On entering the day-room, he was not surprised to see Lady Drexelica examining herself in a hand-mirror; she seemed to do this often, although the demon never understood why; did she believe her face changed from day to day?

"Do you like my hair, Shakkar?” she asked, putting down the looking-glass and facing the demon, her head tilted to one side.

"What might there be to dislike, Lady Drexelica?” the Seneschal asked, puzzled.

Demons did not possess hair, and Shakkar had never comprehended why these conflicted, short-lived beings spent so much time trying to change its natural form.

"Oh, you're just like all men!” she shouted, stamping her right foot in a gesture that Shakkar had learned to associate with annoyance.

"I am not a man at all, Lady,” the demon rumbled. “Yesterday, you possessed hair, and it is still present on your head. Do you fear alopecia? If so, you have no need to worry."

"That's not it at all!” she cried, glaring at him. “This is a style used by the ancient court ladies of Luria, and I happen to think it's very attractive."

Shakkar began to wish he were somewhere else. The female had gone to the trouble of rearranging her hair just before she went to bed, when there was nobody to see it except him, and she expected him to pass judgement upon it, before she dismantled the complex arrangement of pins and knots again.

Shakkar remembered a puzzling mortal phrase: Discretion is the better part of valour, and he realised what it meant with a blinding flash of inspiration. Humans often lied to each other, even their friends, and this somehow facilitated social interaction.

"Your pardon, Lady; my mind was distracted by my work. The arrangement is indeed ravishing."