Hogfather

     'It's an apple,' she said. She sighed. 'Everyone knows apples are red.'

     There were no  bushes. But  there were flowers,  each with  a couple of green leaves. They grew individually, dotted around the rolling green.

     And then they were out of the trees and there, by  a bend in the river, was the house.

     It didn't look  very big. There were four windows and a door. Corkscrew smoke curled out of the chimney.

     'You know, it's a funny thing,' said Susan, staring at it. 'Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?'

     'P'raps it's all this house,' muttered the oh. god miserably.

     'What? You really think so? Kids' paintings are all of this place? It's in our heads?'

     'Don't ask me, I was just making conversation,' said the oh god.

     Susan hesitated.  The words What Now? loomed.  Should she  just go  and knock?

     And she realized that was normal thinking...

     In the glittering, clattering,  chattering atmosphere a head waiter was having a difficult time. There were a lot of people in, and the staff should have been fully stretched, putting bicarbonate of soda in  the white wine to make very expensive bubbles and cutting  the vegetables  very small to  make them cost more.

     Instead they were standing in a dejected group in the kitchen.

     'Where did it all  go?'  screamed the  manager. 'Someone's been through the cellar, too!'

     'William said he felt a cold wind,' said the waiter. He'd  been backed  up against a hot plate, and now knew  why it was called a hot plate in a way he hadn't fully comprehended before.

     'I'll give him a cold wind! Haven't we got anything?'

     'There's odds and ends. .

     'You don't mean odds and  ends, you  mean des  curieux  et des  bouts,' corrected the manager.

     'Yeah, right, yeah. And, er, and, er . .

     'There's nothing else?'

     'Er... old boots. Muddy old boots.'

     'Old...?'

     'Boots. Lots of 'em,'  said the waiter.  He  felt  he was  beginning to singe.

     'How come we've got... vintage footwear?'

     'Dunno.  They just turned up, sir. The oven, s  full of old boots. So's the pantry.'

     'There's a hundred people booked in! All  the shops'll be shut! Where's Chef?'

     'William's trying to get him to come out of the privy, sir. He's locked himself in and is having one of his Moments.'

     'Something's cooking. What's that I can smell?'

     'Me, sir.'

     'Old boots muttered  the  manager. 'Old boots... old  boots... Leather, are they? Not clogs or rubber or anything?'

     'Looks like... just boots. And lots of mud, sir.'

     The  manager  took off his jacket.  'All right. Cot any cream, have we? Onions? Garlic? Butter? Some old beef bones? A bit of pastry?'

     'Er, yes...'

     The  manager rubbed  his  hands together.  'Right,'  he said, taking an apron  off a hook. 'You there, get  some water  boiling!  Lots of water! And find a really large hammer!  And  you, chop  some  onions! The  rest of you, start sorting out the boots. I want the tongues out and the soles off. We'll do  them... let's  see... Mousse de la Boue dans une  Panier  de la  Pate de Chaussures...'

     'Where're we going to get that from, sir?'

     'Mud mousse in  a  basket of shoe pastry. Get  the idea?  It's not  our fault if even Quirmians don't understand restaurant Quirmian. It's not  like lying, after all.'

     'Well,  it's  a bit  like ...' the  waiter began. He'd  been  cursed  with honesty at an early stage.

     'Then there's Brodequin rфti Faзon Ombres . .

     The manager sighed at the head waiter's  panicky expression. 'Soldier's boot done in the Shades fashion,' he translated.

     'Er... Shades fashion?'

     'In  mud. But if we cook the tongues separately we can put on Languette braisйe, too.'

     'There's some ladies' shoes, sir,' said an underchef.

     'Right. Add to  the menu... Let's  see now... Sole d'une Bonne Femme... and... yes... Servis dans un Coulis de Terre en I'Eau. That's mud, to you.'

     'What about the laces, sir?' said another underchef.

     'Good thinking. Dig out that recipe for Spaghetti Carbonara.'

     'Sir?' said the head waiter.

     'I started off as a  chef,' said the manager,  picking up a knife. 'How do you think I was able to afford this place? I know how it's done. Get  the look and the sauce right and you're threequarters there.'

     'But it's all going to be old boots!' said the waiter.

     'Prime  aged beef,' the manager corrected  him. 'It'll tenderize  in no time.'

     'Anyway... anyway... we haven't got any soup

     'Mud. And a lot of onions.'

     'There's the puddings...'

     'Mud. Let's see if we can get it to caramelize, you never know.'

     'I  can't even find the coffee... Still, they probably won't last  till the coffee...'

     'Mud. Cafe de Terre,' said the manager firmly. 'Genuine ground coffee.'

     'Oh, they'll spot that, sir!'

     'They haven't up till now,' said the manager darkly.

     'We'll never get away with it, sir. Never.'

     In  the country of the sky on top, Medium Dave Lilywhite hauled another bag of money down the stairs.

     'There must be thousands here,' said Chickenwire.

     'Hundreds of thousands,' said Medium Dave.