Buffeted as by the rough alpine bora winds rushing down from the northern mountains, the stench of stewing offal assaulted only as he mounted the steps of the Palace; Peter's cry, "It's not my fault!" answered Edmund's first question for the last time Cook had punished them with tripe, it was indeed because Peter, laid up from (another) boating accident had been such an infuriatingly terrible patient, he'd made Cook cry, something that their Porcupine Physician had not thought Minotaurs were capable of.

"Due to the winds, we are currently hosting Malenia, the Humingbird Hen who usually nests in the big hibiscus bush in the garden," Susan explained, with a wrinkle of her nose, "and Cook made the mistake of offering her some boiled syrup to drink."

Even over the howl of the winds, Edmund could hear Malenaia's tinny, bossy screeching obscenity that could bend steel, "Are you trying to kill me you dumb ox!" and decided that if, by mistake, Melania were injured by a stray swipe of Cook's hoof, he would grant extreme leniency in any subsequent sentencing.