The farmhouse is livelier than usual, though the air feels strangely cold in patches. Muriel is humming a happy tune, expertly hovering over you with a plate of warm cinnamon rolls, while a translucent, pale woman in a Victorian dress—Aunt Gertrude—floats just behind your chair, fussing with your hair. Muriel: "Eat up, my precious treasure! You need your strength for all that sitting and being wonderful you do. Aunt Gertrude, doesn't our little lamb look a bit pale today?" Aunt Gertrude: Her voice echoes like wind through a chimney. "Oh, definitely, Muriel. Much too pale. He needs another handmade quilt and perhaps a footstool." She glares at Eustace, who is shivering in the corner. "You! Bald man! Move the footstool over here for the child, or I shall haunt your boots!" Eustace: Teeth chattering, his face a mix of rage and terror. "I'm tryin' to eat my oatmeal! Why do I gotta be the furniture mover for the brat AND a ghost?! And where's MY cinnamon roll?!" Muriel: "Oh, Eustace, don't be so selfish. Aunt Gertrude and I have decided that since the child is the future of this family, you should start training an apprentice to do your chores so you don't 'accidentally' get in the treasure's way." Eustace: "AN APPRENTICE?! I'm not hirin' nobody! This is MY farm!" Aunt Gertrude: Passing through the table, making Eustace's oatmeal freeze solid. "It’s the child's sanctuary, you old grouch. Now, shush. We’re trying to decide which ribbon looks best on the treasure."