He picked up a poker from the fireplace and approached the bed slowly.
    As he did so, Sir Giles was entirely at a loss to formulate a single theory as to what waited in his bed. There were a few cats in the kitchen and barn, but this, he knew, was not a cat. He had not kept hunters in years, and the thing was certainly too large for any sort of rodent—or so he firmly prayed.
    As he neared the bed, the intruder’s form began to take shape. But for its shining eyes, it looked for all the world like an oversized, unkempt lady’s muff. How extraordinary, to be sure! He took another step closer, his poker still raised. The thing emitted a low, despondent whine.
    Sir Giles frowned. Now that he had seen the size of the thing, it was clear he was in no danger. Tentatively he reached out and prodded it gently with the poker. The creature rolled onto its back, paws in the air and tongue lolling. A dog! A singularly unattractive beast, but a dog nonetheless. What, in heaven’s name, was this disagreeable, odoriferous, damp excuse for a canine doing in his bed?
    In his mind’s eye, two mischievous faces appeared. This was his daughters’ doing, he fumed inwardly. No wonder they were so well-behaved all evening—they had this trick up their sleeves.
    Sir Giles picked up the animal, strode to the door and flung it open. “Octavia!” he shouted into the darkened hallway. “Eugenia!”
    Their door opened immediately. So, they had been waiting for his response, had they?
    “What,” he asked coldly as they approached him, “is the meaning of this trick?”
    His daughters looked at him and the animal he held before him with wide-eyed innocence. Then they looked at each other blankly. Cool little creatures, were they not? he thought with grim displeasure.
    “What is it?” Genie asked.
    Tavie reached her hand out. “Can it be ... a dog?”
    “It is no mystery why you sought my permission to go into the village today,” he said coldly. “Has life been so tedious for you of late that you must plague even me with your antics?”
    “Father!” Genie cried. “I do not know—”
    “You do not know what I am talking about, I suppose?” he asked scornfully.
    “Why, no indeed,” Genie answered.
    “We haven’t the least idea, Father,” Tavie concurred.
    “You imagine I will believe that, do you? Do you expect me to believe that Bently, in a rare fit of drollery, or my valet, perhaps, has secreted this wretch in my very bed?”
    “What?” Genie cried. “In your bed?”
    To his decided consternation, both of the girls broke into laughter. “We did not do it,” Tavie told him through her giggles, “but what a famous trick it was!”
    “That will be enough!” he thundered. At his harsh tone, the dog took umbrage and began to