“He’s not still sleeping!”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Well, what do you expect, Tweddles? He came in around midnight, soaked and nowhere to go, and sank into the straw, poor thing.”

“Yuh-huh, that he did.”

“Why don’t you wake him?”

All these different voices seemed to be coming from all around Hugo; he couldn’t tell who was speaking. He sat up and looked around the fetid barn. No, only barn animals.

“Oh, look, he’s awake!”

He jumped. Someone was speaking, it seemed, from behind the goat.

“H—Hello?” he called out warily, sword drawn.

“There ain’t a need fer that!” a chicken clucked, making Hugo jump again.

“Am I going crazy?” he whispered to himself.

“Well, you are talking to yourself.”

“Good point,” Hugo said. “Oh, I am! I’m talking to a horse!”

“And?”

“Well…horses don’t talk.”

“They don’t? Oh. Well, I do.”

“I noticed.”

The horse whinnied haughtily. “Let’s get you out of here, then,” it said, in what seemed to Hugo as a woman’s voice.